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Racking Up the Points

At lunch, I'd spotted Brandon at his locker in the south corridor. I stopped at a water fountain, watching from under my lashes as he swapped books. He hunched down into himself like that cloaked him in invisibility or something. A chubby girl at the next locker edged away like he had an infectious disease. He gave no sign that he cared or even noticed until she slammed her locker and walked away. His eyes tracked her for a few seconds, and even from across the hall, I could see his pain.

Don't bother. It won't help.

I don't know what you're talking about, Kenny.

Oh, please. You can't lie to yourself, bro.
Kenny tapped his temple.

I ignored him and followed Brandon down the hall, watching him sidestep the foot that tried to trip him and dodge the hand that tried to knock the books out of his arms. The corridor was a battlefield. No, it was a hunting ground, and Brandon was in season.

Dude, if you help him, you become him. Get it? You'll be hated.

Hated.

I considered that. With a grandfather who wouldn't talk to me, a gang of childhood friends who abandoned me, it was pretty clear I already was hated. What was a few more names on such a long list?

Kenny made a sound of disgust.
You
are
so
slow. Come on, man, see the light!
He threw his hands in the air.
If
they
hate
you, they will target you. They will look for the things that can trip you up. And they'll find them. Jeff Dean is already sniffing.

My hands clenched into fists. Damn it! Why was this so hard? Anybody could see Brandon was suffering. Anybody who bothered to actually look, that is. Five years back, I'd have been one of the people sticking out his foot as the kid passed me. A flush of repulsion passed over me, and my skin crawled. I wasn't proud of my past.

It's risky, man. Too risky for someone so into hiding his identity.

I shrugged. Yes, it was a risk, but I still had my new name. Making friends with one kid wasn't going to out me unless everybody found out I also have a record. I followed Brandon into the lunch line. I grabbed a tray, piled on two cellophane-wrapped sandwiches, a Snapple, and an apple, purposely jostled a kid with that let's-get-Brandon gleam in his eye I'd already come to recognize, and paid for my meal.

Brandon didn't notice me until I sat beside him at a table in the center of the room. Center tables were like the
Titanic
's steerage section. Cool kids had their far corner tables already reserved. I felt their eyes on me as I screwed off the cap of my juice. “Hey, Brandon. Mind if I join you?”

He peered at me through strands of greasy, colorless hair and shrugged. “It's your reputation.”

“I don't have a reputation. I just got here.”

He bit the corner off a square slice of what masqueraded as pizza here. “Yeah, that's my point. Eating with me isn't going to help.”

“Do I look worried?” I unwrapped a sandwich, bit halfway through the first triangle, and spoke with my mouth full. “I don't know anybody here but you and figured you're better than eating by myself.”

He laughed once, a rasp of air that held no humor. “Yeah, well, that's a first. I've been eating alone since seventh, no…sixth grade.”

“That really blows.”

Another laugh, this time with sound. “Yeah, tell me about it.” He nibbled another piece of his pizza. “So, what's up with you and Dean? Heard you broke up another fight.”

Told
ya
so.

Ouch. I winced. “Uh, you heard about that, huh? It wasn't a fight. Just an argument. I tried to help. What the hell is his problem with you anyway?”

Brandon shrugged. “I exist.”

I finished the first sandwich and started on the second. “You never did anything to him?”

Brandon made no response except for the shadow that passed over his face and watched me eat. “You always eat sandwiches in, like, four bites?”

I shot him a look and waved my hand, encouraging him to answer my question.

“Fine. I stole his girlfriend once.”

The hand about to tip the Snapple to my mouth froze, mid-flight. Brandon grinned. “Gotcha,” he said.

I laughed and hated myself for believing Brandon couldn't possibly win any girl from Jeff. People nearby stared at me for laughing. I glared back. Yeah. I'm laughing. I'm eating lunch with Brandon Dellerman, and I'm laughing. Assholes.

“Seriously, what's his problem?”

Brandon sighed and stared down at his grease-stained paper plate. “We…uh…used to be friends. When we were little. Then Jeff's mom died, and he's…well, let's just say he didn't handle it well.”

I tried to imagine it. My own mother's death. Immediately, my chest tightened, and my lunch soured. Too much. Way too much. “I don't think anybody could handle that well.”

