Interim (32 page)

“I don’t like that word,” Regan said.

Brandon sighed.

“I don’t know that I’m buying any of this,” Regan said, “but I’ll tell you this: You had potential. You could have been a great leader for this school. I’ve witnessed your kindness. I’ve seen your humility. I remember you when you were so very near the turning point. When you almost went to the good side. And I don’t know what stopped you other than a really evil heart. It made you try to change me. It made you go after people all over again—people who did nothing to you. It inflated your ego and encouraged you to strike me—”

“Regan, that was an accident,” Brandon interrupted.

“I just can’t believe you, Brandon,” Regan said. “I won’t ever believe that was an accident.”

He looked at her helplessly.

“You could have been someone really awesome,” Regan went on. “But whatever hatred was inside of you ruined everything.”

Brandon scowled. “So what? Now you’re teaching me a lesson by dating
that
guy?”

“Dating Jer has nothing to do with you,” Regan replied calmly.

“He’s messed up, too, Regan. All you did was go from one messed-up guy to the next.” The words should have sounded malicious, but it almost seemed like Brandon was trying to warn her.

She drew in her breath. “We’re all messed up to a certain extent.”

“Oh, you’re so wise,” he said flippantly.

“Will you let me finish?”

He shrugged.

“We’re all messed up, but I know the difference between a good guy and a bad guy.”

Silence.

“I’m so bad, huh?” Brandon asked. “How about this? I’m the guy who’s submitting an anti-bullying policy to the student government next week.”

Again, big bug eyes. Brandon was encouraged.

“Yeah, that’s right. You think I’m such an asshole. Well, assholes can have coming-to-Jesus moments, too, you know.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

He reared back, shocked.

“Don’t do that. I don’t buy it,” Regan said. “Tell me right now. What’s in it for you?”

He dropped the false pretense and sneered, leaning in close to whisper in her ear.

“I get to be the hero.”

***

Ping!

There it went again, like a chime singing in the center of his heart. It started going off at random intervals that morning as he readied himself for school. It continued on his drive. It sped up when he saw his girlfriend waiting for him by his locker. It turned to frantic clanging when she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his lips.

Joy. That elusive feeling. He remembered a long time ago lying in bed the night Regan visited with cupcakes, thinking he felt it warm his heart. He wasn’t certain then, but he knew he felt it now—like his heart finally mended after years of abuse, years of torment.

His father no longer posed a threat. The students didn’t seem to either. His life was changing, his purpose . . . changing. The opaque image of his future self no longer stood at the end of the hallway bearing a rifle in one hand, a pistol in the other. He stood empty-handed because he’d already laid down his weapons.

The mission he lived for turned futile—the clear, detailed plan confused by happiness. Happiness altered everything. It pushed the hair out of his eyes. It plastered a goofy grin on his face. It grew a confidence he never before possessed—a confidence he had to check on occasion. It was too easy to turn into a cocky asshole because he had the girl. He had a running car and a brand new snowboard and a future. He had a good life.

Oh, what the hell? He was gonna be an asshole. He thought he’d earned it after years of suffering at the hands of that buzz-headed douchebag.

He strolled down the hallway at a leisurely pace, well aware that Brandon was behind them, watching Jeremy’s arm hang comfortably over Regan’s shoulder. Her arm wrapped his lower back, and she leaned into him as she walked, using him like a crutch. A love crutch.

His chest swelled, adrenaline kicking into a higher gear. Not too fast. He could still control it, and he wanted what he planned next to be very controlled.

He swung his arm up—the arm draped over his girlfriend’s shoulder—lifting his hand in a right-turn signal. And then he lowered all his fingers but one—that one right there in the middle. It was no longer a right-turn signal, but it was a signal, sending a clear message:
Fuck you, motherfucker.

He lowered his hand to Regan’s upper back, slowly tracing the length of her spine with the offensive digit, making sure Brandon got a perfect view of his hand sliding snugly in the back pocket of her skinny jeans.

She squealed. “We’re at school!”

