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“I think that was the idea. They treat you like shit, too. The nurses and doctors and stuff. No coddling. They don’t want you coming back.”

  “But you are willing to go back.” It slips out before I can stop to analyze what it might sound like.

  “Hell, no. Why do you think I’m driving over a cliff? Get it done right.”

  God. Dammit. “So you are still thinking about it.”

  Andy takes a deep breath while Noah frowns down at the phone.

  “You know something, Tori? It’s been a real hoot and a holler talking to you tonight. It really has. You too, Noah old buddy.”

  Noah winces. “Um . . .”

  “So I want to say thank you for that,” Andy goes on before Noah can say anything else. “But the fact is, a few hours ago now, I asked you for one reason. One reason not to drive off this cliff. And you never did give me one.”

  “Sure I did!”

  “No, precious, you didn’t.”

  Noah sits up and slides to the edge of the bed, like he’s ready to run. I understand; I start to wake up too. Fast. “Oh. Okay. Well—”

  “Nah, no. It’s too late now. Because on the one hand, you’ve made me realize that, hey, I’m not the only one suffering out there. But on the other hand, Victoria Hershberger . . . you’ve killed any small piece of hope I might have had left. People are fucked up everywhere, and it’s never going to stop, is it? So I want to say thank you for that, too. Thanks for confirming what brought me up here tonight. Now I know for sure I’m doing the right thing.”

  “Andy, don’t!”

  “Why. Not.”

  “Because!”

  “That’s not a reason.”

  “Because . . . maybe tomorrow will be better.”

  He chuckles again, but this time I can hear the exhaustion in it. “You don’t think that, not really.”

  “But I hope so. I hope, Andy. That’s all I got, man, come on.” I turn to Noah and sock his shoulder, gesturing madly to the phone.

  “Uh—yeah, yeah,” Noah says, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t know what might happen tomorrow. Come on, hang in there.”

  Andy is silent for way too long, but since I don’t hear anything else, I resist the urge to say his name, ask if he’s all right.

  “Okay,” Andy says at last, and I surprise myself by exhaling a held breath. “Tell ya what, Tori. You’ve got till sunrise. Once that big orange bitch comes up, though, I’m going to light a cigarette, smoke it, and bid thee adieu.”

  I say, “Andy . . .”

  Noah says, “Hey, man . . .”

  “I’m on Route 57, outside Canyon City. It’s west off the I-10.”

  “Andy, stop—”

  “Did you catch that?”

  “Yeah, fifty-seven, west off the ten, but look—”

  “Whatever happens, Tori,” Andy interrupts, “I really do thank you. No kidding. Okay? Thank you.”

  “Where on the fifty-seven? Tell me exactly where!”

  “Just you, Tori,” Andy says. “No offense, Noah, my good man, but if anyone else shows, I’m down and out. Got it?”

  “I—I—I get it, yeah, but wait,” Noah says.

  “Bye, Victoria.”

  The line goes dead.

  Tori Hershberger I’m kind of tired of school right now.

  Like · Comment · Share · January 10

  7 people like this.

  Kevin Cooper me too, tori. sick of home too. pretty sick of fuckin everything.

  You and 1 other person like this.

  Marly DeSoto then stop coming! please!

  4 people like this.

  Dakota Lorey haha nice marly! yah stay home and spare us, team edward.

  Albert Jiminez “dude looks like a lady” :)

  5 people like this.

  Lucas Mulcahy ha ya and he stinks teh place up hahaha

  5 people like this.

  Delmar Jackson bitch. Throw yourself down some stairs already

  3 people like this.

  Dakota Lorey delmar, who?

  Steve Weide Maybe if we put out a petition to keep him off school property they’d have to not let him in!

  4 people like this.

  Delmar Jackson haha I ment cooper not you dakota :) your sexy

  Dakota Lorey likes this.

  Dakota Lorey aw, thanks.

  Delmar Jackson likes this.

  Marly DeSoto if kevin cooper asked me to prom you know wht Id say?

  Kevin Cooper I WOULD NEVER ASK YOU TO PROM OR ANYWHERE! YOU SUCK AND PLEASE JUST STOP WTF DID I DO TO YOU????

