Three

Owen stood next to Elizabeth, feeling his heart skip beats every time he made her laugh.  They were standing outside, underneath the canopy with dozens of other eighth graders waiting for their rides.  The spring night was warm, but there was a breeze and Elizabeth’s dress didn’t offer her much warmth.  Owen wanted to put his arm around her, but just as he was inching his arm forward, Bret’s car rattled up and parked quietly in front of them.

Owen swore in his head.   “Well, there’s my ride,” he said with a reluctant shrug.  She gave him a little smile that made the corner of his mouth dart upwards.  He started to walk off, but she hadn’t let go of his hand.  He turned to face her again, and she kissed him on the cheek so suddenly that he almost jumped backwards.  “Bye,” she said.

“Bye.”   It was hard to let her hand go, but somehow he managed to do it.

If there hadn’t been so many kids his age around, he would have skipped to the car.  Every cliché you can think of—walking on air, having a heart ‘a flutter’—he was experiencing all those things at the moment. There was even a bounce in his step.  He didn’t turn to look at her until he was inside the car.  Then he smiled and gave her a wave.

He never knew if she saw it because Bret peeled out of the parking lot.

Owen folded his hands behind his head, leaning back in his seat as best he could.  He was in such a daze he didn’t notice the radio was off or that Bret hadn’t said a single word to him though they were a block away from school.  “Tonight was so awesome,” Owen sighed happily.  “I had so much fun.  Elizabeth and I danced to every song, and she held my hand, and she gave me the biggest hug at the end of the very last song, and she even leaned over and kissed me—on the mouth!”

It took Bret a while to answer, like he didn’t want to say the first thing that popped into his head.  “That’s great,” he grunted.

“I know! It was so great!”  Owen’s voice was cracking with his excitement.  “This may be the best night of my life.”

“That’s great,” Bret muttered again.

“So awesome!”

Bret didn’t say anything.  Owen stared out the window, still smiling, as they went down dark streets.  He replayed the whole night over and over in his head, of course leaving out the beginning when he was making a fool of himself.  To him, the dance had only been fifteen minutes long.  Nothing at the beginning counted.  As he stared out the window, he felt like counting the stars, but there weren’t any.  There wasn’t a moon either. In fact, the whole world seemed rather cold and quiet.  Then he realized how quiet things were inside the car. He glanced over at Bret, Bret’s dark eyes fixed straight ahead. He didn’t even seem to blink. 

“Is something wrong?” Owen asked.

“No,” Bret snapped.  He bit his lip, and then he said in a voice that was cold and distant, “I’m glad you had a good dance, because this is the last one I’m going to be able to take you to.”

Owen blinked.  “What?  Why?”

“Because Mom and Stewie went a little ballistic on me tonight—especially Stewie.  They, uh, they kind of found pot in our room, and they were really mad.  There was shouting, and yelling, and swearing—more than I had ever heard before. Even Mom got in on it.  It was awful.”

Owen’s mouth dropped lower and lower with each word out of his older brother’s mouth.  At the end of it, Owen slapped himself in the forehead, and he just shook his head slowly left to right, in utter disbelief.  “Bret, man, you are so stupid.  Why would you even bring that stuff in the house, let alone leave it there?”

Bret just shrugged. “I don’t know.” His voice was distant, like it belonged to somebody watching the conversation from far off.  “You know what’s funny about it, though?  Well, I thought it was kind of strange anyway.”

Owen didn’t see what could be funny about it.

“They found it in the shoebox you keep your baseball cards in.”

Owen choked on his own tongue.  Now he really didn’t see anything funny in it.  All the blood left his body, his heart sank into his stomach, his stomach into his feet, and his feet just felt cold.  He forced a nervous chuckle across his lips.   “Oh—uh—that’s an odd place for you to—uh—for you to hide it…”

Bret’s arm shot out from his side and struck Owen across the chest like a whip, a really thick whip.

“Owwww,” Owen moaned.  He could feel the handprint starting to glow beneath his shirt.

