The Boy Who Killed Grant Parker (3 page)

When Penny Olson walked by our table, I tried to keep my gaze fixed on Don or my food so I wouldn't be caught watching her. Just as she neared our table, a notebook that she held under one arm slipped and fell to the floor. Before she could shift her grip on her lunch bag and purse to reach down and retrieve her book, I was bending down to pick it up for her.

“Oh, thanks,” she said with a sunny smile as she shook her hair back from her face in a practiced way.

“You're welcome,” I said.

“You're the new boy,” she said, and the way she said “boy” sent a shiver through my scrotum. “Ashland's a small town,” she said, almost apologetically. “Word of anything new happening gets around pretty quickly.” She laughed at this, and I felt an involuntary grin spread across my face.

“Yeah,” I said. “I'm starting to realize that. I'm Luke.”

“Penny,” she said as she carefully shifted her belongings so she could offer her other hand to shake mine.

“It's nice to meet you, Penny,” I said.

“I heard you were from New York City or something.” Her voice was eager and rose a couple of octaves at the end of her sentence.

“Washington, DC,” I corrected her.

“Oh, well,” she said as her face slipped easily back into a beauty-pageant smile, “it's nice to meet you, Luke.”

“You too,” I said, and meant it.

“I hope everyone is being nice and welcoming to you,” she said. “It must be hard moving to a new place your senior year. I couldn't imagine if I didn't have my friends I've known all my life.”

I'm going to be honest. When Penny said this, a small lump rose in my throat and I felt heat behind my eyelids. She was so … nice. And not in a way that was just saying the right words as a veneer of politeness. It was the first genuine human connection I'd had since moving to Ashland, and I wanted to stay in the warmth of her smile and, maybe, follow her around like a lost puppy.

“It's been … a big change,” I said, hoping as I did that my smile seemed warm and genuine. “But I'm starting to think maybe there's hope for me in Ashland after all.”

Her smile turned shy after I said this, and she dropped her gaze to the floor. “Well, it's nice to meet you. I'll see you around.”

“Yeah,” I said, since I had already used up everything interesting I had to say, then watched her as she walked away.

When I sat back down Don was shaking his head. “Take my advice,” he said. “You steer well clear of Penny Olson. Unless you're some kind of MMA expert or carry concealed. Grant Parker can make your life miserable if he chooses.”

“All I did was say hello,” I said as I returned to my lunch, though my Tater Tots, the only appetizing part of the school lunch, were now cold.

“It doesn't matter,” Don said. “Trust me.”

Don had clearly suffered relegation to the lamest social level in school, but the only thing worse than accepting my place with him would have been sitting by myself at lunch. Don's other friend joined us soon after—Aaron, who was alarmingly thin yet had a mop of dark hair so thick it was a wonder he could hold his head up under the weight of it.

Josh didn't utter a single word during lunch. I wasn't even sure he could talk. Or had a tongue. It was up to Don and Aaron to carry the conversation at our table since I didn't have much more to say than Josh did. I didn't see any movies (other than porn highlights), didn't play any video games, and my experience with girls was limited to the aforementioned porn.

As Don and Aaron talked, I watched the wall clock tick through the longest forty minutes of my life. The day was still only half over, but I had assumed lunch would be the worst part of being the new kid.

I was wrong about that.

 

3

As if the day wasn't long and painful enough, the last period was reserved for a pep rally to kick off the football season. The entire student body was crammed into the home side of the bleachers, the manicured gridiron a vibrant green with fresh chalk lines. There was no lacrosse or golf or tennis at Wakefield High like there had been at my old school. In Ashland, football clearly ruled.

The press box at the top of the bleachers was nicer than Principal Sherman's office, and the manicured turf was devoid of any weeds. It looked like a freshly vacuumed wall-to-wall carpet.

As we filed into the bleachers I caught sight of Don, Aaron, and Josh seated near the percussion section of the concert band. Don was waving in my direction, but I was afraid to acknowledge him, afraid that if I waved back I would suddenly discover he was waving at someone just behind me.