Brandon shrugged. “Yeah, well, he blames me. Like I killed her or something. He's been pissed off at me ever since her funeral.”

I angled my head, waited for him to confirm or deny. “You didn't have anything to do with her—”

Brandon's eyes darted to mine, huge and hurt. “No way, man! She had, like, cancer or something.”

I was totally lost now. Why would Jeff hold Brandon accountable for his mother's natural death?

Dick, do I need to remind you there are two sides to every story? Maybe you should ask Jeff what his problem is.

Jeff's an idiot. I don't need his version.

Yeah. You do.

I wanted to ignore Kenny's insistence but was too curious. Just when I was about to press Brandon for more details, I noticed the way his hands shook, so I quickly changed the subject. “So, what is there to do in this town? You don't have a skate park. I checked.”

“You skateboard?”

“No. In-line.” In-line skating helped me maintain my ice-skating skills when I couldn't get near a rink. I hadn't been near a rink in years. “I play hockey.”

Brandon nodded. “I'm not into sports. I just play a lot of video games.”

At last. Common ground, neutral territory. We spent the last fifteen minutes of the lunch period exchanging tips on
Assassin's Creed
,
Call
of
Duty
, and
Madden
NFL
. I'd had to intimidate one brave soul who dared to throw something at Brandon as we made our way to the recycling bins. He immediately backed off and even apologized.

Smart kid.

When the bell rang and Brandon took off with a grin—a real one this time—I figured maybe whatever coolness I had by virtue of going hand to hand with Jeff (and living to tell about it) might rub off on him.

Want
a
medal?

You know, you were quiet during lunch. I like you a hell of a lot better like that.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I missed you too. You're wasting your time with Brandon.

I was being nice.

Kenny rolled his eyes—my eyes—whatever.
You're not just being nice to him. You're trying to save him. You're only doing it for maximum points.

I blinked. You don't know what you're talking about.

Really, man? 'Cause it seems to me you're hoping there's a scorecard somewhere. You kill one, you save one, you're off the hook. Hate to break this to you, but I don't think that's how it works.

No. No, you're wrong. I tried to argue, but Kenny was done. He slammed the door to his cave, jacked up his stereo.

Drowning Pool's “Bodies.”

Awesome.

Big Scary Things

The days piled up, one on top of the other, the way they do when you fall into a routine. September bled into October with warm days, but the air lost that heavy wetness that made you feel like you were trying to breathe underwater.

I liked it. In fact, I loved the ordinariness of it. I got up, went to school, came home, worked out or did some yard work, studied a little, and then tumbled into bed. Repeat playlist.

Dude, you talk to yourself. Not so ordinary.

Okay, I acknowledged Kenny with a tight frown as I flipped out the sheets squished in a ball at the foot of my bed. So I talked to myself. That was a bit out of the ordinary for some people, though not for me. I'd made friends. Lisa, Paul, and Brandon. Definitely outside of the ordinary. I'd started driving Brandon to and from school on the days I didn't have to stay later for the SAT prep course I attended. Brandon was funny once he actually opened his mouth and talked. Lisa and Paul, the other half of my speech project team, had invited me to practice sessions at their houses. I'd drop Brandon off, meet the team, and we'd practice the rebuttals, the rapid-fire questions, and our opening statements when we weren't just hanging out.

And then there was Julie.

I'd apologized to her, but it wasn't enough. She continued her ice-queen treatment of me. When we worked on the speech project, she sat beside Lisa and addressed me only when she had to. We had the same lunch period, but she always walked right past me and sat with two girls: Colleen and Beth. She didn't like me—I got that—and I was fine with it, except for one thing.

It was the way she looked at me.

I'd already talked to my parents about her name, but they dismissed it as coincidence. My dad said he thought Liam was an only child. Julie couldn't be the same Murphy. Still, there was something about the way she always seemed to be wherever I was, the way her cold blue eyes bored through me. It had me spinning horrible alternatives to explain it. If she wasn't a sister, then maybe she was a cousin? Whatever it was, I couldn't shake the sense that somehow Julie Murphy
knew
me.

I was sure of it and fucking terrified.