“I can’t believe you, Owen!” Bret exploded.  Even in the dark, Owen could see Bret’s eyebrows were narrowed, his eyes were just slits of rage as little flecks of spit flew out of his mouth and over the back of the windshield.  “This is by far the stupidest thing you have ever—ever—done!  Don’t you know how much trouble you can get in for that crap?  Mom and Stewie would have completely lost it with you!  I mean, really, what would possess you to do something this stupid—this—this idiotic!  Why would you even start something like this?”

Owen stuck his hand under his shirt, rubbing his chest and still wincing in pain.  “You know, Bret, the last thing I need is a ‘drugs are bad’ lecture from you, okay?”

            Bret slammed his foot against the break, making the car screech to a halt so suddenly that he almost lost control and drove up on the sidewalk.  Owen was thrown forward, luckily wearing his seat belt. Unluckily, the belt choked him, but before he could gasp for breath, he was thrown back into the seat like he had been launched from a slingshot.    He looked at Bret, Bret’s face shadowed in the light from the lamppost.  Owen had never seen that look in his brother’s eyes.  It was anger that he had never seen before, not even out of his dad when Stewart was yelling at Bret.  Owen swallowed hard, backing away slightly, biting his lip, and trying to act like he wasn’t a little scared.

            Bret tried his best to keep his face stoic, masking as much inside him as possible. The emotion Owen saw in his eyes was only a fraction of what was boiling inside his chest.  Bret’s eyes darted over Owen, eying the spiky hair, the shirt, the tie the boy had stolen from Bret’s closet, the shoes that looked just like his older brother’s.  The smell of Bret’s stolen cologne still clogged the air.   Owen was, what, fourteen now?  God, Bret thought.  He couldn’t really have been as small as Owen at fourteen.  He remembered being that age.  Being fourteen had really sucked.

            Bret got out of the car and slammed the door so hard Owen jumped. 

Cold sweat ran down the back of Owen’s neck, his chest ached, but he didn’t think it was from Bret hitting him anymore.  His brother, in all the stupid stuff Bret had ever done, had never scared Own before, but now the boy couldn’t remember being more terrified.  He watched as Bret walked around the front of the car—not even looking at Owen, not even seeming to care that he was there—and past the lamppost to a trashcan leaning against the wall of the big, brick building.  Owen licked his teeth nervously, his tongue sticking to the back of his lips, and he watched like a child listening to his parents talk of divorce. 

            Bret walked in shadows, but Owen could still see him. Bret took off his shoe, and he turned it upside down over the palm of his left hand.  He shook the sneaker a couple of times, and a tiny bag fell out.  Bret looked at it longingly, like the bag was too precious to let go, but finally, having to turn away because he just couldn’t watch it part him, he tossed it into the trashcan.  He put his shoe back on, walked back around the front of the car, and got in.  He shut the door much gentler this time.  He started the car, still not so much as glancing at Owen, and he said, “There.  You can’t do it anymore either.”

            They rolled slowly up the street.  Neither of them said anything. Whenever they would drive underneath a streetlight, Owen glanced at Bret and just shuddered.  When Bret had walked back to the car, Owen had been able to see his face in the street light, clearly, for the first time all night. 

            He had almost choked.  It was bad.  Some of the bruises were already turning yellow.

            Owen licked his lips. His stupid tongue stuck to them too.  “Does it—does it hurt?” he asked quietly.

            “No,” Bret said automatically.

            “Did—did they say anything else?”

            Bret shook his head.  “They’re going to talk about it more when we get home.  They went ahead and ‘made’ me pick you up because they need to discuss what they’re going to do with me, and they needed me out of the house before I died or something.  They’re pretty sure they’re going to tear my license up and ground me for the rest of my life.”  Bret paused. “They were talking about calling the juvenile office, talking to the police or something.  I’m not really sure if that was a real threat or not.”

            “Bret…” Owen said, wishing he could sound as strong as his brother.  He blinked something back, and he ordered his voice not to break.  “Why?  Why didn’t you tell them it was me?  It’s mine.  I’m the one that did it.  I brought it into the house.  Why take the fall for me?”

            Bret chuckled.  “On the way to the school, I thought a lot about that.  I came up with three reasons. First, you’re the good kid.  Mom and Stewie trust you.  If they caught you doing this, they would never trust you again, which isn’t fair because you are a good kid.  Second, your dad can get pretty mad.  You’ve never done anything wrong, so he might be more patient, but still.  And third…”  Bret sighed.  “Do you know what happened, um, know about my dad?”

