After what seemed like an eternity of running and fighting for my life, making it back to school was a relief, but also surreal, as if I’d stepped into the calm, orderly existence of that previous Sara Jane. I was standing outside of homeroom, my face knit with hatred as I thought about how I planned to deploy the notebook’s power on that masked, lurching freak, when someone said hi.
“Hey,” I growled without looking up.
That was how I said hello to Max when I finally saw him.
After a whirlwind of fleeing, punching, and reading, I’d cocooned into something slightly less than human-a defensive, monosyllabic armadillo girl, ready to fight or flee at a moment’s notice. But when I looked up at Max’s grin and warm brown eyes, my heart began to beat again. I was so happy to see him that it was almost impossible to stifle a hug. He was too, but not romantic happy; his expression was mainly friendly, and it hurt as much as getting punched by Ski Mask Guy.
“Jeez,” he said, inspecting my face. “You got hit hard, huh? Is that why you were out for so long?”
I had already told Max that I was a boxer. He knew I sparred regularly, and I went with it. I told him about a tough opponent I faced at Windy City, how the freak dodged and weaved, but that I intended to take him down in the future.
“A rematch, huh?” he said.
“Definitely,” I said. “It’s inevitable.”
One of the best things about Fep Prep is that it allows my mind to take a much-needed rest from my troubles, and being with Max only made it better. We ate lunch together and talked about nothing in particular-his week, what I missed at school, what we each had planned for summer break. It felt so good, like my brain was purging itself of urgency and fear, and I said, “Hey, what about Ten Seconds to Zero? Did you see it?”
Max’s face changed. It went from relaxed to concerned, and he said, “Movies. . that reminds me. Have you talked to Doug?”
I shook my head. “I haven’t seen him yet. Why, what happened?”
“Something bad,” Max said solemnly. “Something very bad.”
He explained how Doug had brought his precious About Face screenplay to a discussion in social sciences class, since, in Doug’s words, the film “offers a succinct analysis of nonviolence that is still applicable to our geopolitical world,” or something. He was crossing campus when Bully the Kid spotted him, and at first it seemed like the same old thing, with Billy calling him idiotic names while Doug went into emotional lockdown and Billy’s entourage of morons stood around yukking it up. But this time was different. This time, for whatever reason-maybe it was confidence from having just discussed About Face or maybe he’d finally had enough-Doug had the nerve to say something. When there was a lull in the taunting, he cleared his throat and said, “Your eyes are really close together.”
Billy paused, scrunched up his monkey forehead, and said, “Huh?”
“Close-set eyes,” Doug said. “They’re a genetic indicator of mental disabilities.”
Someone snickered and Billy’s neck turned red. He moved closer to Doug and said, “Mental dis- Wait, are you calling me a retard?”
“From a cognitive function standpoint, ‘retard’ is an unacceptable term,” Doug said. “But using it as slang certainly applies.”
Billy’s eyes got smaller as he said, “Is that a yes?”
Doug said, “Possibly.”
Billy smiled in a slow, toothy curl and said, “It’s on!” and shoved Doug to the ground. Doug rolled like a human burrito and struggled to his feet. Billy pushed him again, and the screenplay skittered across the grass. “I won’t fight back!” Doug huffed. “Push me all you want! I won’t fight!” But Billy wasn’t listening. Instead he was holding the screenplay, staring at the title page.
“About Face,” he said, with that same evil lip curl. “A. . butt. . face. A butt-face. Hey, is this your life story?”
“Give it back,” Doug said, lunging at it, with Billy acting like a toreador, stepping aside and shoving the fat, clumsy bull to his hands and knees.
“A butt. .,” Billy said, putting his foot on Doug’s big rear end. “Face!” he squealed, pushing Doug flat to the ground like a puffy starfish. Billy sat on him and turned to the first page. “Chapter one. . I am born!” he said, mock reading. “The doctor slaps my face, thinking it’s my ass!” While the pinheads laughed, Billy ceremoniously ripped off the first page and threw it over his shoulder.
“Don’t!” Doug said, struggling to get up. “Please!”