I thought we would just file in and be seated by class, but people were branching off to take seats saved by their friends. I kept climbing toward the top bench, hoping to find myself alone in a private aerie. About five rows from the top I realized my mistake. Of course, the top bleacher seats would be reserved for the beta males. Not the athletically capable, as those boys would all be on the field introduced by number. The betas were the males who would view the football players with disdain, would ignore the cheers and chants of their classmates, and instead make plans for the joint they would smoke under the bleachers as soon as we were dismissed from the pep rally. I knew all of this instinctively because I had been a beta male at my old school.

I was not going to find a seat among them. It seemed too late to scurry sideways, find a place among my lunch comrades. I ditched, and took the first open seat I saw in a crowded section of bleachers. The seat I took had clearly been intended for someone else, but I tried to ignore the disappointed glances exchanged by the girls clustered around me. I was not the guy girls would be lusting after.
That
I already knew.

Principal Sherman took center field with a microphone to start the pep rally with a prayer, flagrantly disregarding any federal laws separating church from state.

Though a small town, Ashland had more churches than any other form of business. And not just churches in the traditional sense with steeples and bells and pews. Strip malls, abandoned bank buildings, and even a converted barn were all home to competing churches with large banners or signs inviting passersby to drop in and worship with them. I easily imagined oily haired evangelists and snake charmers overseeing flocks within these establishments.

As the pep rally got underway the cheerleaders ran onto the field, and I noticed Penny Olson among them, her thousand-watt smile casting the other girls in shadow. Each member of the football team was introduced by name and position, jogging onto the field in coordinated tracksuits. The final player introduced was the team captain, Grant Parker, Ashland's very own Second Coming of the Messiah. There was a murmur of anticipation, and then a roar came up from the crowd as he jogged onto the field, the sunlight winking off his even smile in a blinding eclipse.

Grant Parker ran along the line of his teammates, each of them reaching out to slap him five as he jogged past. Principal Sherman was waiting at the end of the receiving line, practically bro-ing out with a handshake and an affectionate shoulder grip for Grant. Even from my distant seat in the bleachers, Grant's charisma was glaring. His wave to the crowd was both friendly and full of humility, and he even took the opportunity to give a high five to the team mascot, a wildcat dressed in an oversize football jersey with the name
WILLIE
lettered on the back.

The enthusiasm was off the charts as everyone stomped and cheered, drowning out the chants of the cheerleaders. I was torn between showing some pride for my new high school, at least for the sake of blending in, or sitting in sullen silence waiting for the school day to end. Since I felt ridiculous raising my voice or stamping my feet when I didn't really give a shit about the Wakefield Wildcats, I went with the silent, sullen approach. And no one seemed to care.

When the dismissal bell rang I followed my classmates, all of them still singing and clapping as we spilled out of the bleachers. As I stepped off the metal staircase onto the field, things went suddenly and horribly wrong.

Willie the Wildcat was moving through a complex set of dance moves to wow the audience as they filed out of the bleachers. He had moved away from the field, following the crush of the crowd, and reached the base of the bleacher steps at the same moment I did. As he executed a hard spin he knocked into me, his significant bulk sending me flying. I sprawled onto the hard-packed earth, my arms splayed out in front of me to break my fall.

I scrambled to regain my feet, hoping not everyone had witnessed my fall. But I stood too quickly and lost my footing again, banging heavily into the padded belly of Willie.

People were paying attention now, and a few laughs rose up from the crowd at my unintentionally comic routine. Willie, clearly adept at pandering to an audience, took me by the shoulders and set me straight, then fell into a boxer's stance and started playfully jabbing his oversize paws in my direction, as if inviting me to fight.

Now everyone was watching and laughing. Maybe they were laughing at the way Willie had turned the whole situation into a joke, but I felt it only as ridicule of me, the new kid. I stood there with my fists clenched, wanting to knock the wildcat out for attracting an avalanche of unwanted attention. He danced around me playfully and swatted at me with his paws, first on my hip, then across the top of my head. When I took a moment to fix my hair, push it back to one side the way it was supposed to be styled, Willie came at me with a one-two punch.