            “Yeah.  Mom told me.  I asked when I was little.” 

            “Yeah, well, Mom got Stewie pretty soon after that, and Stewie never liked me—heh, even back then.  Then she got pregnant with you, and she just wanted to make Stewart happy, blah blah blah marriage…  Anyway, with all that, ungrateful little punk kids tend to get lost in the mix.  You’re pretty much the only person in my family that gives a real damn about me.  That, uh, that means a lot.”

            That put a smile on Owen’s face that shattered his heart into thousands of jagged shards, shards that sliced everything inside his chest.

            Their house was now in view.  Bret stopped the car in the street at the end of their driveway.  “You know,” he said,  “this is probably the last time we’re going to be able to hang out for a long time.  I’m already in a ton of trouble, so what’s a little more, right?  Heh.  You want to go get a burger or something?”

            “Sure,” Owen said, not looking up.

            “Hey,” Bret said, and he hit Owen in the chest, a lot gentler this time.  “Don’t look so down, kiddo. You got to kiss your first girl.  You had a great night.  You’re a man now.  Smile a little.” 

 * * *

            Yeah.  Smile.  Sure. 

            Owen stared long and hard into the mirror, but he never saw his reflection.  He just stared straight through the mirror Owen’s eyes and into his soul, searching it, hating most of what he found there and being depressed by what he didn’t. He was glad his parents and brother were in bed and not up to come knocking on the door asking if he was okay.  Of course he wasn’t okay.  He had been standing in the tiny, dingy bathroom in just his thin flannel pants for almost an hour.  He was cold, his skin was pale, and he was shivering, but he didn’t even cross his arms for warmth.  He didn’t notice the cold.   

He had washed his face ten minutes earlier, and he still hadn’t pressed a towel to it.  Water dripped from his forehead to his chin, and he wished somebody would tell him what to do.  When he and Bret had gotten home, the verbal slaughter had started immediately. It was like a storm, an oncoming hurricane, and Bret bore it all like an oak tree.  When the storm’s bad enough, however, even a piece of straw can splinter an oak tree.

“Where on earth have you been, you little punk?”

“What are you thinking? Do you even think at all?”

“Just what kind of an example do you think you’re setting for your little brother?”

“Bret Matthew, you have to be the stupidest kid that ever lived!”

Owen tried to throw himself in front of the train, tried to say that going to Burger Shack was his idea.  When he did, Stewart reeled away from Bret and blasted Owen with his anger, ordering the boy to butt out.  It had been like interrupting a shark’s feeding frenzy.  Owen almost threw his hands up to guard his face, half expecting his dad’s giant hand to come barreling down on top of him. 

Owen only thought he had been scared of Bret in the car. 

It was awful.  In the living room, Owen sat against the wall that the room shared with the kitchen.  He heard every word, every violent, angry threat, and what made everything all the worse was that Bret just took it all.  He absorbed their beating like a punching bag.  He didn’t even protest their wildest accusations.  Usually Bret gave them just as much fight back, but not this time.  Owen wanted to run in there and stop it, pull his brother to safety, but all he could do was bury his face in his hands and tell himself not to cry.

They took Bret’s license away.  They grounded him indefinitely.  They were still considering calling the juvenile officer.  They had treated Bret like he was a bug—less than a bug—had ripped him apart like ravenous wolves tear at a piece of meat.  It was like everything Bret had ever done got brought up and laid before him. Every little, stupid thing.  Anybody would have broken over that.  When Bret was sent to his room, his eyes met Owen’s, and Owen could see how badly Bret had been beaten.

But Bret had kept his strength until he saw Owen crying.

Back in the gray bathroom, Owen watched drops fall off his face and into the rusted sink.  He finally wiped the water off with the palms of his hands, still not drying it, even though his face was freezing.  “I don’t know what to do,” he whispered.