“Chapter two,” Billy said. “Mom tells me I have shit for brains and I say, well duh! What do you expect? I have a butt for a head!” He dug a handful of pages out of the screenplay and threw them into the air.
“No!” Doug screamed, writhing helplessly beneath Billy’s bulked-up body. And then there was more laughter, more pages torn out and thrown away, and by the time Billy got to chapter ten, the screenplay had scattered like dry leaves in the Chicago wind. No one could have caught the pages and no one tried, because only Doug loved them. When Billy was done, Doug was done too, unable to hold back tears. It was what Billy had been working and waiting for all year. When Doug began to sob, Billy leaped to his feet, threw his arms in the air, and exploded into a victorious hyena laugh. Doug was an inert, weeping pile, his eyes squeezed tight, and was still lying there when the last gaper finally drifted away.
“I didn’t hear about it until the next day,” Max said. “I walked into the theater room and there’s Doug, working on his laptop like his fingers are on fire. I tried to talk to him about what had happened but he wouldn’t even look at me. He just kept saying it was urgent that he finish the screenplay.”
“Poor Doug,” I murmured.
“I warned Billy that if he goes near Doug again I’d kick his ass in a way he’d never forget,” Max said. “It was him and those morons he hangs with, all of them flexing and giving me the dead-eye. He said, ‘Oh yeah? Well you better start doing push-ups because I can’t get enough of that fat sack of shit.’” Max shook his head, and said, “Seriously, the first time I catch him alone, he’s dead.”
“Doug wouldn’t want that,” I said.
“It doesn’t matter. If someone doesn’t do something, Billy’s just going to keep abusing him. Sometimes violence is justified.”
And there I was, straddling the line between Willy’s philosophy, that fighting outside the ring only led to more violence, and my own reality, of having spent days on the street fighting to survive. Doug would contend that any type of physical confrontation, inside a ring or out, was wrong, but Max had a point-something had to be done to help Doug, and the first thing was to get him to talk.
“Where is he?” I said.
“Theater room,” Max said. He’s been there every day between classes, working like crazy on his screenplay.”
“I need to see him.”
“Sara Jane,” Max said, taking my hand and giving it a quick squeeze. “I’m glad you’re back.”
It was so much better than a hug.
Hugs are commonplace and benign; everyone hugs, from NFL players to enemies.
Hand-squeezes are one short rung below a kiss.
I turned away feeling strong and headed for the theater room. It was empty and dark, the light from Doug’s laptop piercing the gloom. I expected to see dead bags of junk food and killed soda cans, but the only sign that he’d been there recently was the glowing computer screen. I looked at the page and saw that the first half was dialogue between two characters.
GOOD KING DOUG
But you are too softheaded and without moral compass to lead a kingdom.
VILE LORD BILLY
And you, sire, are as disgusting and bloated as a stuffed toad!
GOOD KING DOUG
I would never raise a hand in violence. In this, I am true.
VILE LORD BILLY
You never raise a hand to anything! You sit all the day long watching while other men do! You are weighted to the throne by inaction and flab!
GOOD KING DOUG
But at least I wish no man any harm.
VILE LORD BILLY
A wish, too, is unmoving and unreal. It is fluff and cotton candy, of which you look as if you’ve eaten a metric freaking ton.
GOOD KING DOUG
But. . but. .
VILE LORD BILLY
Butt-face, you fat load! You fat effing loser! Why don’t you go watch another movie and eat another bag of Munchitos and then eat a bag of rat poison, you fat prick!
GOOD KING DOUG
You. . you. . are right, my lord. I’m. . I’m. .
I watched the words drift off and then resume not as dialogue but as disjointed thoughts that bumped into one another, crowding for space.
“. . I’m better off dead, I’m better off dead, because Billy is right, I’ve always known he was right, I’m a fat piece of shit, I’m a fat effing loser, I can’t and won’t do anything, not even defend myself, not even stand up for myself, all I do is watch, I sit on my fat butt-face and watch life go by, I deserve to die, I stare at movie after movie because I’m useless and unequipped and scared of real life, so I’d rather not live, I’d rather die, and that’s what I’m going to do, I’m going to do it, I’m going to eat a bag of rat poison, and at least I will have done that. .”
“What are you doing?”