  Lucas Mulcahy youd say not even if you paid me to suck your dick after! shut the fuck up cooper you dum shit. Shut the fuck up faggit go die

  Tori Hershberger It’s okay, Super Duper Pooper Cooper. Your cock is still smaller than mine.

  5 people like this.

  Marly DeSoto hoo-ah, Hersh closing in on Lucas! nice job Tori. imagin life w/o Pooper. Ahhhhh ya!

  You and 2 others like this.

  Tori Hershberger Thanks, Marlycat. It’s a gift.

  Kevin Cooper you guys seriously just stop and leave me alone. theirs no reason to be like that. I really can’t take this today okay so please quit!

  Lucas Mulcahy shut the fuck up no one cares and no one likes you anyway so shut up

  5 people like this.

  Tori Hershberger Pooper Cooper, it’s “there’s.” You missed an apostrophe and misspelled it. They covered it in fifth grade, as I recall. Consider returning?

  You and 6 others like this.

  FIFTEEN

  I look at the tiny screen on my phone. Disconnected.

  “No, no, no,” I chant, and dial Andy’s number. No answer. I hang up before it goes to voice mail. I try texting him instead:

  I’d have to take my brother’s car and I’m not supposed to be driving.

  I sit back down on the edge of my bed, waiting. A minute goes by, then another, then five. I am wide awake. Noah paces back and forth in front of me, his hand over his mouth.

  “He didn’t mean it,” I say out loud. “There’s no way. No way.”

  Noah stops. “We can’t know that.”

  I send another text:

  Andy?

  This time my phone vibrates with his response almost right away. Only two words.

  Beautiful sunrise.

  Oh, God. He’s really going to do it.

  Unless I can get there in time.

  I shove the phone into my pocket and grab my shoes, pulling them on as fast as I can. “What time is sunrise?” I say, heading for the hallway.

  Noah follows me, tapping furiously on his phone screen while I chew my lip practically off.

  “Six forty-seven,” he says.

  We both look up at the cow clock.

  Six ten.

  I look into Noah’s eyes. “Come with me.”

  “So you are going?”

  “I have to!”

  “Okay, but how?”

  “Jack’s car.” I pick up his keys off the pegboard and hustle to the garage door. “Come with me, Noah, please!”

  Noah licks his lips. “Tori, I . . . man, I would, I want to, but I think it’s a bad idea. If we get there and it’s both of us, you heard what he said. He asked for you.”

  “Noah!”

  “Go,” he says. “Look, I’ll—I’ll try to find you, drive past or something, but you have to go now. But, Tori, please. You’ve got to be careful, okay? You have half an hour. That’s plenty of time. Don’t drive stupid.”

  “Okay,” I say. Then I reach up and hug Noah, tight. He hugs me back, even tighter.

  “Thank you for being here tonight,” I say.

  “Anything for you,” he says. “Now go. Just . . . go safe.”

  I nod and go out to the carport. When did it stop raining? An hour ago? Two? Doesn’t matter. I stop when my hand hits Jack’s driver’s-side door.

  “You can’t be serious,” I whisper to my ghostly reflection in the window. I’m not sure, but I think there are dar
k circles under my eyes. I remember I left the coffeemaker on, keeping the remnants warm, and that I forgot to put away the Coffee-mate. Mom’ll be mad.

  I start laughing. Hard. I have to jam my hand against my mouth to keep from screaming with laughter.

  Mom’ll be mad about the Coffee-mate while I’m out driving Jack’s car up to the 57 to try to stop yet another guy from killing himself?

  Really?

  Shut up, I think. You’re losing it, Tori. Shut up, focus, get moving. Put yourself in the box. Eye on the ball. Now. Go!

  I get in the car, and wince when I turn the engine, wondering if anyone in the house can hear it. My heart pounds as I throw the gear into drive and move off down the street, trying to keep everything straight in my head: Stop at each sign, look left, look right, look left again, accelerate slowly, check the mirrors, don’t brake too early or too late. . . .

