Wednesday, September 20, 1995
Colton’s little extortion letter lit up the GM. As in all-hands-on-deck EMERGENCY MEETING, which sucked, because they had all been focused on their upcoming Fall Break field trip to the Gayborhood.
They were in the clubhouse. William sat in the overstuffed chair, rubbing his temples. The drama level was high—even by GM standards.
“Okay, dahlings!” William sighed. “Options 1 and 2 are off the table. Not another word about them. We’re not sacrificing any members.”
Option 1 involved the scenario where Paul complied with Colton’s demand and wrote the letter to the dean accusing Matt of having made sexual advances against him, in which case Matt would be expelled.
Option 2: Sayonara Paul, which would be the consequence if Paul refused Option 1 and Colton’s toady, Mike, wrote his letter to the dean accusing Paul of improper sexual advances against him.
No one had seriously advocated for either option.
“I vote for Option 3,” Paul said, his eyes tear-stained, his face pale. He was guilt-ridden for having brought this plague upon them. “It—”
“—I swear to God,” Josh interrupted, “if the next words out of your mouth involve chess, I’ll throttle you with my bare hands.”
Option 3 imagined turning the tables on Colton, beating him at his own sneaky game by having Paul write a letter to the dean accusing Mike of having made sexual advances against him. The idea was to accuse Mike before he could accuse Paul, discrediting him, thus thwarting Colton.
“I second Option 3,” said Jake, who, to Matt’s disappointment, was not wearing his sexy blue high tops. No cut-off jeans either.
Matt sat on the couch, arms crossed, brooding. “Option 4 makes more sense.” That option involved his vigilante beat down of Colton. Lure the guy off campus. Hurt him good. Let him know that if he persisted, there would be a second, even more painful encounter.
Evan’s thick, Gallic eyebrows furled, then unfurled. “I hate to admit it,” he said, “but Option 4 has some merit. Maybe it’s time we considered violence.”
“Violence is the last resort of the incompetent,” Paul sneered.
“Says who?” Matt asked. “Seems like it worked pretty well on D-Day!”
“Issac Asimov wrote it,” Paul said. “In hisFoundationtrilogy. You should read it. One of the best science fiction series ever! Of course, now there are seven books, so technically it’s no longer a trilogy, although everyone still calls it one. It should be, though—a trilogy. The last four books messed everything up…”
Matt tuned out Paul’s musings. He had surprised himself by arguing for violence. It worried him that the idea continued to haunt him, creeping into his thoughts unbidden, whispering seductively. Vigilante justice was his father’s style—not his.
Matt would never forget the night his father had tossed the baseball bat into the back seat of their car. Told him to buckle up. The stony, silent drive to the little wooded park. Sitting there, waiting for the youthpastor to arrive.
Matt’s dad had ambushed the youth pastor on the trail as he walked his dog.
There had been terror in the youth pastor’s eyes as he handed the dog’s leash to Matt, watched him secure the leash to a tree.
The dog had hunched there, shivering in fear.
Matt had wanted no part of the ugliness. Wanted to sit with the dog, comforting it. His dad ordered him to stand and watch.
Matt had been unable to bear the youth’s pastor’s cries for mercy, for forgiveness, for help. Matt begged his father to stop.
“You want this to stop?” Matt’s dad had asked him.
Matt had nodded. Snot and tears streamed down his face.
Matt’s dad had held the bat out to his son. Offered him a “Sophie’s Choice.” “This will end only after you’ve delivered three solid hits yourself. Otherwise, I keep going.”
Matt had refused. Watched while his dad rained down fresh blows on the youth pastor’s body.
Eventually, Matt had accepted the bat as the only way to end the attack. Felt its weight in his hands. Swung it down, but tempered its force, trying to convince his dad of his sincerity but sparing the youth pastor the full brunt of the blow.
No dice.
It had continued until Matt got it right. Three blows that counted.
