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November 2, 2013—Present Day
Johnny

Last night, as I drifted off to sleep, I pretended I was innocent.

It wasn’t that hard to do there in my bed, under the gritty sheets and stale bedspread—a painful reminder that made this illusion a necessity. When she was alive, I never even noticed clean bedding. I never worried if there was enough food in the cupboard, or shampoo in the shower. I didn’t have to. But now, I no longer take these things for granted.

Burrowing farther into my rank covers, I shut out the blue flicker of light that seeped in from the living-room TV and ignored the dull voices that hummed behind the closed doors. Then I imagined my parents in the next room, spooning each other and giggling their way into a blissful sleep (something I used to find repulsive, but now desperately miss), dreaming of whatever it is happy parents dream of. I fantasized about spending my days playing baseball and planning for college instead of plotting, stalking, and trading in on all my favors to get my hands on a gun. I conjured up a guilt-free mind, a stable home, and a nice girlfriend who was sweet and simple.

Then I woke up and the truth smacked me in the face.

Today’s the day. Not that anyone would know. This morning, I went through the same routine I have since school started: got dressed, brushed my teeth, fixed my hair right, made hardboiled eggs—three for me, one for Cassie—checked in on Dad to see if he wanted any even though the answer was always no. I finished the math homework I was too tired to do the night before and caught a ride to school. Nothing out of the ordinary.

By second period, it’s more of the same, and things are moving just as smooth as a flat-seamed baseball. I’m one of the first to take my seat. Usually, it’s a race to beat the bell. But for Mrs. Skye? I haul ass … because I need to watch.

Sometimes I wonder just how far back in time I’d need to go to make my pathetic fantasy a reality. It’d definitely have to be life before Becca. And before the accident. But would that be far enough? I’m in this impossible situation because I’m self-centered, and needy, and weak. So I’d have to go way back in time, before I became all these things, to prevent the coming attractions. To undo all the things I have in store for the guy sitting behind me.

His breath is warm—almost wet—on the back of my neck as he leans over his desk waiting for class to begin. A prickly sensation shoots down my spine and it takes everything I have not to turn around and backhand him. Dude is completely encroaching on my personal space, but I know I can’t bring any attention to myself.

Revenge, I’ve come to learn, is not impulsive, or reactionary, or blind. It’s calculating, patient, and observant. And if it’s going to work, the timing must be perfect. Just like in baseball. Swing too early, risk a pop-up. Swing too late, risk a strike.

I can’t risk a thing today, so I grit my teeth and suffer through it as he sits behind me, ready to snuggle in for his daily nap. I slide forward in my tiny chair so I can pretend he’s not back there. So I can pretend the asshole doesn’t exist. Within seconds, he drops his head to the desk. His breathing slows and deepens, creating a nasally little tune before he’s out. I envy him that. He dozes off at this time every day like clockwork—most likely because he was up half the night playing some zombie apocalypse bullshit video game. But in fifty minutes, he will somehow wake just as Mrs. Skye wraps up one of her highly sanitized lessons in U.S. History.

This is how Travis Kent spends his mornings.

It was so much better when I didn’t know about him. Now I can’t get his face out of my head. When I go to bed at night? Travis Kent. When I wake up in the morning? Travis Kent. Even when I’m with my girlfriend … Travis Kent.

Shudder.

But in less than twenty-four hours, that will all change. Travis Kent will be extracted from my life forever.

I shift around in my seat, trying to get comfortable. It’s impossible because I’m stuffed into this desk-and-chair combo—much like Rosie is, sitting next to me jammed into her two-sizes-too-small bedazzled jeans. It’s tight and confining. I don’t know who designs the desks for high schools, but they need to seriously rethink the dollhouse dimensions. Though I shouldn’t complain; at least we have a place to sit. Many of the classrooms don’t. Ever since Roosevelt High School closed its doors two years ago, Central got most of the overflow—and that’s exactly what it is. Our already-crowded school is now leaking students. The principal even had to extend the time between bells due to the gridlock in the corridors.

Apparently this is what happens when your city goes bankrupt: businesses and schools close their doors; unemployment goes up; the police force suffers massive cutbacks; people get desperate; crime rises.

It’s every man for himself.

So I guess you could say I’ll be doing everyone a favor by decreasing the headcount tonight.

These days, the only part of Detroit that doesn’t look like a dystopian wasteland is Mexicantown—a place people used to wrinkle their noses at but were happy to visit on a Friday night for margaritas and enchiladas. Now, we’re the ones holding the damn city together.

“Johnny Vega.” Mrs. Skye’s shrill voice echoes in the room. “What does Manifest Destiny mean?”

“Uh,” I say, searching my brain for the question she just asked. “Manifest Destiny?”

I’m still not used to the whole student-teacher protocol. I never used to be the type of kid teachers called on in class. They would avoid me even more than they avoided the loner kids on the verge of going Columbine at any minute. Most teachers around here believe it’s best to just let the dumb jocks skate by—especially the dumb Mexican jocks. That’s a double violation, after all.