He grinned fiendishly and squeezed her bottom, then looked over his shoulder. Public Enemy No. 1 stood frozen to his spot, confusion twisting his hard features. His hands opened and closed into fists. His nostrils flared. His eyes narrowed with purpose, and Jeremy was certain he knew what that purpose was.

Not if I beat you to it
, he thought smugly, and rounded the corner out of sight.

***

The force catapulted him forward. He tripped on the cracked pavement and nosedived to the ground. His reflexes saved him from crushing his face—the heels of his palms breaking the fall.

His upper back screamed, throbbing heat that rippled along his spine and through his arms.

Another blow. This one to his lower back. He cried out and rolled over on instinct. Brandon hovered above him clutching a metal rod.

“You think you’re funny now, asshole?” he taunted, waving the rod menacingly.

“Fuck you,” Jeremy breathed, searching for a weapon of his own.

“Not me, you,” Brandon said. “You’re the one about to get fucked. You think you’re something special now because you’re dating my ex? Guess what? You can have her. She sucks. Like you. You guys are perfect for each other.”

“Then leave me alone,” Jeremy replied.

“Oh, no no,” Brandon said. “I’m not gonna beat the shit out of you because of Regan. I’m gonna beat the shit out of you because I fucking hate your guts.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a fucking asshole!”

Jeremy snorted. “You’re an idiot.”

Brandon swung the rod like an ax, but Jeremy was too quick. He rolled to his right and jumped to his feet. His spine screeched, sharp pains going off one by one by his tailbone.

“I’ve done nothing to you!” Jeremy yelled, jumping backwards to avoid the rod.

Brandon now used it as a sword, thrusting it forward toward his unarmed opponent. Jeremy danced around it, trying to avoid it piercing his heart.

“Sure you have,” Brandon replied. “You take up space in my school. You add to the loser population, and we don’t need any more of those.” He paused, thinking. “You look at me sometimes. Yeah, that’s right. Who the fuck do you think you are looking at me? Did I ever say you could look at me? You keep your goddamn eyes on the ground, Scarface!”

Jeremy gritted his teeth. The arrogance of this guy. God, he fucking hated him!

“I killed my dad,” Jeremy said low. “What makes you think I won’t kill you?”

Brandon’s head swiveled left then right. “Well, I don’t see a baseball bat anywhere, so I guess you’re shit outta luck.”

“I don’t need a bat,” Jeremy said.

“You’re saying that to a guy holding a big metal rod,” Brandon replied. “Don’t be an idiot.”

“Then drop your weapon and fight me like a man.”

Brandon burst out laughing. His cackles sent Jeremy into a rage. He plowed into his enemy, wrapping him in an angry bear hug and slamming him against the side of a building. Naturally Brandon chose an alley as his point of attack. Such a B-rated douchebag bully move.

“You need to give me a little more respect,” Jeremy growled, spit flying from his lips onto Brandon’s face. “I’m not that punching bag I was last year. Or the year before that. Or the year before that.”

Brandon pushed him off and swung wildly. The rod slipped from his grip and flew through the air, landing several yards away.

“Now what are you gonna do?” Jeremy taunted.

He watched the contortions of Brandon’s face—trapped in seething frustration. A frustrated guy isn’t a smart guy. A frustrated guy makes critical mistakes.

“Fucking kill you!” Brandon bellowed, charging Jeremy with no control.

Jeremy jumped to his left, whipped out his hand, and clasped his rival’s wrist. He used Brandon’s propulsion to swing him around and throw him easily to the ground.

Control versus no control.

He punched Brandon’s left eye. And then his right. He elbowed his nose, listening to the sickening crunch of smashed bones and cartilage. Brandon screamed in agony, throwing his fists around, making inadvertent contact with Jeremy’s ribs.

“Fuck,” Jeremy breathed, backing away, clutching his middle.

Brandon hopped up, wiping continuously at the blood oozing from his nose.

“Another go?” Jeremy asked, bracing himself for impact.

Brandon hesitated, wiping more urgently.

