Mercy Rule Page 8

  I nod again. I get it. I get not being seen. But I don’t know how to say it.

  Instead, I say, “All right. Thank you for the coffee.”

  “You’re welcome. Are we okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool.”

  We drive into the school parking lot and Kelly pulls into an empty space. “Quite the odd little friendship we have brewing here, huh?” she says and slowly grins, holding up her coffee. “Brewing. Get it?”

  I laugh out loud and it startles me, because I have not heard my own laugh in a long time.

  DANNY

  “So someone tell me what the play is about,” Mrs. Garcia says in English first period, and I can tell I smile. But very, very, very slowly. I am

  MELLOW.

  “Revenge,” a kid says.

  “Good. What does Hamlet want?”

  “Revenge!” three or four kids say. They must think this is one of those surprise extra-credit games.

  “Ah, does he?” Mrs. Garcia says in that sly way of a teacher who’s hooked a class. “Think about it. If Hamlet merely wants revenge for his father’s assassination, if that were his only goal—what would he do? What would you do?”

  “Pop a cap in his ass,” someone says sarcastically.

  “Yes!” Mrs. Garcia says over the class’s laughter. “I can’t tell if you were guessing or not, Miles, but you’re right. If all he really wanted was revenge, Hamlet would kill Claudius as soon as he spoke to his father’s ghost. But he doesn’t. So what else is going on here? Anyone?”

  “He wants the king to know who did it,” I say. It feels like the words come out in a thick syrup.

  Everyone turns.

  Gasp!

  The kid in back exists!

  And can speak!

  Glory be!

  “Good, good,” Mrs. Garcia says, gliding closer to me. “Keep going.”

  I shrug. This is stuff I got last year at my real school. “Everyone loves Claudius. Everyone thinks he’s this hotshot. But he’s not. And only Hamlet knows the whole story.”

  “Excellent!” Mrs. Garcia says. Virtually apoplectic that I might be

  LEARNING SOMETHING.

  So I play along. What the hell. Maybe she’ll bump up my grade. “And another thing. Hamlet’s not about to kill himself. That’s a myth. Or maybe just bad teaching.”

  I don’t mean it to sound insulting to Garcia, but some of the dumbasses go, “Ooooo!”

  Jesus, what is it with these people? Are we in kindergarten?

  But Garcia only smiles, and she means it. “I agree. Why do you think that?”

  “Well, for one, just like if he only wanted revenge, he’d kill Claudius. If he just wanted to die, he could do it. No one can stop you if you really decide to kill yourself. Plus, he spends so much time making people think he’s crazy—setting up the play, staging the fight with Laertes … he’s not going anywhere anytime soon. He’s got business with the king.”

  For some reason, the classroom is silent when I’m done. God, now what’d I do?

  “That,” Mrs. Garcia says, “is very astute. I hope you all were taking notes.”

  Grumbling, moaning, papers shuffling. Great. Now they’re pissed.

  Well played.

  Get it?

  PLAYED.

  Jesus.

  BRADY

  Mom says his name is Pat. Patrick.

  “Do you know his last name?” I ask.

  “Oh, shut up,” Mom says.

  Patrick is sitting at the kitchen table. He smirks. Takes a slow drag off a menthol. I want to shove it into his face.

  “Get my money from Dad yet?” I ask. “It usually comes today.”

  Mom flaps her arms. Sighs. Rolls her eyes. The most stressed out person on the planet. “You know we need that for rent,” she says.

  “Or food.”

  “Yeah, or food.”

  “Or menthols. Or a hit.”

  Arms flap. Eyes roll. “Brady, I swear to God.”

  Patrick says, “You should be nice to your mom, pal.”

  “You’re not my pal.”

  “But I’m the next closest thing you got to a dad, so I say be nice to your mom.”

  I make a fist under the table. Smile. Ask, “Is that right?”

  COACH

  Brady Culliver doesn’t show up for weight room third period Monday. God damn.

  Coach calls Donte over before D hits the showers. “Heard from Brady?”