So I tolerated her treatment, even encouraged it. When Paul and Lisa couldn't make our speech practice dates, I manufactured excuses to avoid being alone with Julie. When I did have to speak to her, I was deliberately rude. Kenny wasn't exactly helping my cause.

You're a dick.

“Jesus, Kenny, shut up!” I yelled out loud. I was alone in my room and able to indulge Kenny. Uh, myself, I mean.

Look
at
her, man! Why would you want to avoid that?

“Give it a rest. We cannot be together under any circumstances. None. Zero. Get it through your head.”

Why?
he yelled back, and my eyes crossed.
Give
me
one
good
reason.

“It's too damned risky.”

I
want
her.

I laughed. I couldn't help it. Kenny was thirteen. Life was easy when you were thirteen. “She's not a puppy, Kenny.”

I
know. I still want her.

“Yeah, well, you can't just go around taking whatever you want whenever you want it.”

She
wants
us too.

I turned to stare at him, sitting beside me on the double bed that took up most of my room. Besides the bed, the only other furniture in the room was a desk and a tall dresser, but I did have shelves and shelves of books on whatever wall space was left over. No computer though. I wasn't allowed. That and my game system were downstairs in our family room because my online privileges were always supervised. “You're delirious.” Julie and I tolerated each other for the sake of our speech class project, but that was it. Julie wanted me? No. No way. If this was how Julie expressed her interest in a guy, I'd pass.

He bounced on my bed.
Okay. Think about it. In speech class, she sits on the edge of her chair when we talk. And when she has a question, she lets Paul and Lisa answer it first but uses our answer instead.

I gaped at him, not sure what surprised me more—that he kept using the word
our
, that he was right, or that I hadn't noticed any of this before. “So, let's suppose you're right—”

I
am.

“And I'm not saying you are. It doesn't change anything, Kenny. It's still too risky to get involved.” I tugged the sheets over me.

Bullshit! All you do is risk this deep dark secret of yours. You shouldn't have broken up that fight. You shouldn't have gotten chummy with Brandon. You didn't listen to me either time and now Jeff Dean is gunning for you. The one thing you should do you won't because it's risky? Gimme a break.

He picked up the hockey puck I kept on the desk next to my bed and looked like he was going to heave it through my window for a long moment. It was from the last game I was allowed to play. I used it as a paperweight now.

Instead, he sighed and flipped the puck over in his hands.

I
remember
this
game.

One long finger traced the contours of the puck. Funny, I never noticed Kenny's hands were the same size mine are now.

Us
versus
Freehold
High
School. We won in a shootout.

I smiled. It had been a hell of a game. I hadn't played since, and I suddenly realized how much I missed being on skates. At thirteen years old, walking with size fourteen feet presented some challenges, but on skates, I was a thing of awe. And then I remembered that night in the detention center when I'd finally listened to Kenny and let him loose. I remembered the carnage. I took the puck out of his hands, put it back on my pile of papers. “It's too dangerous, Kenny. I'm six-three. I'd probably end up killing somebody. Again.”

So
is
this
how
it's always gonna be?
He waved his hand between us.
No
girlfriend. No sports. Nothing?

I spread my arms, palms up. “It
has
to be. Living as Daniel Ellison is working, Kenny. Nobody's throwing rocks through the window or slashing the tires on Mom's car. It's working.”

Your
name
is
Kenneth
James
Mele. You should be proud of that, not trying to hide it.

I shook my head. I was named Kenneth after my grandfather and James for my father. “I'm not hiding it. I'm protecting it. And that's why I can't be with Julie, Kenny. We can't be friends. Friends talk to each other about themselves. What could I tell her that isn't part of the lie?”

You
lie
to
people
all
the
time. How is this different?

“Because it is.” I lifted my hands, let them fall. “I don't like lying to everyone, Kenny.” I shook my head. “It's one thing to keep everybody safe. It's a whole different thing to lie to Julie just so she'll go out with me.”

Then
tell
her
the
truth.

“No!” A noise in the hall had my head whipping toward my door, but it was still closed. “I can't tell anyone the truth. If it comes out, it starts all over again.” I stared up at the ceiling. “Kenny, I can't do that to them anymore. I can't expect them to keep packing up and moving away every time I get a death threat.”

You're eighteen. You can live on your own now. Move out.

