Hero–Type (22 page)

And I can't turn away, of course. I just can't. Because I watch. That's what I do.

Do I jump over the bushes? Do I rescue her again?

She's pulling away, but he tugs a little bit and she comes back and groans and presses herself against him and I've read this all wrong and she kisses him right on the lips. Hard.

My heart's hammering. I turn away, hiding in the darkness halfway between the bushes and the corner that turns back to the pool. God, I was so stupid! Did I think she was going to fall in love with me or something? With her "hero"? Was I that stupid?

Yeah. I'm dumber than I thought. I'm a complete moron. I'm a drooling retard. I kept telling myself I didn't think that, but deep down, I did. Deep down, I wanted it. What an ass I am.

So screw it. Just screw it. There's no point in pretending.

No point in trying to be good anymore.

Before Leah and Riordon can come around the bushes, I dart back to the pool area. I toss the Frisbee to the guy in the pool, but it's a terrible, wobbly throw that gets everyone laughing. I ignore them and go straight back into the house.

I take a deep breath. I congratulate myself for not staying to watch Leah make out with Riordon even more.
That's been the cure all along, Kross. Just see her with another guy.

But it's not the cure, and I know it. Because I know what I'm going to do before I do it.

"Are you guys OK for punch out there, Kevin?" It's Mrs. Muldoon. She came right up to me while I was lost in my thoughts.

"I think they need some more," I lie. I'm not sure, but I need to get rid of her.

"Is everything OK?" she asks, her brow all wrinkly with worry.

"Yeah, I just need to go to the bathroom."

But as soon as she disappears outside to check on the punch, I'm down the hall and turning
right,
not left.

I don't even hesitate. I just grab the picture. The one I saw before, of Leah in her pink and black outfit. My heart hammers.

I shove the picture in the pocket of my bathing suit.

A minute later, I'm back outside like nothing's happened. I grab my backpack.

Leah comes from around the corner, holding Riordon's hand. She sees me with my pack and comes over.

"Are you leaving already?"

"Yeah, I, uh..." I don't want to look at Riordon, but he's right here, so I have to. "I'm on my provisional license, so, y'know..."

Riordon smirks. He's my age, so he's on his provisional, too, but I guess he doesn't care.

"Oh!" Leah looks at her watch. "I didn't realize it was that late. We're gonna watch movies soon, if you want—"

"No, I really have to go." The picture is burning against my thigh.

"OK." She disengages from Riordon long enough to hug me. "Thanks for coming, Kevin."

I'm afraid she'll feel the picture in my pocket somehow. I break the hug early, hating myself. "OK. Thanks for inviting me. Bye, John." I wave at him weakly.

He just shakes his head and drags Leah back to the pool.

I go inside and return to the bathroom. I change into my clothes. I take the picture out of my pocket.

OK, Kross. You still can change your mind. You can put this back in her bedroom and leave.

Yeah, right. Like
that's
gonna happen.

W
HEN
I
GET HOME
, D
AD IS STILL UP
. I give him his keys. "How was it?" he asks.

The picture of Leah is stashed in my backpack. I hear my voice—clear and unwavering—lie to Dad and say, "Fine."

"That's good."

"Anything interesting on the news?" I ask, all innocent and calm.

"Nothing."

Perfect. That's because Flip waited until the last possible minute to call the fire department. The news shows were over by then, or close to it.

But tomorrow's papers should be very interesting.

Now that he knows I'm home safe, Dad retreats to his bedroom. I get dressed for bed and then lie on the sofabed, holding the picture of Leah.

I've crossed a line. You know that old saying "Look, but don't touch"? It's like something they teach little kids. I mean, God! Even little freakin'
kids
can understand that!

I touched. I
stole. Thou shalt not steal.
It's, like, a commandment. It doesn't matter that I just stole a picture.
It's not mine.
It belongs to her and I crossed the line and took it.

It feels wrong. It feels right.

I can't tell the difference anymore.

In the morning, Dad frowns and shows me the front page of the
Loco,
which screams, Vandalism at South Brook High! along with a picture of the burnt flags and poles, dripping water, a fire engine in the background.

"Was this your idea?" he asks.

"I was at the party last night, Dad. And then I was here."

If he notices that I carefully tiptoed around his question, he doesn't show it. He just nods, then looks at the story again and says, "Someone's being a smart aleck."

"I guess so."

There's a tense moment when I figure he'll bust me, but then he notices something in the story and mutters, "An ordinance to prohibit flag burning in Brookdale? Idiots!" and starts scrutinizing the paper with a manic gleam in his eye.

I kill time around the apartment. I go help Mrs. Mac move some boxes into her attic. Anything to keep myself from thinking about the flag burning and the picture of Leah I've got hidden with the remains of my video camera.

Around noon, Flip pulls up in his coupe, Fam-less. I slide into the passenger seat and he hands me his laptop.

I watch a Quicktime movie of the burning: a slow pan from left to right, capturing the flags as they burn. Flip even dropped "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" in the background, which is a nice touch. It ends with a pull-back to a wide shot of all of the flags, and then the text superimposed perfectly.

"Awesome."

"Give me Fam's cell." I hand it over. "Where
is
Fam?"

He shrugs. "Who knows?"

"Well, thank her for letting me use the phone."

"Whatever." I realize then and there, he won't tell her I said thanks.