  “Not yet, Coach.”

  “See him over the weekend?”

  “Not since review. I been picking him up at Starbucks in the morning, but today he never showed. I went by his place, but nobody answered.”

  Coach nods, fighting an urge to spit his worry and anger against the shower room tile. After their smothering by the Titans, the Saturday morning game review was a somber gathering. A bunch of dispirited Spartans acting nothing like their namesakes.

  “No texts, nothing?” Coach persists.

  “Sorry, Coach. I been trying.”

  “All right. Look, track him down, will ya?”

  “On it. Might not be till sixth, though.”

  “Sure.” Coach gives D a firm grip on one shoulder before retreating into his office. Brady barely spoke during review, even when spoken to. Coach took it easy on him; maybe too easy, he thinks now. Maybe the kid needed a kick in the ass. Every player is different. Opening the season with a loss has hit everyone hard. But there’s plenty of room to come back if they can all keep their heads in the game.

  That includes you, Coach thinks.

  It doesn’t occur to him until lunch that Brady Culliver isn’t the only no-show today. Danny Jennings was missing from PE second period.

  God damn.

  DANNY

  Athleaders.

  This is an actual word they use. Oh my moist and chewy God, they really do. Athleaders. Athletes Who Lead.

  My second phoneless Monday continues with usual fanfare as I move between bodies to get to my locker after third period. A bunch of Athleader football players are headed my way. Glorious. I brace for impact.

  “Skinny little faggot,” one of them whispers. He’s wearing a school jersey with his name on the back. Walker.

  Times have changed. It used to be they could just shout it and no one would care. But now “faggot” has supplanted the other F-word as the worst possible thing you can say in public. So they have to whisper it, like the church kids do when they talk about Jesus.

  Skinny little faggot. It’s the best these pole-smokers can come up with. I should put on more weight, like Dad said. Get really huge, really enormous, because fat faggot has that sort of sibilance to it that skinny little faggot lacks.

  I stop and turn.

  “What, am I the only piece of ass you can get, you colossal virgin?”

  See, it’s all about hitting them where it hurts. And that one hurt, I can see it on his face. But I guess I’ll be hurting in a second as the Athleader comes barreling at me with murder on his mind, chewing hard on his lower lip. Nobody questions his hetero virility; no one, I say!

  The attack is stopped by none other than Dr. Flores, our principal, as he appears in the hallway. The giant Athleader falters and spins quickly to walk the other direction.

  Dr. Flores looks down at me and says, “Daniel, right?”

  “Danny.”

  “Well Danny, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  And that’s how one week in, I’m talking to the school shrink. Dr. Hanson’s office is in the admin building, one of a whole hallway’s worth of tiny rooms. Interesting that the athletic offices here are larger than the offices of people charged with running the entire school. Priorities, indeed.

  I stretch out in a yellow stuffed chair, crossing my feet and banging them together. The chains on my shoes bounce and jangle. It takes three seconds for this to annoy the secretary, who sends me Mean Old Lady vibes over the tops of her rimless glasses.

  I stop bouncing. She hasn’t do
ne anything to me.

  A few minutes later, Dr. Hanson pokes her head out. “Danny? Come on in.”

  I slip into her office and sit in the vinyl seat across from her desk. She has pictures of dogs tacked to a corkboard. I don’t know what kind. They’re not yippy dogs, anyway. Too big. And Dr. Hanson’s not hard to look at. Her hair is too long though. I like it short. Like Cadence’s.

  Cadence. God, I can’t stop thinking her name, or saying it when no when can hear.

  “How are you feeling today, Danny?” Dr. Hanson says, smiling.

  “Magnifico.” I cross my ankle over my knee.

  Still smiling, she says, “Sarcasm doesn’t become you.”

  “Sure it does.”

  Her grin fades. I regret it, but only for a second. She takes out a notepad.

  “I was just getting ready to call you in. I guess Dr. Flores thought sooner would be better, hmm?”