And that’s when Jeremy let down his guard. He made the wrong assumption and paid the price. Brandon bulldozed him to the ground in a flash, straddling him and pummeling him in much the same way his father beat him. How much more could his body take?

He grabbed Brandon’s throat, squeezing as hard as he could. And then he broke guy code because he was justified. And because he was finished being a punching bag.

He jerked up his knee, slamming it into Brandon’s most vulnerable area right between his legs.

“GODDAMNIT FUCK SHIT FUCK!” Brandon cried, rolling over onto his side and clutching himself.

Jeremy lay still beside his moaning, writhing opponent, knowing the threat was over. He breathed deeply and hissed, feeling sharp pains in two sections of his back as well as his right ribs. He turned his face to look at Brandon, watching the tears stream from his swollen eyes. He took an inventory of Brandon’s injuries: two black eyes, broken nose, busted lip, busted knuckles. He paused, eyes dropping to Brandon’s cupped hands. Cracked balls.

“Enough,” Jeremy said, slowly sitting up.

“Enough,” Brandon whispered.

Jeremy stood up and hesitated. He was certain it was only a temporary truce, but even with temporary truces, aren’t you supposed to help your enemy off the ground?

Fuck no!
his brain screamed.
Have you lost your mind?

What the hell was he thinking? The fleeting thought of helping Brandon turned him ugly. He looked down at his enemy and clenched his fists.

“This changes nothing,” he spat.

“I was just thinking that, you little shit,” Brandon replied.

Even in a compromised position, Brandon still wouldn’t relent. Bully then. Bully now. Bully forever.

Jeremy turned away and walked home.

~

People don’t change. You get what you get when you’re born. If you’re lucky, you may be able to manipulate your personality a little through the years. But essentially you’re staying the same: timid, rotten, entitled, fearful, powerful, smart, stupid, artistic, spastic, pragmatic, dogmatic, asthmatic. Whatever. My point? It’s you, and you’ve gotta come to terms with that. You’ve gotta find people who are willing to put up with your bullshit because you’re not changing. He’s not changing. She’s not changing. We’re all fucked—forced to live in the same world with people we hate. I know what you’re thinking: “Can’t we all just get along?” God, the person who came up with that needs my fist in his face.

~

“Leave it alone, Regan!” Jeremy shouted from across the room.

She fell silent.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.”

“I didn’t mean to coddle you,” she replied.

He smirked and sat gingerly on the bed, hissing at the pain in his back.

“It’s just . . . you’re my man, you know? And ain’t nobody gonna mess with my man,” Regan said.

He laughed, grimacing at the pain it caused.

“I know,” he said softly.

“I want to make you feel better. It’s a part of who I am. I can’t help it,” she said, kneeling in front of him.

His eyes dropped to his fly. Yes, his mind went there. He cleared his throat and hauled her up, inviting her to sit next to him on the bed. That’s better.

“If you want me to make jokes, I’ll try,” she offered.

So sweet. He didn’t deserve her.

“I won’t do it as well as Hannah, I’m sure. But I can try.”

“You don’t have to make jokes,” Jeremy said. “I . . . I’d rather you just coddle me.”

“Really?” She smiled from ear to ear.

He nodded.

“What hurts on you?” she asked.

“Everything.”

She pulled on his shirt and took an inventory of the damage. Deep red bruising spanned the width of his lower back. He had a matching bruise farther up, running parallel like train tracks.

“You look like you’ve been run over by a car,” she said.

“I feel that way,” he admitted. “But at least I got his face good.”

“How good?”

“Two black eyes, broken nose, and a busted lip.”

“Oh my God . . .”

Jeremy eyed his girlfriend. “I think a metal rod to the back warranted all that, don’t you?”

She nodded emphatically.

“Oh, and I kneed his nuts.”

Regan’s mouth dropped open.

“I know it was a little bit of a douchebag move, but he had me pinned. I had no choice.”

“Why was it a douchebag move?” Regan asked.

Jeremy shook his head. “It’s just a thing that’s understood between guys. You don’t go there. That’s how girls fight.”

Regan considered the explanation.

“I should have kicked him in the balls,” she said after a moment.