  I’ve got my license, but only by a few months. I’d just gotten it when everything with Kevin went down, and haven’t really been on the road that much. I’m almost at the first major intersection by our neighborhood before realizing the headlights are off. Good God. I flip them on, scan the dashboard for indicators of any other important steps I might have missed, then turn onto the road that will take me to the 10, then the 57.

  I keep both hands on the wheel and lean forward so far that my back begins to hurt. I accelerate slowly until I’m doing five miles over the speed limit, faster than I’ve ever driven before in my life.

  I can see the road now without the lights on. Not well, but I can see it. The world is growing gray, the darkness slowly evaporating as I climb the mountain. Normally I’d enjoy the ride; the mountains are beautiful out here, dotted with proud saguaros and desert bushes. Normally I’d also be thrilled to be behind the wheel. Such a new experience, and signifying a transition to freedom unlike anything I’d known before. That is, of course, unless I was going to be in prison.

  Can’t think about that now, I tell myself. Just keep your eyes open and look for a car pulled off to the side of the road.

  It only takes a few minutes to find the exit for the 57, which is obviously a rarely used mountain road. I take the exit, glad at least that it’s too early for anyone else to really be clogging the 10 except for a few random big rigs.

  I take my foot off the gas to rub my eyes, as if slowing from seventy to sixty-five will somehow be safer. Maybe it is. How should I know? I’m not even supposed to be here.

  The switchbacks are making me dizzy, swerving left-right-left-right up the mountain, higher and higher, left-right, the world turning from grayscale to shades of blue and yellow and brown and—

  There.

  On my left, parked in the dirt, is a small white car. I don’t know if it’s a Sentra or not, because I’m not real big into cars, but it’s got four doors and it just looks like something that would be called a “Sentra.”

  Sitting on the hood, knees doubled up, is a guy.

  I hit the brakes and slow down.

  He does not have black hair. He has light brown hair. And he’s making eye contact, as if he knew exactly when I’d be rounding the corner.

  I risk a quick U-turn on the highway. Shit, that was stupid. A big semi could’ve been rounding the corner and taken me out in a heartbeat.

  But I live to do stupid things another day, and maneuver Jack’s car until it’s behind the Sentra.

  I shut off the engine and take a deep breath.

  Just as a cop car slows and pulls up behind me.

  THE ARIZONA NEW TIMES

  Horses vs. Humans

  by Allison Summers

  Why is shooting a horse’s ass a felony but causing the death of a teenager isn’t?

  Kevin Cooper, 16, lived in the safe little enclave of Canyon City. He logged on to his Facebook account on the night of January 11, just like countless teens do every night. There, he left a message on a Friend’s post—note the capital—and this Friend’s Friends went on to leave comments of their own about him. None of them was kind. And at first it seemed like the sort of typical high school joshing everyone’s familiar with.

  But Kevin Cooper had had enough. On the website, he confronted this Friend and her Friends. Rather than respecting his wish to be left alone, the group dog-piled him with online insults and catcalls that would make a trucker blush. Time and again, Kevin tried to assert himself and get them to relent. But “relentless” is really the only correct term for what went on that terrible night.

  A police report shows that within an hour of logging off, Kevin Cooper tied a long scarf around his neck, tied the other end to the balcony railing outside his room, and leaped.

  This past summer, a 14-year-old Tucson boy was arrested for extreme cruelty to animals, a felony count that quite easily, and legally, booted him into the adult court system.

  His crime: shooting BBs at two horses’ asses. And we don’t mean the state legislature.

  For their part in urging Kevin Cooper to execute himself, seven Canyon High students face minor misdemeanor charges. At worst, they will receive ten to thirty hours of community service and up to a year of probation.

  Not too high a price for virtually assassinating a gay kid. Yes, “virtually” has a double meaning here.

  “Throw yourself down some stairs already,” one student urges him in the Facebook comments.

  “Imagin [sic] life w/o Pooper,” says another post. “Ahhhhh ya!”

  One particularly imaginative post reads, “Shut the fuck up faggit [sic] go die.”

