But if it’s not a pattern Mike learned from his dad, then what explanation is left? Could Mike have been born this way—a little broken, a little bent, with some missing gene that made him a little more violent than most other people? Maybe he knew what he was doing was wrong, but he just couldn’t stop himself because he didn’t know how else to express himself.
Does that mean it wasn’t his fault?
Can you be mad at someone for doing something awful when it isn’t their fault?
Can you turn your back on them?
* * *
It’s lunchtime on Friday afternoon, five days since Mike was accused. The rumors are swirling.
The protest’s on Sunday.
Do you think he’s still going to Big Night tomorrow? (Big Night is a North Bay tradition, the night before the track meet against our rival school, East Prep. Even the athletes who are running go, though they always leave early to get a good night’s sleep before the races.)
Mike’s going to be suspended.
He’s going to be expelled.
He’s definitely not eligible for that scholarship anymore.
His whole life is ruined.
Kids I’ve never spoken to come up to me in the hallways. They smile and try to look sensitive and sad, but inevitably they ask me to tell them what’s really going on. Freshmen who would’ve been too intimidated to talk to me before ask all kinds of questions. It’s hard not to think they’re more interested in gossip than in expressing their concern. I wonder if people are peppering Mike (and Anil and Kyle) with questions too, but I haven’t seen him, so I don’t know. I know his schedule by heart, so it’s easy to avoid being wherever he’s most likely to be.
I’ve taken to listening to music in between classes to dissuade all the questions and drown out the chatter. Technically, we’re not allowed to wear earbuds or headphones in the halls, but no one on the faculty is going to scold me, given the circumstances.
Every time anyone asks, I answer, “I’d rather not talk about it.” They look so disappointed, like they’re entitled to know what’s going on. Some of the questioners are underclassmen who always showed up to cheer for Mike at his track meets even though he didn’t know their names. I wonder if they’re still rooting for Mike.
For what it’s worth, I’d rather not talk about it happens to be the truth.
But I guess when you’re caught up in this kind of scandal, you become public property, somehow, like how the paparazzi ask celebrities for details about their divorces because the rest of the world feels entitled to know.
I turn up the volume of my music a little louder.
Anil and Kyle are a few steps ahead of me in the hallway, headed for the south exit, for our lunch table. No one stops to ask them questions.
They don’t know I’m behind them. Or if they do, they’re ignoring me.
I keep my gaze focused on my steps, refusing to engage with any of the kids who want to shoot me smiles and ask me questions.
Junie comes up from behind me. I jump when she links her arm through mine. Gently, she pulls out my earbuds.
“It’s just me,” she whispers.
I look down at her arm against mine. Would it be easier or harder to hide a purple bruise on darker skin? I’m always pale. At best, I get a little bit freckly in the sun; at worst, bright pink.
“Come on.” Junie tugs me toward the south exit. Our table is right on the other side of the door. Her eyes are open wide, and there’s just a thin ring of green around her pupils. “I mean, we’ve been sitting there as long as they have, right?”
I realize that other than the one day we spent in the library together this week, I don’t know where Junie’s been eating lunch since Monday. Has she been sitting with the boys—with Mike? Mike was actually her first kiss back when we were in eighth grade, though she said it didn’t count because it was only a dare, in front of everyone, and she didn’t like him like that anyway. No one but me knew that she’d never kissed anyone before, not even Mike. Junie made me promise not to tell, so I never did.
When we step outside, the sun’s so bright that I see spots.
“I mean,” Junie adds, “we have just as much right to that table as the boys do, right?”
She makes it sound like Mike’s going through a divorce, and the table is the child over which he’s fighting for joint custody.
I disentangle my arm from hers. I don’t care if I’ve already missed lunch every day this week. I’m not going anywhere near that table.
Fourteen
The Girlfriend
For the record, he never punched me. The eye—faded now, almost a week later, to a sort of yellow-gray—makes it look like he did, but this bruise is the result of a slap. A harder slap than the first one.
And he rarely actually hit me. In fact, that only happened twice. It was more grabbing and pushing and pulling. Before that first slap, I didn’t consider those sorts of touches bad, even when they hurt. Maybe he didn’t know his own strength. Maybe it was passion. I didn’t mind when it hurt like that (did I?) because he was pulling me closer, holding me tighter, kissing me harder.
It’s funny now (is it?) because even back then, I wouldn’t have described Mike as either passionate or careless. He’s methodical, the most meticulous person I’ve ever met. Take running track: He didn’t simply burst from his crouch into a sprint. I mean, he did during an actual race but prior to each meet, he’d practice, one step at a time.
Settling into his crouch, the tips of his fingers pressing into the track, just behind the starting line.
Lifting his hips into the air.
His first step—he’d tried it both left-footed and right-footed, and even though he was a righty, he clocked in faster (I was the one timing him after school, even on the days when the team didn’t have practice scheduled) when he started with his left foot first.
Even when he won a race, his celebrations were thoughtful—he’d throw his arms overhead but almost immediately drop them. He’d turn around and shake the hands of the runners who came in second, third, fourth. The rest of the school would be cheering for him, but he didn’t run around in circles relishing his triumph. When I’d run down from the stands to congratulate him, he wouldn’t throw his arms around me in excitement. Instead, he gave me a quick hug, a peck on the cheek. He wasn’t thinking about me. He wasn’t even thinking about his win. He was already thinking about the next race.
Every move was intentional. Each step a decision he’d made.
The way he asked me out, officially, rather than waiting until we were at the same party and hoping that something might happen the way most other guys would.