Becoming Who We Are Ch. 09

Becoming Who We Are: Chapter Nine

The final chapter. Trigger alert: Violence and suicide themes.

Copyright 2021 to the author

**

"What do you mean, no?" Jeff asked, his eyes narrowing.

"I mean exactly that: No," the girl replied, hugging her books to her chest as she met his eye. "I won't go out with you."

"Whatever," Jeff said, turning away. "Would have done your popularity a world of good, though," he added over his shoulder.

The girl laughed.

"Haven't you heard? Your stock's been going down for weeks. You'll be lucky to get a date to the prom, you loser."

Jeff stalked away, pretending he had not heard her last words. His cheeks blazed. Bitch! She was just saying that. It wasn't true.

Fuming at this rejection -- girls did not say no to Jeff Rohrbach and get away with it -- he marched into Coach Spencer's classroom, just missed knocking over a desk in the first row, and slammed down onto his seat. The teacher gave him a quelling look as he counted out the test papers, and Jeff put his fury out of his mind. He'd deal with his rage later. Right now, he had a test to take, and he had to do well if he expected to get into Penn State on his academic merits alone. By the time the bell sounded, his face had lost most of its fierceness.

"Class, put all papers, books and backpacks under your desks," Mr. Spencer said, grabbing a sheaf of papers from his briefcase. "It's time for the exam. Remember, we're on fourth lunch today because of this final, so do not get up at the second lunch bell."

Twenty-three students obeyed as the coach stood at the head of the first row, poised to pass out papers. As the final students shoved their possessions into the racks below their chairs, the teacher thrust six tests at Bill Abrams, the first student in the first row. The students rushed to pass the tests to the people behind them, intent on squeezing every possible second out of the class period.

As his classmates swiftly scribbled solutions on the scrap paper included with the exam, Luke stared numbly at the questions. While he recognized the equations and symbols, his brain refused to comprehend what they meant. He closed his eyes for several seconds, but the paper did not turn into another, easier exam. Fighting a surge of anxiety, Luke carefully examined each question. Not one sparked any response from his brain.

He wiped his brow and shuffled his feet. The teacher looked up from the sports magazine he was reading, but saw no students sneaking peeks at others' papers. His glance rested briefly on Luke. Why wasn't the kid writing anything? Coach had always heard Oriental kids were supposed to perform brilliantly in math, but this kid had shown no signs of doing so. He certainly looked panicked right now.

Shrugging, the teacher returned to his magazine, flipping to an article on college football standouts. A photograph of an Asian face startled him. Geez, the kid weighed more than two hundred pounds: he looked like a tank. Coach Spencer had had no idea Oriental kids could grow that big. Involuntarily, he glanced at Luke again, noticing with a tinge of concern that the kid still had not picked up his pencil. Around him, the other kids wrote and sighed and frowned and gazed at the ceiling for guidance. Luke remained perfectly still. Frowning, the coach glanced back at the magazine.

The boy kept his head bowed as the numbness spread through his body. When the teacher gave the five-minute warning, Luke grasped the pencil and wrote on his scrap paper an apology to his teacher and a request to take the final again.

The coach intercepted him in the locker room after gym. He thrust Luke's note at the boy's nose.

"What's this?" he barked. "Why didn't you do the exam?"

"I don't know," Luke said, apparently to the floor. "I just couldn't concentrate."

The coach regarded the boy with a mix of concern and exasperation.

"That's not much of an excuse," he said. "If that's all you have to say for yourself, I'm going to have to fail you."

Luke started, looking up into the man's eyes. He thought briefly about telling him of his problem with Jeff, but rejected that idea. The coach liked his star player; he did not like Luke.

"Then I guess you'll have to fail me," Luke said, hunching into his shoulders.

While the coach was many things, including brusque, hardheaded, chauvinistic, and inflexible, he was not a fool and he was not completely unfair. He rubbed his chin as he studied the pale boy.

"No," he said. "Not yet. I'll give you one day to tell me what's going on. Then I'll decide what I'm going to do."

Luke stared up at him but said nothing.

"So it's all up to you, kid. I'll expect to see you during lunch tomorrow."

The coach turned around and walked away. Luke tramped up the stairs to his locker, collected his things and slowly made his way out of the building. He had a lot to think about, but his mind seemed unwilling to focus on anything but the failed test. No matter what happened, his mother would be furious.