“And do what exactly? Do you really believe there's a huge demand for convicted—oh, wait, pardon me—
adjudicated
juveniles with no diplomas?” In the state of New Jersey, the technical term was “adjudicated juvenile,” but “convicted” worked just as well.

It's been five years, man. You can get your juvenile record expunged now. Do it so we can move on.

I scoffed, shook my head. Move on. Yeah, right. My dad's been bugging me about doing that. Juvenile records, okay, sure, but the…the other part was harder to hide. So why bother?

Come
on, man! Do something. Fight back!
He stood up and took a swipe at me. Kenny may have existed only in my mind, but don't be fooled. When he hit me, I felt it.

I lay back down on my bed and said nothing out loud. I'd been fighting since I was Kenny's age. Every day, I fought, even though I knew it was a lost cause. So instead, I fought for the things I could still get. A high school diploma. Maybe a degree. But friends? A girlfriend?

No. I punched my pillow and closed my eyes, but it was a long time before sleep took me.

————

“What makes you think that, Dan?”

I gave Dr. Philips half a laugh and shook my head. “I think the question should be ‘What
doesn't
make me think this,' don't you?”

I was so damn tired of Dr. P.'s question. I'd been seeing a version of her, answering a version of the same question every Friday for about five years now, and nothing changed. Not one damn thing. I was still crazy. I skirted the issue by telling her all about Julie Murphy, disguising Kenny's interest in her as my own. She'd just asked me if I felt there was no potential for a future together, and I'd said, “Well, duh.”

“She thinks I'm Dan Ellison, defender of the bullied, saver of lives. Letting anybody see the, uh, ‘real me—'” I made air quotes and took in a breath to finish my thought, but Dr. P. held up a hand.

“Hold it. Let me interrupt you there. You said ‘the real me.' What does that mean? Who is the real you?”

Careful, bro. She's got a straitjacket in your size.

I shifted, stared at my fingernails. “A bully. A murderer. A…and worse.”

“I heard you used to play hockey,” Dr. P. changed the subject.

We
were
good
at
it.

“Yeah.” I laughed once. “We were good.”

“We?” Dr. P.'s ears prickled at the plural word. “Who's
we
?”

Crap. “Just me and my friends.” I covered the slip with a shrug. “But I can't do things like hockey anymore.”

“Why can't you do those things?”

“Kind of defeats the whole changing my name thing, doesn't it? If I keep the same friends and do the same things, Liam's dad can find us again and—”

No, man. We won't let him get anywhere near Mom or Dad.

A shiver ran down my back on hairy spider legs. Jack Murphy was crazier than I was. The thought made me cringe. He'd vaulted over the bar and nearly choked me during my sentencing hearing, shouting threats and obscenities at me, my parents, my attorney, even the judge. We'd packed up and moved from the only house I'd known the day of my release when he showed up at the front door, along with half our neighborhood, carrying a baseball bat. Just one more thing to add to my list of sins.

“Is this about Liam's father or about the girl?”

I raked my hands through my hair and rubbed the throbbing spot at the back of my head, but it did no good. None of this mattered! I wanted to tear the hair from my scalp. I sucked in a big breath and returned to my seat, the cushy recliner opposite Dr. P.

“Look, it doesn't matter who I hang out with. I'm lying to them. All of them. And the more we hang out and talk, the more people seem to like me—I mean, the me they think I am.”

“You don't like lying?”

I thought about that for a minute. I knew lying was wrong. Immoral even. But I was doing it for the best of reasons. It was so easy to believe that made it right.

“I do and I don't.” I spread out my hands. “See, the thing is it's
working
. All that crap didn't follow us to this town. I don't worry about my mother out alone or about my father losing business or Jack Murphy ringing the doorbell to bury a bullet in my brain.”

“Dan, you're not a
good
bad person and you're not even a
bad
good person. You're normal, flawed just like everybody else. Does that make sense?”

Kenny groaned in my mind.

She shifted in her chair, crossed her legs, adjusted her glasses.

She waited a moment and asked, “Dan, what do you think makes a person good?”

Her voice held no humor, though she still smiled. I wasn't sure where she was going with this, but I propped my ankle on my knee and thought about it. My mother—she was good. My dad. Brandon. They were all good.

“Good people,” I began, “do good things. Bad people do bad things.”