“We’ll both get fired. I’ve read the company drug policy. It’s black-and-white.”
Fuck . . . fuck, fuck, fuck . . . But Jeff didn’t say this out loud.
Graham stopped walking and loomed over his friend. “If you go to trial, I’m fucked. I’ll lose my job, my reputation. . . . I could lose my wife!”
“You won’t. I’ll deal with it.”
Graham bore down on him. “You had your chance to deal with it, Jeff! You could have made this all go away! But you and Kim care more about your fucking bank account than a girl’s eye!”
Blind rage took over, and Jeff was lunging at Graham before he had time to think. If he had thought, Jeff would have ascertained that Graham had at least thirty pounds on him, six inches of reach, and a decade of brawling his way through Aussie rules football games, leaving Jeff with virtually no chance of victory. But still, Jeff threw his slight body against the side of beef that had so incensed him.
Unfortunately for Jeff, the side of beef was angry, too. Jeff’s shoulder had just made contact with Graham’s ribs when the bigger man shoved him violently away, then hauled back and punched Jeff neatly in the face. There was a crack—knuckles connecting with the bridge of Jeff’s nose—and the force threw him backward, but there was no pain (that would come later). Jeff must have been in shock, for even as the blood began to seep from his nose, dripping steadily on the pavement like a leaky udder, one thought kept running through his mind: Kim’s going to kill me.
“How many more lives are you and Kim going to ruin, huh?” Graham spat. “How many more innocent people have to pay for your fucking mistakes?”
“Fuck you,” Jeff muttered, blood dripping into his mouth, making him cough and splutter. He could feel Graham’s eyes on him, assessing his hunched over, bleeding form. The big Aussie was going to finish him off with a knee to the stomach, an elbow to the back, a boot to the face. Jeff braced for it; in fact, he’d almost welcome the distraction from his nose, which was beginning to pound with pain. But no blow came.
“You’re pathetic,” Graham grunted. Then a ball of spit and phlegm landed at Jeff’s feet. As Graham walked away, Jeff watched the loogy mingle with the nose blood pooled on the sidewalk. The mixture of bodily fluids meandered its way, languidly, across the pavement.
lisa
SIXTY-NINE DAYS AFTER
The sun snaked its way through the heavy curtains, bringing with it evidence of the bustle of midmorning playing out beyond this masculine bedroom. It served to dampen the romantic mood Allan had worked hard to create—candlelight, soft music, satin sheets—not that Lisa was in an amorous mood today . . . or any other day when they convened at Allan’s one-bedroom apartment to make love. This had become a ritual, an attempt to normalize their romantic relationship while Ronni was at school. Usually, Lisa was willing to put in a performance to appease her partner; it seemed a small price to pay for the support and comfort he’d provided her through this ordeal. But today, Ronni was at home, in bed, and Lisa found herself unable or unwilling to make the effort. As Allan’s hands roamed her body, her mind stayed firmly on her child’s dilemma.
“Ronni’s refusing to go back to school,” she said, shifting Allan’s hand from her lower belly to the less erogenous zone of her hip. “But if she misses much more, she’ll have to repeat the year.”
“What about online courses?” Allan murmured, his hand drifting down her thigh.
“I don’t want Ronni shut away in our apartment like some freak. High school’s about more than courses. It’s about learning to socialize and work with other people. She deserves the full experience.”
“Of course she does,” Allan said into her neck. Lisa subtly shifted away from him. She hoped he’d get the hint that she wasn’t in the mood for sex right now. But the fact that she had dutifully crawled into bed naked with him may have been contradicting that message.
“I told her she has to go back Monday. She can’t hide from those disgusting little fuckers any longer.”
“Whoa, Lisa . . .” Allan looked at her like she’d just spewed a stream of racial slurs. “They’re just kids.”
“They’re bullies,” Lisa retorted, shifting farther away from him. His naked body rubbing against her was suddenly repulsive. “I told you what they did to Ronni in the cafeteria.”
“That was horrible,” Allan said, reaching for her arm. “But kids are stupid. They don’t realize how cruel they’re being.”
Lisa had a sudden urge to punch him, but instead, she threw the sheet off her and got out of bed. She was shaking as she stepped into her underpants, her stomach twisting into knots of turmoil. It was as if Lisa had been in the cafeteria that day . . . but it was worse. She hadn’t been there, hadn’t been able to protect her daughter. She had one job. . . .
She could picture the scene vividly in her mind’s eye. Ronni bravely entering the lunchroom alone. A friend had promised to meet her there (probably one of the religious girls who had recently taken a shine to her), so Ronni had scanned the room for a companion. The girl must have been running late, so Ronni had gone to the lunch counter and grabbed some food—veggies and hummus, the girl lived on the stuff—and found an inconspicuous table at the back. She had nibbled at a carrot stick, keeping one eye (the seeing eye, obviously) trained on the door.
Then it started. A spoon was banged on a table and a boy began to chant: “Cy-clops, Cy-clops, Cy-clops . . .” Ronni wouldn’t say who it was, but Lisa would have guessed Noah Chambers or that Adam kid. They had been her daughter’s friends, but, like Lauren Ross, had turned on her since the accident. Why? What defect in their personalities, what deficiency in their parenting had made them so heartless? So cruel? But it wasn’t just them. . . . Another boy joined the chant, then a few girls, until there was a rousing chorus. “Cy-clops. Cy-clops. Cy-clops.” It wasn’t everyone in the lunchroom, but enough of them. Ronni had stood and fled. She hadn’t been back to school since.
“Don’t go,” Allan pleaded as Lisa zipped up her jeans.
“I just . . . I can’t right now, okay?”
“We don’t have to have sex.” He reached toward her. “You’re upset. Let me hold you.”
She looked at him lying there: naked, vulnerable, younger than her by five years, but by decades emotionally. He didn’t get it. How could he? “Ronni will be up soon. I need to be there.”
“Okay.” Allan threw his legs out of the bed and stood. “I’ll come with you.”
“No, go surfing or something,” Lisa said, struggling into her bra. “I’ve got a busy day. I’m meeting Paul this afternoon. He thinks we should have a jury trial—it’s more complicated and more expensive, but with the emotional stakes in this case, he thinks it’s the way to go.”
Allan was putting on his robe. “Are you up for that?”
“The jury will have to look at Ronni every day in court, at what Jeff and Kim did to her. We can’t lose.”