  Harmless taunting? Hardly. When one considers the outcome—one more young human life lost to homophobic terrorizing despite viral Web campaigns like the It Gets Better Project—the concept of “harmless” doesn’t seem appropriate.

  continued

  SIXTEEN

  My life is over.

  I sit in the car, shaking with lack of sleep, lack of food, relief at seeing Andy alive, and, well, terror that he might still do something stupid. Plus, there’s this absolute paralysis now that a cop is climbing out of his patrol car and walking up to my car. My brother’s car.

  I don’t know what to do. Are you supposed to stay in the car? Get out? Put your hands out the window?

  “Morning,” the cop calls.

  My windows are still up, but I hear Andy call something back. He doesn’t get off the hood of the Sentra.

  The cop knocks on my window. I roll it down, praying my hands aren’t really shaking as visibly as I know they are.

  “What’s the problem?” the cop says, peering into the car, checking out every nook and cranny.

  “She’s about an hour late is the problem!” Andy calls.

  The cop looks over at him. He’s still on the hood but now sits with his legs dangling over one side.

  “What’s that?” the cop says.

  “I’m waiting for a tow, and my stupid little sister there was supposed to be here an hour ago to keep me company or give me a lift if the tow truck didn’t show up,” Andy says, shaking his head. He yells at me, “Thanks, Tori, you’re a real gem.”

  His lie is so effortless, so smooth, I nearly believe it myself for a second.

  The cop cocks an eyebrow at him, then glances down at me.

  “You having any trouble?” he asks me.

  “No, sir,” I say. “Just—yeah. Coming up to see him. Is all. Yeah.”

  “You worried about something?”

  “Sorry, I’ve just never been pulled over before.”

  “I didn’t pull you over. There something I should’ve pulled you over for?”

  “No! No, sir. No.”

  “Got some bodies in the trunk?”

  Ha-ha-ha-ha, you funny son of a . . .

  “Nope, not me, no, sir.”

  The cop eyes me carefully, and I’m fairly certain my stomach liquefies and drains out of every open hole in my body. Hope I don’t get any on his boots.

  “All right, well, turn your hazards on,” he tells me. “Same goes for you,” he calls over t
o Andy.

  “Oh, man,” Andy says, giving him an embarrassed smile. “You’re right, I’m sorry. Duh.”

  He hops down, reaches into the car, and the blinking hazard lights come on.

  The cop nods. “Keep an eye out for traffic,” he says, and walks back to his car.

  I watch in the mirrors as he gets in. He sits there for approximately eighteen years, doing whatever it is cops do in their cars, before finally pulling back onto the 57 and driving down the hill, riding the brakes the whole time.

  It’s a very steep hill.

  I sit back in the seat, close my eyes, and try not to puke out the window. Call it God, call it Flying Whatever Monster, but I swear someone was looking out for me.

  It’s about time I caught a break.

  When I’m able to get my heart rate down to something less than two hundred, I open my eyes and stare at the car parked in front of me. The Sentra has no stickers, nothing to make it stand out. The license plate frame is from a local dealer.

  Through the Sentra’s rear window and on through the windshield, I can see that Andy has resumed his seat on the hood, just a little off center, kind of in front of the steering wheel.

  I step out of the car and walk carefully over to the Sentra. The car is mostly dry, with little jewels of rain dotting the surface. Andy doesn’t even turn to look at me. This nongesture strikes me as very cinematic. Staged. Still—it’s effective.

  “Just in time,” he says.

  I stand by the front fender, studying him. And, oddly, despite everything . . . he’s kind of cute, I have to say. Not as cute as Lucas was, or maybe just cute differently, but cute.

  Wait: As Lucas was? Past tense . . . ?

  “Yeah?” I say to Andy.

  “Well, maybe not just,” he says, and supports his face in one cupped hand. “I’d say you had about, mmm, two more minutes before the sun—oops, wait! There it comes.”

  I turn to face east. The sun, which has been up solid now for a while, is only just beginning to crest a distant mountain. I’ve lived here my whole life, and I don’t even know what the mountain is called. I really should start paying more attention to things.

  “So when you said sunrise, you didn’t mean from, like, the horizon,” I say.

  Andy shrugs. “I don’t know. I hadn’t decided.”