Jeremy smirked. “Oh yeah? When?”

“When he hit me.”

“WHAT?”

She placed her hand on his arm. “Calm down.”

“Calm down? Are you kidding me?” Jeremy cried. “When did he hit you?”

“My birthday,” she replied.

“I knew it! I knew something was up with you that night. Stranger at your car door . . . Give me a break.”

She smiled sheepishly.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”

“Why would I, Jeremy? So I could see you like this? So I could have you defend me? I don’t need you to defend me.”

“You’re my girl. You better believe I’m defending you,” he said. “I’m gonna kill that motherfu—”

“STOP,” Regan ordered. “You are never ever allowed to say that word again. It’s all over the place with you. You’re gonna kill this person. You’re gonna kill that person. You’re gonna kill the entire world!”

Jeremy clenched his jaw. Regan noticed.

“You know what? I’m glad he slapped me. You know why? Because he slapped some sense into me.”

Jeremy stared at her in disbelief. “Regan, you need help.”

She burst into a fit of giggles. “
You
telling me that?”

He said nothing.

“You?” she went on, laughing hysterically. “
You
telling
me
I need help?”

“Are you finished?”

“I might still be with that jerk if he didn’t smack me.”

“Stop telling me he hit you,” Jeremy said. He was already making plans in his head—devising a new scheme for payback.

“I’m just saying that it gave me perspective.”

“Stop excusing what he did,” Jeremy said.

“I’m not excusing it. I’m trying to make a joke of it . . . like Hannah would!”

He rolled his eyes. She slipped her arm around his and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Where else are you hurt?” she asked softly.

“Who knows? My ribs are killing me.”

“Let me see,” Regan said, tugging on the front of his T-shirt.

“You can’t see ribs,” Jeremy replied.

“The bruising,” Regan explained.

“It’s probably purple.”

“Oh, for God’s sake! Just take off your shirt! Can’t you see I’m trying to get you to take off your shirt?” she cried.

He swallowed. He wasn’t expecting this turn of events. How could he concentrate on anything sexual when all he could think about was shoving his 9 mm in that space between Brandon’s eyes?

“Where are you?” she sang softly.

He tried for a smile.

“What’s going on in your head, Jer?”

“I don’t know.”

“How do I make you pay attention to me?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

She sighed and stood up abruptly—directly in front of him—pulling her shirt over her head. She tossed it to the side and waited. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. Essentially, he was a heavy marble statue
teetering teetering teetering
. . . oh, there it went, crashing onto her confidence and smashing it to bits. She wrapped her waist protectively, hunching over, trying to hide within herself.

“No,” he said softly. “Don’t do that.”

She dropped her arms.

He stared shamelessly at her bra, knowing it was the flimsiest material barring his eyes from her naked breasts. And he wanted to look at them. And touch them. And kiss them. Suddenly, he felt fine! His back miraculously healed! Broken ribs? Nope! Superficial bruise at best. Adrenaline was a powerful drug. It dulled all the pain at exactly the right time.

“Regan,” he whispered.

She took hold of his hand and guided it to her right breast.

“Oh my God,” he breathed.

He didn’t move. He didn’t squeeze. He just sat there with his palm pressed against her amazing tit. He couldn’t get the words out of his head: amazing tit. He almost said them aloud. He knew he mouthed them.

“What did you say?” she asked, grinning.

“Uh, I don’t know,” he mumbled, staring at his hand suctioned to her body.

“I hate my boobs,” she said after a moment.

“I don’t.”

She giggled.

“I have to wrap them real tight for soccer,” she said. “They get in the way.”

He didn’t really understand. It was hard to concentrate on her words when all he wanted to do was pull down her bra cup to expose her nipple. Holy shit, her nipple.

“Uh huh,” he said.

She laughed. “You don’t understand at all, do you?”

He shook his head and willed himself to pay attention.

“What do you mean you wrap them?”

“In compression bandages,” she replied. “To flatten them. And to keep them from moving around.”

“Don’t sports bras do that?”

“To a certain extent,” she replied.