But that was before Becca came into my life and before I started caring about school (and using words like “encroaching” and “dystopian”). Before I realized that there may be more to life than ball. Truth be told, I’ve always cared. I just didn’t think school was my thing. But once I started showing an interest, teachers like Mrs. Skye ate it up.

She desperately wants to be that determined white teacher who makes a different for us poor minority folk—like that movie Freedom Writers or some shit.

Let’s face it, I probably need it. This is one of the “basic” courses—in other words, for idiots, stoners, or slackers. Travis doesn’t fit in; he’s only here because he makes a habit of taking extended vacations.

“Yes, Mr. Vega.” Skye interrupts my wandering thoughts. “Tell me what Manifest Destiny means to you.”

It was a way for America to justify destroying the way of life for Mexicans and Native Americans and steal our land.

It’s the first thought that comes into my head, but now—thankfully—I take a minute to think before I speak.

Mrs. Skye stares at me. Waiting. She flicks her pen against her thigh as she paces in front of the room. Yeah, she’s impatient that I need a second to gather my thoughts, yet Travis is allowed to use the hour as naptime every day. I’ve come a long way in the last year, but the politics of high school is something I’ll never get.

“Manifest Destiny is an idea or belief that Americans should expand across North America and promote democracy.” I alter my answer because I have the feeling our teacher was all for the expansion. With her immaculate clothes and shiny shoes, Mrs. Skye is the type to believe that anything is possible in our great country and to downplay the negative—even when the city is collapsing all around her.

“Good,” she says, moving on. “Cody, was that a good or bad thing?”

And I’m back to tuning out again.

I’ll need to find extra time to study the material for our test in two days. Not that it’s difficult, obviously, but I’ve been checking out for the past week and I can’t leave anything to chance. Becca says we can’t have any hiccups; it has to be business as usual. For me, that means a decent grade on the test. Still, I find myself ignoring Mrs. Skye and staring out the window, watching the last of the falling leaves. I wonder if next year I’ll be watching them from a college classroom or a jail cell.

It’s completely impossible to concentrate, today of all days. I’m on edge. Teeth-grinding, stomach-churning, fingers-
tingling edge. And here Travis sleeps, with no idea what he’s in for. He’ll go about his day as usual. Chemistry, study hall, lunch, gym, English, finishing with Spanish—a language he’ll never master, by the way. The guy can’t roll an R to save his life.

I know all of this because I’ve been watching him for almost ten months. Obsessing over him, really. Ever since Becca told me what happened and what he did. Ever since I said yes to her plan.

A pen drops on the floor and the desk behind me rattles. I don’t have to stalk Travis to know he’s a restless sleeper—it’s pretty common knowledge in our class. Sometimes I wonder if it’s guilt or bad dreams that affect his sleep in this way. Or is it simply because he spends too much time jacked up on oversized cans of Monster and Starbucks mochas (with extra whipped cream)?

Oh yeah, I’ve been watching his calorie intake as well. If I go through with tonight’s festivities, I’ll have to carry good ol’ Trav a few blocks. I’m pretty strong, but Travis is surprisingly solid for a guy barely over five-five.

The fact that I know all of this is sick and wrong. I do know that; I’m not so far gone I don’t understand the moral dilemma we’re in. But I’m doing it for Becca … and Mom.

Though I’m not sure Mom would’ve approved of Becca if she were still here. She always warned me about hanging out with the wrong crowd, bad influences, or those people who didn’t help you meet your life’s goals. We can’t let anything get in the way of your dreams, Johnny, she would say. Funny how her threats always seemed to be disguised as motivation.

What Mom didn’t know is that trouble is not always so obvious. Not when it comes in a pretty package like one Becca Waters. Long and lithe Becca, with her flowing red curls and angelic face. Trust me, she’s enough to turn the strongest of men into drooling idiots. I had no idea what I was up against when she started tutoring me last year. She was so broken then, and my connection to her was almost immediate. What’s that expression: like recognizes like ? Well, we recognized each other all right, and it wasn’t long after that I vowed to do whatever it took to put her back together again. Sadly, it’s officially come to that.

After school, we’ll wait while Travis meets up with his other gamer friends. They’ll talk smack about leveling up and a bunch of crap only those fools understand. Of course, Becca gets it. She’s tried explaining their little subculture to me, but I’m so not interested. Though I would love to see her kick some of these douche-canoes’ asses, Becca prefers to use her mad skills IRL—which is exactly how she found out about Travis in the first place.

Tonight, Travis will go to the gaming tournament. After, his life will change forever.

So will mine. Everything I’ve worked for will be in jeopardy. My only hope is to pray I make it out of this shitstorm unscathed. But it won’t be easy. To get out of it, I may have to leave Becca.

And I’m just not sure I can do that. No matter the cost. Right now, our plan is the only thing that makes sense. One action to right the wrong and give us a new life.

Like Mom always used to say, “Two birds, one stone, my love. Two birds, one stone.”