After Bret was locked in their room, Owen, his mom, and his dad sat in the living room in awkward silence.  His mother pretended to be interested in her book, even though Owen knew she wasn’t trembling because of the drama on the pages.  Stewart read the paper, almost ripping it apart each time he turned a page.  Owen pretended he was interested in playing with his shoe.  Finally, not able to take it anymore, Owen stood up and started towards his room.

“Where do you think you’re going?” his father growled.

“I was going to go to my room for a while.”

“No, you’re not. You’re going in there to talk to Bret, and I’m not having it. Sit down.”

“But…”

“I said SIT DOWN!”

Owen scrambled into a chair.  He had never seen his father this angry before. 

Never. 

Bret hadn’t even come out of their room to use the bathroom, and his parents had gone to bed hours before, Stewart slamming the bedroom door shut.  Owen lay in the living room floor for the longest time, not talking on the computer, not watching television, not even playing with his tennis shoe or thinking of Elizabeth.  He just stared up at the ceiling tiles, feeling like the gum on the bottom of someone’s shoe.  Someone that walked through lots of dog crap. 

Now Owen stood in the moldy little bathroom, all alone, and faced with probably the toughest decision of his short life.  Should he let Bret take the fall, Bret screwing up the rest of his life, and go on to have a good relationship with his parents?  Or should he tell the truth, save his brother, and probably never be allowed out of the house again?  Did he sacrifice Bret, or did he throw himself to the wolves?  

He sighed.  He had been wrestling with this since he took the first sip of his soda at Burger Shack.  He was still no closer to an answer.

When he went to get his pajamas out of their room, he had tried talking to Bret about it, but Bret pretended to be asleep. Or maybe he was asleep.  Owen realized it probably wouldn’t have mattered; Bret had already made his decision.

I can’t let Bret do this.  It’s—it’s just not right, Owen thought.  I have to go in there and tell my parents the truth, and whatever happens, it happens.  If they yell, they yell. If they ground me, they ground me.  If Dad gets angry…God, Dad gets really angry.  He is really angry.   He thought of the way his parents looked at Bret, with this look of disappointment, contempt, almost of disgust.  He couldn’t stand having his parents look at him like that.  He didn’t know how Bret did.

            He put himself in Bret’s shoes from hours before.

            And he trembled.

            He ran his hand over his face, and he sighed.  He looked at the mirror again and he half smiled at himself.  He ran his hand over his bare and smooth chest like he did every other night, and he scoffed.  “I guess kissing a girl didn’t make me a man after all.  Heh, Bret was wrong.”  He traced the outline of Bret’s lingering handprint, feeling his heart’s low thumps through his fingertips.  “Stupid dumb Bret.”

            He leaned on the counter.  It’d be so easy just to go to bed, and to pretend this never happened.  I swear I’m never going to smoke pot ever again, so in a way, I learned my lesson.  And Bret would have got busted for it eventually, right?  He does smoke pot—or did, I guess.  So really, I don’t have to do anything.  Everything turned out a weird sort of okay.

            He looked into his eyes again.  This time he actually saw himself.   

            But you’d know, Owen Stewart Harte.  You’d know.

            He didn’t even know how long he had been in the bathroom.  He figured he might as well go to bed.  He wasn’t going to solve this problem tonight, and maybe the answer would be clear in the morning.  He started to reach for the doorknob.

            “No.”  His teeth dug into his lip.  “I’m going to tell them the truth.”

            He swallowed hard, setting himself on the crash course to wherever he was heading.  Now that he knew he was going to do it, it was even harder to move his legs. He shuddered, and he raised his head, trying to set his chin so he could keep it up during the confrontation.  Something in the mirror, though, caught his eye.  He turned to look more closely at it, and it puzzled him at first.  He thought his eyes were playing tricks, but he looked down at his chest anyway.

            He touched it, making sure it wasn’t just an illusion.  Then he let a small smile creep across his lips.  There was one, tiny, barely-even-there, curl of a blonde hair peeking out of the desert between his nipples.  He smiled at it, even chuckled, but it was a sad sort of chuckle.  After all the nights of hoping and yearning, it just didn’t seem as great as he had imagined.  He didn’t really want it anymore.

            He stepped out of the room, and his bare feet padded down the hall.  He knocked on his parents’ door gently before he pushed it open.  “Mom? Dad?  We need to talk.”