Jeff had largely left him alone in the last few weeks, although his deputies still collected Luke's lunch money each day. As Luke trudged down the sidewalk, his thoughts on his mother's likely reaction to this latest failure, he forgot to remain alert. He never even saw Jeff before he collared Luke and dragged him into the bushes next to the large church south of the park.

The older boy wasted no time slamming his fist into Luke's belly, causing the air to whoosh from Luke's lungs as he fell. Jeff leapt on top of him, smashing his nose with one hard blow. Luke gasped and struggled, breathing in blood and coughing, but the stronger boy seemed possessed by some new and frightening rage. Jeff muttered as his fists flew, but Luke could not make out the words. He did his best to protect himself from the pummeling, but too many punches connected.

As Jeff methodically mauled Luke, he saw first the mocking face of the girl who had rejected him that morning. Her face melted into that of his old girlfriend, which morphed into his mother's. He barely heard Luke's cries he punished them all.

About a block away, Officer Andy MacCaffrey shivered as he walked. His driver's license put his age at twenty-three, but people who did not know him usually figured the man for a gangly sixteen year old. Assigned to the south end, he had the option of wearing civilian clothes, which he had chosen to do today. Most of the time, people mistook the out-of-uniform officer for a student, which suited him fine. He heard more interesting tidbits that way.

As he paused at the south end of the park, his radio discreetly crackled with a report of a fight at the church. He opened his coat and acknowledged the call, then broke into a run. Rounding the corner, he witnessed a burly young man plant a powerful punch in the face of a smaller kid. He sprinted to the struggling pair, grasped Jeff's collar and pulled him up, shouting that he was a police officer. Jeff closed his fist as he whirled to face his new opponent and slammed it into the officer's bulletproof vest.

"Ow!" he shrieked.

The officer grabbed Jeff's hand and neatly twisted it behind his back even as he kicked the kid's feet out from under him. He shoved the blond to the ground, planted one knee on his back and reached for his handcuffs.

"You are under arrest," he chanted. "You have the right to remain silent..."

Seeing this, Jack Curtis trotted out of the church and went straight to the boy on the ground. Dear Lord in heaven, this was the second bleeding child he had helped in the last month. Kids really had gone crazy these days. Despite the protests from his knees, he knelt stiffly beside the panting child and peered at his face.

"You all right?"

Luke ran his tongue around his mouth to check on his teeth, wiped his face with one hand, then regarded the resulting blood on his glove with dismay.

"I guess not," he rasped.

"That was some beating you were getting," Jack Curtis said. "I'm the one who called the cops."

"Thanks," Luke said.

"You know him?" Jack asked, nodding toward Jeff's slumping figure.

"Uh, no," Luke said.

Jack Curtis shook his head.

"Don't lie to me, child."

"He's in one of my classes," Luke admitted. He sat up and groaned. Jeff had never touched his face before. He needed to get home and throw his clothes in the wash before his mother found out. Rising to his feet, he wavered, then took a few steps.

"Where do you think you're going?" Jack demanded.

"Home," Luke said. "I've got to get home."

"Don't you think you should talk to the police first?"

Luke paused, considering, then shook his head.

"I don't want to press charges."

"Good Lord, why not?" Jack stared at him.

"It'll just make things worse when his friends find out."

An officer in uniform approached the pair.

"You okay?" she asked Luke.

"Yeah."

She shook her head slightly at Jack. He took the hint and left.

"I'm Officer Shea. Can you tell me what happened?"

"Uh, I really don't want to press charges," Luke said miserably.

She lifted one eyebrow at him.

"Why ever not?"

"When his friends find out I ratted on him, they'll be after me."

"Be that as it may, we need to know what happened. You don't have to press charges, since, as I understand it, he assaulted a police officer. Still, we'd like to know what led up to it."

"You won't use my name?"

"That's right." She frowned, wondering how the other kid had scared this one so comprehensively. He reminded her of a child trying to avoid accusing a parent of abuse.

"Well, I was walking home, and as I was walking by the church, he jumped me."

"And?"

"He punched me a few times."

"And?"

"That's it."

She peered at him over her notebook.

"Has he ever done this before?"

Luke stared past her, watching an officer handcuff Jeff.