I looked at Doug standing in the doorway. This was no time to act as if I hadn’t seen what I’d seen, and said, “Don’t do it, Doug.”
He walked quickly to the table and slammed down the laptop, mumbling, “That screenplay is private property.”
“It’s not a screenplay,” I said. “It’s a suicide note.”
“No, it isn’t,” he said bitterly. “The word note implies that someone will actually read it. I don’t have anyone who would care enough to do that.”
“You have me,” I said, feeling my throat tighten. There were gray rings beneath his eyes and he seemed looser and a size smaller, as if part of him had deflated.
He avoided my gaze, saying, “Who the hell are you? My little movie friend?”
“Not movie friend,” I said. “Friend, with nothing attached.”
“Except sympathy for the fat kid with a brain crammed full of stories about other people’s lives,” Doug said. “Well, save it for some other loser. I won’t need it anymore, and you and everyone else will be better off without me.”
“You’re wrong,” I said, shaking my head.
“No, you’re wrong!” he screamed, and it was the most life I’d ever heard come roaring out of him. “My parents are divorced, my pothead dad’s long gone, and my mom, who lowers a vodka bottle only long enough to tell me what a disappointment I am, is married to some asshole lawyer who hates my fat guts! I have no siblings or friends-nothing except movies, don’t you see? I have nothing, and you have everything!”
“No,” I said.
“You have great parents!”
“No.”
“A brother, a whole family!”
“No!”
“A home where everyone loves you!”
“No, damn it! I don’t!” I shouted, and broke into a crying jag that was like a tsunami in its force. It drew Doug back to the surface and he was silent. I wiped my face in my hands, pushed my hair behind my ears, and repeated myself. “Don’t do it, Doug.”
Quietly, with what sounded like real curiosity, he said, “Why not?”
“Because,” I said. “I can’t lose another person I care about.”
“Who else have you lost?”
“That’s my business, Doug,” I said, pushing away a stray tear. “That’s my life, not yours.”
He nodded slowly, studying the floor, and then looked me in the eyes. “You know why I loved that screenplay? The sincerity of the language. It might not be the greatest movie ever made, but Charlie Huckleman believed every word he wrote about nonviolence. There’s power in sincerity, Sara Jane. There’s real power in words.”
He was right-the words I’d read about my family had changed me forever. I said, “What do you want, Doug? If you could have anything, what would it be?”
“I want a life. I want a. . purpose. Fep Prep used to be my refuge. .”
“I understand. Really, I do.”
“And I want to be left alone so I can figure out what that purpose is. I just want Billy to stop harassing me forever.”
Staring at Doug’s sallow face, the edges of his mouth drawn down, I realized that I could help him-I could confront Bully the Kid, let my cold fury flicker and burn, and do what I was born to do. The problem was that I still didn’t know if I could summon it, or if cold fury just sort of happened. There was also the issue of Fep Prep-did I want to bring that part of my life here, inside my refuge?
And then a familiar lightbulb flickered and buzzed.
I remembered the notebook, my own personal Outfit instruction manual.
It was a loaded weapon, custom made for a situation just like this one.
All I had to do was make a phone call-I remembered one unlisted number in particular-but paused, wondering exactly what kind of force I’d be unleashing. The notebook made it crystal clear that there were no good guys in the Outfit, no thugs with hearts of gold. There were only enforcers who used car batteries and pliers on mopes, and killers who used knives, guns, and Lake Michigan on victims. On the other hand, the notebook’s instructions were precise, obviously designed to control its own power and reduce collateral damage. I’d made the decision to use it if necessary, and I couldn’t think a situation as dire as this one.
“Will you do me a favor?” I said. “Will you do nothing? For twenty-four hours, don’t do a thing.”
“What difference will a day make?” Doug said without a trace of hope.
“Exactly,” I said. “It’s just one more day. Promise me? As a friend?”
He was looking at the ground, pursing his lips, and when his head began to nod, I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him. He didn’t cry, just put his head on my shoulder, and I felt his magnetic, overdue need to be embraced.
I was wrong about a hug.
It’s not commonplace or benign.
It sounds like a silly bumper sticker, but a hug can keep a person alive.