  I click my teeth and shoot her with my finger. Click, bang.

  “I’ve got your health records here … how’re the meds treating you?”

  Like a skinny little faggot, I think.

  “Fine,” I say.

  I do not add that they fetch a fair price from Pete, who is apparently going to buy his way through my entire allotment. Pete’s got a booming business charging twice what he pays me for them. It’s a fair deal, and puts money I need in my pocket. Plus I never take the god damn things, anyway. He’s traded a few with me already. I’ve built a good stash of some nice pops. Everybody wins.

  “No side effects?”

  I pretend to consider, while actually trying to recall everything I’ve read online about the side effects of my prescriptions. “Headache,” I recite slowly. “A little dizzy sometimes.”

  She nods seriously, buying it. Jesus.

  “How about your emotions? Pretty regular stuff?”

  I nod-frown-shrug, all one motion.

  “How’s school?”

  My stomach clenches.

  “Splendiferous,” I say after a pause, and force a smile.

  She rewards me with a laugh. It breaks my concentration so I make a mistake. “Why am I the one on medication?” I ask. “Why not them? What did I do?”

  “Who?”

  “Them,” I gesture pointlessly to a wall, and beyond it, the school and the wide world. “Everyone else. I mean, I get called all sorts of heinous shit, but when I defend myself, I get dragged to the school psych. No offense.”

  “None taken. So, you’re having trouble with some other students? Or teachers?”

  Am I having trouble? Well, let’s see. Where should I begin?

  I decide not to begin at all. What’s the point.

  “No, of course not,” I say. “Here? Certainly not.”

  Dr. Hanson gives me an exaggerated, I’m studying you closely sort of look. “Who are some of your friends?”

  “I don’t know. This guy Pete. This girl Cadence. That’s pretty much it right now.”

  “Do they relax you? What I mean is, is it stressful to be around them?”

  I think about Cadence. That smile of hers, those ridiculously round eyes, and how she never has a bad thing to say about anything. How does she do that? “No,” I say, accidentally honest. “I like being around them.”

  “Good,” Dr. Hanson says. “I wonder if maybe you need some more of that. Have you thought about getting more involved at school? Are there any clubs that sound interesting?”

  I snap back to reality. If that’s what this is. “Is there a mime club? I could just be sort of quiet and white-faced and annoy the shit out of … oh, wait. Just described my normal day. Drat the luck.”

  But she seizes on it. “There’s drama. You could try that. There are auditions tomorrow after school for a little show, I think. Would you consider at least checking it out?”

  “I suppose …”

  “Just give it a shot. It will you do you some good. I bet you’re really good at it.”

  “That was never a question.”

  She doesn’t know what to do with that. I slap my hands down on the arms of the chair. “My work here is finished.”

  “Danny, wait.”

  I wait.

  “Listen,” Dr. Hanson says. Earnestly. “In three years, none of these people will be in your life anymore. You can forget all about them, stop spending all this time being angry with them. You’re young and have your whole life to look forward to. Try not to waste it on things that don’t matter.”

  “Like sports?”

  No response.

  “Just checking. Bye now.”

  Dr. Hanson looks like she’s not sure I’m allowed to leave, since I was hand-delivered by the principal. But she relents and gives me a pass back to class.

  En route, I catch a poster advertising for the auditions. The “little show” Dr. Hanson mentioned is Hamlet. By some unknown scribbler named William Shakespeare.

  A “little show.” Good God. What are the qualifications for her job? Robust illiteracy? Basic western cultural ignorance?

  I miss my real school.

  VIVI

  “How was your weekend?” Sam asks as he falls into step beside me on the way to lunch.

  I sidestep away. “Okay.”

  “Bad day?” Sam says. “You look upset.”

  I shake my head and walk faster. Sam keeps up.

  “Do you want to have lunch? I mean, together.”

  I veer to one wall, cutting people off. No one yells at me, though. Sam follows along until we’re out of the way of foot traffic.

  “With Brianna?” I say, not too loud, but loud enough so he hears me.