Though his movements were playful, the blows knocked me off-balance again and I sat down hard on my ass. Sharp rocks bit into the heels of my palms and a shock of pain traveled up my arm.

The wound to my pride exacerbated the ache in my wrist, and I felt the prick of tears just behind my eyelids. That made me angry—the idea that my body would betray me in such a way and allow me to cry and subject myself to further ridicule. And instead of strengthening my resolve, my anger made me feel weaker. Impotent.

Willie jumped around, his arms lifted in the parody of a prizefighter who has just achieved a knockout. Now everyone—
everyone
—was laughing and cheering for Willie.

Willie had his back to me, accepting the applause of the crowd, alternating sweeping bows and fist pumps in the air.

I don't know what came over me then. It seemed impossible to just slink away from the whole situation, licking my wounds. However absurd it was that I was furious with a giant stuffed cat, I couldn't control my temper.

I'm not sure that I would have been able to take him down if it hadn't been for the element of surprise. Having no experience with contact sports, and given the wide girth of the anatomically incorrect cat, my attack was clumsy. I lunged at him, with what intent I have no idea. After all, what kind of psycho loser would attack a giant stuffed cat?

The truth is I didn't bother to think through the situation, just responded with anger, and I never could have imagined the scenario that actually played out. Willie was top-heavy because of his costume, and he fell forward easily, carrying me with him to the ground.

I landed on top of Willie, the cat fur and costume not as soft as you would think, totally ineffective for breaking my fall. My chin cracked against a rib or maybe a shoulder blade.

“What the fuck?” Willie's shouts were muffled from inside his costume. As close as I was, actually lying on top of him, I could smell his sweat through the mesh vents concealed by his mask.

Willie and I rolled around on the ground for a few minutes. He was on his back now, like a turtle in a shell, unable to roll onto his stomach to regain use of his arms and legs. I was struggling to extricate myself from the tangle of unruly limbs and cat fur so I could stand.

In my struggle to get free of Willie, I had momentarily forgotten about the crowd, but as I finally did break loose, spitting and using my fingers to remove offending tufts of cat fur from my tongue, the noise from the crowd was suddenly overwhelming.

Someone gripped my arm, just above the elbow, and lifted me to my feet. And then I was standing face-to-face with Leslie G. Sherman, still working my teeth against my tongue to get rid of the last piece of cat fur stuck in my mouth.

“Mr. Grayson,” Principal Sherman said. “You sure don't waste any time, do you?”

“I wasn't…”

“Save it,” Principal Sherman snapped. “We'll discuss it in my office.”

With a defeated sigh, I let him take me by the arm and lead me back toward the school building, the shouts and laughter of fifteen hundred students a cresting tidal wave behind us.

 

4

Dad and Doris were waiting for me when I got home from school that afternoon. Dad's face was set in grave concern, which meant that Principal Sherman had already made the promised call home.

Doris busied herself at the sink, but I knew she only lingered there to overhear our conversation. Though she had a cleaning woman who came one day a week, Doris still spent most of her time employed with domestic duties, wearing one of her signature frilly aprons tied in a perfect bow at the waist. By contrast, my mom spent most of her leisure time in yoga pants and was always vowing to get her act together and actually fold and put away laundry instead of storing it in random piles designated as clean, dirty, and only a little dirty. Mom had a demanding career, but she never hired anyone to help her around the house. She said it would make her uncomfortable to give up her privacy to a maid. As such, a domestic figure like Doris was completely foreign to me. Doris was up before the sun each day to prepare breakfast, with her hair styled and makeup expertly applied.

Before moving to Ashland I had only met Doris a few times, the first time at the wedding. Dad had asked me to be his best man. I was thirteen then, and our reunion had been awkward and horrible, especially since Mom had brought me and I got to see my parents interact, a rare event. It was almost impossible to imagine they had ever been in love, much less (shudder) had sex to produce a kid. But there I was, the product of a Southern Baptist preacher and a mom who acted like Keith Richards's love child.