His arm hurt. He really didn’t want to let go, but he was going numb. He dropped his hand.

“It’s hard to chest bump a soccer ball with big tits,” she explained.

He thought a moment. “Wouldn’t big tits just make the ball go farther?”

She burst out laughing.

“That actually makes sense,” she said. “But they work more as cushions than springboards.” She paused and looked down. “At this advanced stage, anyway.”

He wanted to bury his face in her cushions.

“I just . . . I’m self-conscious about them, but I see you eyeing my chest all the time, so I figured you’d wanna have a peek.”

He smirked. “That obvious?”

She nodded.

“I’m sorry you don’t like them, Regan,” Jeremy said. “I’m sorry they’re a nuisance for you out on the field. But from my perspective, and from any other horny guy’s perspective, they’re the most amazing things on the planet.”

“Really?” she asked softly.

“Really.”

Her hands disappeared behind her back. They reemerged by her sides at the exact moment her bra hit the floor.

“Oh my God,” Jeremy whispered.

She climbed on top of him, straddling his lap, smiling smugly with that knowledge of feminine power.

“Come here, Jeremy,” she said, lacing her fingers in his hair and pulling him gently to rest his face between her breasts. “Let me coddle you.”

She used her bare breasts as a tactic to distract him from his anger. She used them to dull his physical pain, to erase any thoughts of revenge on his most hated enemy. And it worked for a time. But eventually she had to go home, and he was left with only the darkness of his bedroom and thoughts of Brandon—the guy who deserved to be wiped from the planet.

“I know you’re there,” he said aloud.

Silence.

“And I know you’re mad at me.”

Nothing.

“Humor me,” Jeremy said, inviting him to come out and play. “Bring your gun.”

Fuck you
, the vigilante spat.

Jeremy said nothing. He waited patiently for the interrogation.

He bullied you for years. He bullied Hannah for years. Did you forget that while you were playing with Regan? He hit her, for Christ’s sake! Yet you’re done? You’re done with me and our mission? You’ve put down your guns? Is that it?

Jeremy closed his eyes. “I don’t wanna fight anymore.”

But he wasn’t sure he believed it. The image of Brandon slapping his girlfriend’s face made his heart rage—fill with vengeful fire until it burned painfully behind his breast. He knew the only way to snuff out the flames, but he couldn’t be wholly sure his heart was still in it.

Pick up your guns, Jeremy. Remember what you’re fighting for. It’s not just about you. You’re fighting for all of them—all of those people who get shit on every day for no good reason. That used to piss you off. It should still piss you off. Find the anger. It’s still in you. You know it’s justified. You know it’s right.

He fisted the sheets on either side of him, gripping them tightly in sweat-soaked hands.

Be the hero. Be the one who saves them. Be the one who ends the cycle of abuse.

A single tear slid from his eye.

Don’t cry about it, you pussy! Find your anger! Find your resolve! Pick up your guns and fight!

He shook his head.

Pick up your guns and fight!

He touched his scar. The memory of Brandon taunting him in sixth grade flashed before his eyes:

“You’re a freak! A FREAK!” he said, laughing with his cronies.

Pick up your guns and fight, Jer. It’ll never end if you don’t.

Eighth grade: Brandon’s first real punch. His fist jabbed Jeremy’s gut. Knocked the wind out of him. He thought he would die, wheezing frantically for air.

“That’s right, Scarface! Move to the back of the line.”

Pick up your guns and fight.

Eleventh grade: Bus stop. Bloody lip. Bruised ribs.

“You look at her again, and I’ll put you in a wheelchair. Permanently.”

Pick up your guns and fight!

Jeremy nodded.

Yes! Pick up your guns and fight!

“All right.”

With conviction! Pick up your guns and fight!

“I’ll do it.”

Make me believe you! Pick up your guns and fight!

He shot out of the bed.

“I’ll do it! I’ll kill him! I’ll kill them!” he shouted into the dark space.

Silence.

He squinted, searching the room for his vigilante. He expected him to materialize, grab his fist and thrust it into the air: “We have a champion!”