"Look," he said desperately. "My dad got shot last year in New York and my family doesn't need to go through this again. We don't want any more trouble. Can't you just let me go home?"

Officer Shea pursed her lips, thinking rapidly. The kid did look wretched, in need of medical attention, really. She supposed she could always call him later.

"If you'll give me your name, address and phone number, okay." She passed her notebook at Luke, who scribbled the requested information into it and handed it back.

She glanced at it, then back at the boy.

"All right then. You want to go to the hospital? A couple of those cuts don't look so good."

"I'll clean up at home," Luke said. "Can I go now?"

Despite her misgivings, the officer let him go. She watched him plod away, pitying the poor thing. He struck her as one of life's perpetual victims. No self esteem at all. She shook her head, closed her notebook and wandered back to the squad car as the old church clock struck three.

"So who is he?" she asked, pointing at the boy in the back seat.

"Jeff Rohrbach, age eighteen, football star at White Rose before he broke one arm in a game," Andy said.

"He told you that?"

"Only the name and age part," Andy said. "As for the football star bit, well, you know how I follow sports. I read about him in the paper."

"Oh, geez, the papers'll be all over this," she said. "Better call the captain."

"Already did," Andy said. "The captain was not pleased."

"Because you arrested Mr. Rohrbach?"

"Because he knows he'll be getting calls from reporters for the next week."

The officers shared a smile before getting on with the matter at hand. The captain's dislike and distrust of reporters was a standing joke.

An hour later, shackled and humiliated, Jeff jabbed his home telephone number into the keypad. After seven rings, his father picked up.

"Dad?"

"Where the hell are you?"

"I'm at the police station. I'm in trouble."

"Well, what do you want me to do about it?"

"Come get me. They said the district justice will set the bail, but it probably won't be more than a few hundred bucks."

Bill Rohrbach snorted.

"Where am I supposed to get that kind of money?"

"I don't know," Jeff said, feeling desperate. "Just come, will you?"

"What are you in for?" Bill asked suddenly.

"Assault."

"Who'd you hit?"

Jeff hesitated, avoiding eye contact with the three police officers glaring at him.

"A cop."

"What a stupid shit you are! You hit a cop?"

"He wasn't wearing a uniform," Jeff protested.

But his father was no longer listening.

"I can't believe what a dumb shit you are! I'm not wasting my money on bail for you. Maybe that coach of yours will take up a collection."

Jeff heard a click and stared in disbelief at the telephone.

"He hung up on me," he said. "That bastard hung up on me."

The officers exchanged glances. This case appeared entirely capable of taking up their entire shift.

**

Luke stumbled into his house, noting with relief the absence of his mother's car. God, he hurt! And he felt so terribly thirsty. Dropping his backpack at the foot of the stairs, he made for the kitchen. He drank an entire glass of water without taking a breath, then refilled the glass to take upstairs. But first he had to assess the damage done to him and take care of his stained clothes.

In the bathroom, Luke gaped at his reflection, his hand involuntarily moving up to touch his swelling nose. He winced and yelped. Maybe it was broken. He squinted at the mirror. With his nose in full throb and one eye already blackening, the smears of blood on his cheeks and forehead hardly seemed worthy of concern. The crusted path of dried blood from his nose to his chin rated a long look, and he touched it gingerly as he inspected it. It did not hurt, but the skin below it felt tight. With a sigh of resignation, he decided to wash his face. It would surely hurt, but he needed to do it.

The results hardly seemed worth the pain. Without a coating of blood and dirt, the bruise around his eye and his puffy nose appeared worse than ever. He checked the medicine cabinet for aspirin, but could find none. He rubbed his chin, grimacing as he hit another bruise. It just figured, he thought.

He shucked his clothes off, wriggled his shoulders and examined his arms for further damage. His forearms had a darkening spot or two from defending himself, but otherwise, his body below the neck seemed fine. Tossing the towel on top of his clothes, Luke carried the pile to the washing machine, dumped them in, and turned it on.

Picking up the glass of water, he tramped upstairs, put on his sweats, and lay down on his bed. The full force of the day hit him then. He blotted tears with his sweatshirt's sleeve as he considered the failed test. That would send his mother into a rage, and who could predict what she would do then? She could hardly ground him any more than he already was grounded. She could not set any more chores to him, as he already did most of them anyway. All she could do, really, was scream and rant and rage at him, and maybe slap him for his stupidity.

