After lengthy discussions and several thinly veiled threats about getting my mother and Dalton Cleary down to the school, it was agreed that me being bumped up a year would be the best for everyone involved.
And just like that, I was a senior in high school. Not only that, I was a senior with Jules. We were in several classes together and it was great. I had no idea why I hadn’t thought of this plan sooner. School was still a huge crock of shit, but at least now, that shit was entertaining.
Being in class with Jules was the best. He saved a seat for me in all the classes we had together. I brazenly let him copy off me. In return, he made sure I was amused. We were studying reproductive anatomy and physiology and our teacher, Mrs. Beauford, was so uncomfortable about the subject matter she was skipping key facts and mixing up terms. In my mind, I was composing a long letter to the Board of Education listing the ways in which the lesson was failing to educate me. I was up to point number fifty-seven and I’d only been at it for a few minutes.
Jules had questions and lots of them.
“I’m confused, Mrs. Beauford. You said vulva, but did you mean vagina when you talked about the passage the sperm travels up to meet the egg?”
“Sit down, Julius.” Mrs. Beauford was pink from her neck to her hairline, and she had a fine sheen of sweat on her forehead.
Jules’s hand shot up again. He didn’t wait for her to call on him. “I don’t understand how the sperm gets into the vagina. You glossed over that, but it seems like it might be important.”
Muffled laughter erupted from the back of the class. Mrs. Beauford turned a worrying shade of red. She pursed her lips and her eyes hardened.
“Julius, flee from sexual immorality. First Corinthians 6:18.” She said it like a person who was confident she had the full weight of the Bible and, quite possibly, the whole of the Vatican behind her.
Jules didn’t skip a beat. He rose to his feet and stiffened his top lip, adopting the same holier-than-thou posture as she had. “Be Chrool to Your Scuel. Twisted Sister, 1985.”
I looked at Jules in amazement. He was on his feet. Shoulders back. His jaw was set. He looked down at me and all hint of seriousness vanished from his eyes. His crazy eyebrows were both pulled down into a ridiculous scowl. I had never been prouder of anyone in my whole life.
“OUT!” spat Mrs. Beauford.
I was on my feet in an instant.
“Where do you think you’re going, Sullivan Cleary?”
I shrugged. “Standing in The Way of Control. Gossip, 2006.”
In seconds, the entire class was on their feet, jeering and shouting out song titles and words of protest. When she finally got us settled down, Mrs. Beauford took a seat too. She waved at us dismissively and then swiped the back of her hand across her forehead weakly. “You can read the rest of the chapter to yourselves. It’s self-explanatory, really.”
I was in such a great mood I didn’t even bother adding that to my list of complaints for the Board.
Being in class with Jules wasn’t the only big change that year. People treated me differently. Guys moved out of my way as I walked down the hall, and girls watched me, too. They watched me, but not the way they watched Jules. They didn’t smile or giggle when they saw me. They turned their heads away from me, casting their eyes down and then flicking them up at the last second, as I entered their space. They seemed to breathe slowly, or not at all, when I was close. Some of them held eye contact longer than I considered polite. A lot of the time, if I turned and looked back, they were still looking at me, lips and jaws parted slightly. It made me uncomfortable, but that didn’t mean I didn’t like it.
5
ThesecondIheardthe strangled little “oooff” from the wide receiver, I knew we were in trouble. Well, Jules was in trouble. He was the quarterback for Clearwater Valley High, he had been for the past three seasons, and he’d just thrown a pass that was so long and so hard, it hardly seemed possible. It was possible, but it wasn’t normal. The second I heard the sound the receiver made on contact, I knew he was hurt. Badly. He hadn’t been quick enough to stop the ball with his hands and it had connected his chest dead center. I was no medical professional. I didn’t need to be. Everyone knows the sound of ribs cracking.
Jules’s mom was sitting next to me in the bleachers. She clamped both hands over her mouth. “Oh, God, oh, God, oh God,” she whispered.
That night Jules and his parents were invited down to the pack house for a meeting with Dalton. I waited outside on the step, and when he came out, we walked up the hill and into the woods. We sat in the clearing where Jules and I used to build forts out of sticks when we were younger. The forts were long gone. All that was left in their wake was soft grass and two big logs my dad had helped us move one afternoon when we were nine. We didn’t talk for a long time. Every now and then, Jules sighed deeply. After a while, he lay back and stared up at the night sky. I did the same. When I looked over at him, I saw a silvery streak leak from the corner of his eye and run across his temple and into his hair. My reaction was instant and intense. It was hot. Boiling. It was the strongest reaction I’d ever had to anything. It was rage; that was what it was. The strength of it propelled me up to a sitting position.
“He can’t do this.” My voice wasn’t my own. It was hoarse and sounded like it came from way lower down than my larynx. “He can’t fucking do this to you.”
Jules put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed gently. After a second, pressure neutralized the heat in my body. “He’s not wrong, Sully. It sucks fucking hard.” His voice faltered. “But Dalton’s not wrong. I have an unfair advantage. I hurt someone. Someone on my own team. I didn’t even mean to throw the ball that hard. I was into the game, and I lost my concentration. I forgot to rein myself in for a second and I hurt someone. I’m getting stronger. It’s only going to get harder.”
I didn’t respond. I knew in my head that what Jules was saying was true and right. It’s just that my heart didn’t know how to sit by and let someone do something that hurt him.
A few days later, the entire school was abuzz with the news that Julius Blaine had had a car crash. He was fine, but he’d torn all the ligaments in his left knee. For his trouble, Jules got a few days off school, and when he returned, he was wearing an old knee brace that Keith had given him. Coach nearly cried when he saw him, and I have it on good authority that several of his teammates did cry when they realized that Jules was out for the rest of the season. I walked beside him in the halls, slowing my pace to accommodate his exaggerated limp and the well-wishes of almost every student in school.
Jules was quieter than usual for days. I was worried. It wasn’t like him. Usually, he was my polar opposite on the grumpy/sunshine scale. I knew the limp was an act, but I also knew his mood wasn’t.
That weekend I woke him up with a soft tap on his window.
“What’s happening?” His voice was gruff with sleep.
“Come on. You’ll see.”