  “Brianna? No. Not by any stretch of the imagination.” And instead of getting mad or defensive, he smiles.

  I consider his answer for a second. “And … you’re not going out anymore?”

  “Oh my God, Vivi, no. It was a year ago.”

  THE Brianna Montaro walks by just then with a group of her friends. They all look alike to me. Brianna happens to see me and Sam standing together, and gives us a double take. I move just a little bit closer to him, and make sure she sees me do it. Sam doesn’t notice her because his back is to them.

  After they’ve turned a corner, I gaze up into Sam’s eyes. He is still smiling. Then I look down at his hands and, carefully, like I might get burned, take one of his in mine. I feel him watching me do it. Once I’ve got his hand in mine, he tightens his grip, just a bit.

  Not looking up, I say, “What’re they serving today?”

  “Nothing delicious.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Can we eat it outside?”

  CADENCE

  I run into Danny heading for the doors leading out to the student parking lot. He’s walking with a guy wearing a kilt. A kilt! I don’t know whether to be impressed or to make him go home and change before someone beats him up. But it’s exactly the kind of thing I could see Danny wearing, so it kind of makes sense they’d be hanging out. Danny, on the other hand, is only wearing some jeans and a plain black T-shirt. I barely recognize him without his armor!

  “Danny!”

  He stops, one hand on the handle. I can’t read his expression, but then Dad says I usually don’t anyway. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

  I run up to them, my bag banging into my kidney with every step. Ouch. I hope he appreciates that.

  “Where you going?”

  With a shrug that seems kind of forced, he says, “Ditch. Go get high.”

  “Dude!” the kilt guy says.

  “It’s okay, she’s cool.”

  “Clearly not as cool as you are,” I say, making fun of him.

  Danny doesn’t get it. “You want to come?”

  “No. You know ditching is against the rules, right?”

  “Come on,” Danny says. “It’ll be fun.”

  “Nah. I laugh enough, I don’t need help.” To the kilt guy, I say, “Hi, I’m Cadence, by the way.”

  “I’ve heard,” Kilt Guy says, and it’s ki
nd of smarmy. Danny gives him a warning look. Hey, maybe I’m better at guessing looks than Dad says!

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Pete. What’s yours?”

  “Cade … I just told you!”

  This makes Pete laugh. I can’t quite tell if I’m supposed to be in on the joke, or if he’s making fun of me.

  So I go, “Well, don’t get caught and don’t do anything too stupid,” and start to go to class. Except suddenly Danny yells my name and comes running up to me.

  “Hey,” he says, all serious. “He was just messing around. Don’t be mad.”

  “I’m not mad.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Danny, if there’s one thing I’m absolutely sure of, it’s that I would never lie to you.”

  “Really.”

  “Really! I don’t lie. It’s stupid.”

  “Okay,” he says, like he doesn’t believe me. Then he says it again like he does. Then he says, “So come with us then.”

  “I don’t ditch, either.”

  “You haven’t. That’s not necessarily the same thing.”

  The warning bell rings. Great, now I’ll be late. I guess I could go with them. It’s an art class, not my best subject but not one that will destroy my career if I get a B or a C. At least they’re asking me to hang out, which is more than I can say for anyone else so far.

  And it’s only this once, right?

  So I say, “Well, it’s only this once, right?”

  Danny says, almost smiling, “Yep. Come on.”

  I’m gonna make that kid smile one day if it kills me! We go back to the double doors where Pete is still waiting. He doesn’t seem to mind that I’m tagging along. We rush out to the parking lot, and I follow Pete to an old blue CR-V. Danny hurries into the back seat. Wow. Mister Chivalry, who’d’ve thunk it?

  So I get into shotgun. Pete puts the car in reverse without looking behind him, and already I’m scared for my life. I pull my seat belt on, and notice Danny doing the same. Pete, not so much.

  After a squealing left-hand turn out of the parking lot, Pete takes us to the open road. He snaps his phone into a stereo adapter and asks me, “You like Floyd?”