He rose slowly and sat at his desk. Shelly's number lay there, written in the precise script Luke admired. Although he had stopped calling her a few weeks ago, he could not bring himself to throw away the slip of paper. He reached for it, padded down the hall to the telephone, then stood with his hand on the receiver for several minutes before making his decision. He needed someone. Perhaps this time she would listen.

Engrossed in her homework, Shelly jumped as the phone rang at her elbow.

"Hello?"

"Shelly? It's Luke. Please listen to me."

She closed her eyes at the pleading in his voice, willing herself not to cave in.

"I have nothing to say to you," she said, and hung up.

Wiping her eyes, Shelly regarded the phone, hating herself more than ever. Luke was a really nice guy, and deserved better than the treatment she gave him. Of course, she would never be good enough for someone like him. She wished he would give up on her so she could continue her slide into self-pity and depression. She could not understand what he saw in her. Sighing, she rose from the chair and trudged to her room. Hearing her footsteps, Shelby trotted to her, his toenails clicking on the wood floor. In her room, he jumped to the bed beside her and licked her face.

"Oh, Shelby. What's wrong with me? It's not like I don't like him. It's just... if he ever found out what I'm really like, what a loser I am, he'd never speak to me again. I just couldn't deal with that."

The dog's tail thudded against the bedspread and he gave a muffled whine. She buried her face in his fur and clutched him. Although her grip felt a bit tight for comfort, Shelby allowed the girl to hold him for a long time, as if he understood her need.

Luke stared at the silent telephone for a few moments before new tears made their way to his eyes. He stumbled to his room, then crumpled onto his bed. His nose throbbed, his eye hurt, and his entire body ached from the attack. He had failed his test. His mother hated him. So did Shelly. He had nothing. He was nothing.

Luke moaned. He wanted to die.

How long he lay there before no more tears could flow, he did not know. His head pounded, as much from crying as from the beating. As the church clock struck three, Luke hobbled to his desk and fumbled for his secret notebook, the one in which he kept his story ideas. Finding a pen tucked inside, he wiped his burning eyes. Writing always helped him clarify his thoughts. Sniffing, he put the tip of the pen to the paper, drew a deep breath, and began.

"I feel like I've sunk into a pit I can't get out of. I wish I knew how I got here, or how to escape all those people standing at the top of the pit looking down at me. They're sneering, laughing, and shouting how useless, worthless, and disgusting I am. I look up and see my mother and father, Jeff, Mr. Spencer, Shelly, and even John. They drop rocks on me and shout, 'Scum! Scum! Scum! Scum! Not worth a damn to anyone!' They laugh even harder as the rocks hit me and I wince and cover my head to deflect the rocks. As I fall to the ground, I hear my mother shriek that I can't even fall down as well as my brother. The others chortle in agreement, then chant, over and over, 'Failure! Failure! Failure!'"

His shoulders slumping, Luke stared at his essay. His lips quivered as he thought about what to write next.

"Today in math class, I failed my final. I couldn't remember any of the material, so I just looked at the test paper for the whole period. I wrote Mr. Spencer a note, but it didn't do any good. I can't seem to concentrate on anything anymore. I wish I had someone to talk to, but Shelly won't even speak to me, and Mark's so busy with Melina he barely notices me. I'm not mad at him for that, but sometimes I wish he'd remember I need him, too.

"I just feel so stupid and worthless. No matter how hard I try, nothing I do makes my mother happy -- she seems to look for things to yell at me about. And Dad just lets her. He never sticks up for me anymore.

"I wish I could be a little kid again, when all I had to worry about was keeping my play clothes clean and not losing my toys. Everything was so simple then. My parents loved me, John loved me, and I loved everyone. Sometimes I even wonder if they loved me even back then, and I wonder if anyone will ever love me again. Why should anyone? I have nothing to offer. I'm so useless and pathetic, it's a wonder my parents didn't throw me out years ago."

He paused, frowning over that last sentence. While he did not really think his parents would have done so, he did believe they would have preferred his death to John's. His pen wavered, but he decided to let the sentence stand.

Putting down his pen, he rubbed his temples. Geez, his head ached. It felt as if a convention of conga drummers was holding a competition in his cranium. He sighed gustily, and picked up his pen.