"Well, thanks, Flip."

"No worries. We're gonna have fun on Wednesday. Officer Sexpot's ultimate triumph." Yeah, yeah, whatever.

I go back inside to help Mrs. Mac some more. I can barely think, I'm so excited. No one can ignore this.
No one.
I made my point.

It keeps me giddy and happy for most of the day. And it keeps me from thinking about Leah. And the picture.

Saturday night and Sunday, the picture starts to haunt me again. I keep expecting the phone to ring—the police, calling to say Leah has reported stolen property and I'm the prime suspect.

But, no. Nothing.

The Sunday paper is filled with letters and editorials about the burning. The paper's editors are "horrified and sickened" by the "outrageous display of disrespect." It is, apparently, "one step away from burning an American flag," which is what's really got them in an uproar.

Most of the letters talk about how "clearly" and "obviously" the people who "perpetrated this heinous act"
wanted
to burn an American flag but were afraid to. "And so they simply settled for the next best thing—burning the flags of our allies."

Wow, talk about
not
getting the point.

At least I've got people talking.

Dad reads the paper and gets so worked up that he can barely get a syllable out, much less a coherent thought. Since Mom isn't around to yell at anymore, he takes a long walk around the neighborhood even though it's started raining.

While he's gone, I slip one of my tapes into the VCR. Why am I doing this to myself? Why do I keep giving in to this sickness?

But I watch it anyway.

O
N
M
ONDAY MORNING, THE BUS IS HELL
.

I mean, really. Hell. I smell brimstone and hear the screams of the damned, or maybe those are just
my
screams.

It's the first time I've ridden the bus since the whole free speech thing started. The bus driver sneers at me as I get on. And hits the gas before I'm in a seat, knocking me back and forth and almost making me fall over. As it is, my hand brushes against someone, who jerks back and slaps it away like I've got the plague.

An undercurrent of hissing fills the bus as I lurch my way back through the aisle. All the kids start rearranging their backpacks and stuff to avoid having me sit with them. There's nowhere to go.

The driver slams on the brakes and I almost go flying backwards through the windowshield.

"Sit down! I can't drive until you're sitting down."

You jackass. No one will let me sit down.

But saying that out loud would be whining. And I won't whine.

You'd think someone would hear the bus driver and shove over a little bit so that I could sit down, but no. I approach a few seats and nothing.

"Come on, sit down!" the bus driver calls out, and some kids pick up the chant, like it's my fault somehow. I grit my teeth and keep looking. My face is burning and I feel like I could cry at any second, but no way—
that's
not gonna happen. I keep going back, then realize that I've gone too far and I'll need to turn around, but I don't think I can handle turning around to see the entire bus glaring at me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the barest sliver of a seat. I pounce for it. I can only get half my ass on the seat and I'm turned out into the aisle and I can barely stay steady as the bus revs up and is thrown into gear, but at least I'm sitting, even though the guy in the seat with me presses himself as far against the window as possible, like I'm contagious, and says, "Asshole," in a very loud, very clear voice.

I really miss my car.

I walk into homeroom and I'm not there five seconds before Mrs. Sawyer says, "Kevin, go to the principal's office."

Everyone goes silent, except for a huff of muted laughter from John Riordon.

"What?"

She holds out a hall pass. She had it written before I even came into the room. "Principal's office."

"I haven't even
done
anything! I haven't even
said
anything!"

"I was told to send you down as soon as you got here."

Man! I grab the pass and go to see the Doc. He's in a
bad
mood. He doesn't even ask me to sit down.

"This has gotten entirely out of control now, Kevin. What on
earth
possessed you to do this?"

"Do what?"

His whole head flushes red, even on the very top, and he stands up to loom over me. "Don't play games with me! You could have burned this school down!"

Hey, Doc—bet you wish I was still "flying under the radar," huh?

"Dr. Goethe, I didn't set fire to those flags. I was at a party Friday night. All night."

His jaw locks in place. He leans on his desk with his fists, and I
really
wish I were in with the assistant principal, the Spermling, right now. Because the Spermling may be eleven million pounds of blubber, but the Doc looks like he could come across that desk and rip me to shreds before I could take a step toward the door.

"A party."

"Yeah. Seriously." I throw on my best "earnest" face. I have no idea if it's working or not, but what the hell. "Ask Leah Muldoon. She'll tell you." Ooh! Brainstorm! "Heck, ask
John Riordon.
He'll tell you. I was there all night."

He snorts like a bull.

I see my life flash before my eyes. It doesn't take long and what I see is pretty pathetic.

Then he sits down.

"OK, Kevin, have a seat."

Saved!

"So, you had nothing to do with this? This wasn't some misguided strategy to win the hearts and minds of your classmates?"

"I'm telling you—I was at the party all night." Not a lie.

He picks up his phone. "Miss Channing? I want John Riordon. Now."

Oh, boy.

"I've been leaving messages for your father to call me and talk about all of this," the Doc says, gesturing as if "all of this" is some kind of gas in the air. "He hasn't gotten back to me."

"He's a busy guy." That's not really a lie either, is it?

"Tell him he needs to call me. Got it?"

"Sure." I'll have to make sure I forget that at some point.

John comes in a minute later with a look on his face like he's disappointed there was no trumpet fanfare for him.