GUS

ONE OF PHIL’S Shakespeare quotes really appeals to me.

“We know what we are, but know not what we may be.”

I used to have it sticky-tacked to the inside of my locker.

Between that, my favorite snaps from Fruits—the iconic Harajuku J-fashion magazine—a sketch of Edward Elric, a photo of Francesca Martinez, a family picture of our trip to Wisconsin, and the first character sheets Phil and I ever worked on, I had a collage of the things I loved in that tiny metal cupboard. I used to leave my locker open on purpose just in case someone happened to walk by and see me.

It never happened.

There’re always more truths than one. Knowing who I am, or thinking I might know? That’s only half a truth. Because my identity will always be halfway informed by the world. It has to be informed by something. Usually we define ourselves by loving things, Doc Martens or Shakespeare or music or whatever. But if the things we love are other people, those people define us. And then they’re part of you, and they change what you know about yourself.

Who knows what we’re becoming as we march down Main Street at dusk. People along the road jeer or fall silent. I’m panting at the effort or maybe with the adrenaline. Kalyn’s hand is sweaty, but she’s not letting go.

As the five of us walk through this town, clutching a spray-painted bedsheet, hot despite the cold, it’s obvious that some people will never make the effort to see what we could be. If this is a locker we’re leaving open, not everyone cares about looking inside.

This makes my feet heavy. The fact that a hollering, red-faced stranger just tried to break through the parade barrier makes my feet heavy. Officer Newton stomping toward another heckler makes my feet heavy.

So my feet are heavy; what else is new?

I’m starting to understand that people who don’t care about us, who don’t make that effort, shouldn’t factor into who we are.

“We don’t care what you think,” I mutter under my breath. “We don’t care.”

Those words become our chant. I don’t realize I’m repeating it until Kalyn and Sarah start repeating it, too. Phil doesn’t take up the chant, but he’s so wrapped up in the story that he’s forgotten his paralyzing fear of public attention. He’s still here.

Officer Newton spots another threat, a screaming woman—Who was James Ellis to her? What right does she have to claim my dad with her screams, this stranger who never came to see us?—and heads her off. Has he had that baton with him all day?

We pass Maverick’s Diner. The patio is full of onlookers. Over their heads, the walls of the building are wallpapered with Spences Behind Fences posters.

One glance at the other side of the street proves we’ll be seeing that pumpkin patch picture for the remainder of the parade. There are three blocks to go. The band marches on, oblivious to the booing that trails them. The booing can’t bother me.

I’ve spent my whole life being stared at.

I look forward. My dead leg is trying to spasm. But I don’t plan to stop, not yet.

I turn to Kalyn, too breathless to speak.

“If this is their worst?” She grins, showing every crooked tooth. “It’s nothin’.”

At the penultimate block stands Samsboro Cinema, old-timey and neon bright. I’m not surprised to see that three-worded phrase up on the marquee; it’s clear that most of the downtown businesses have decided where they stand.

I am surprised to see the dummy dangling from the marquee, a dummy that would seem normal this close to Halloween, except it’s wearing the same face we’re wearing.

I take a step forward and a weight pulls me back. I’ve spent my whole life being stared at by a dead dad, but Kalyn hasn’t. The sound of the crowd is white noise, but the hiss of air that slips from between her teeth is anything but.

“ ‘Death is a fearful thing,’ ” says Phil.

We stop for so long that the hayride kisses our heels.

“Kay.” I repeat our chant: “We don’t care what they think. We don’t care.”

She nods, shaken for once, and starts forward again—­

Someone blocks our way. Mr. Lewis, owner of the hardware store.

“That’s enough, kids. Get the hell off our street.”

Officer Newton throws an arm across us. “Coach Lewis, this is a peaceful protest. Pull any stunts and we can have words at the station.”

Mr. Lewis spits on the pavement. “They still let you in there, huh? You ain’t a real cop, Earl Newton. The way you talk, you’re still a picked-last freshman burnout. No wonder they demoted you to babysitting.”

I shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone in Samsboro knows everyone else.

“Mr. Lewis. You’re holding up the procession.”

“I’m defending the rights of a wounded family!” Mr. Lewis catches sight of me. “Son, did she threaten you? Come on, now. We’ll get you to your mother.”

I grit my teeth. “I’m not a damn baby.”

Andy Lewis isn’t listening. He’s happy to feel righteous and feel people rallying with him. Townsfolk leak into the street, too many to stop, gathering behind him and around us. The parade marches on, but from here back it’s a standstill.

“Raining on your parade, are we?” he continues. “Sorry I’m not inclined to listen to a cop who sides with criminals. You and Gary still best friends? Write him weekly?”

“Best friends?” Kalyn blurts. Her eyes cut Andy Lewis to ribbons.

“I went to school with your father,” Officer Newton says, raising his voice in turn, “and so did half the people here, and most would have called him friend, too, before this turned into a goddamn crusade.”

There are revelations happening, but it’s hard enough to focus on standing with bodies pressing in on me. I’m being compressed like a tube of toothpaste—­

Kalyn drops my hand when a Styrofoam cup smacks the back of her head. Cocoa splashes my visor and face, hot enough to singe my skin, and I can’t help but yelp.

Kalyn yells and rounds on the crowd, looking for our attacker. Officer Newton is preoccupied with Andy Lewis.

I let go of Sarah’s hand to pull my helmet off, and I manage it with Phil’s help.

“Hey!” Sarah cries. “That’s not okay!”

The cup came from the hayride. The sophomore boy leans over the wooden railing while the juniors pull on his jacket. Sarah breaks away from our chain to climb over the hay bales.

Someone grabs my hand. It’s not Phil—he’s craning his neck, distracted by some chaos I can’t see.

A stranger wearing hoop earrings drags me away from my friends.

“It’s all right, honey, I’ve got you—”

“Nnn!” I’m past coherence. I try to pull free, but I’m wobbly, and my jaw locks—­

“Poor thing, this must be traumatizing for you—”

Mostly she’s traumatizing, and she’s pulled me to the sidewalk—­

And Phil’s between the pair of us, hollering “Avast!” before severing the woman’s grip with a single karate chop to her forearm. She lets go, but her squeal sets off a new surge of yelling.

“Exit, Gus. Exit!”

I anchor my feet in my cherry boots. “Where’s Kalyn?”

“Don’t worry, she’s—”

A fist hits Phil hard enough to bowl him over. It’s followed by a kick and then the screams of nearby witnesses. I don’t recognize our attacker—some guy in khakis and a rugby polo. I don’t care who he is, so long as he stops hurting my best friend. I fight my aching body and grab the stranger’s arm.

The sirens wailing now aren’t in the parade. It’s hard to imagine how this plan could have gone worse. But it feels right, seeing my hometown fall apart like this. For so long it was just me and Kalyn living with the lies here. Now the struggle is everyone’s.

I look beyond the terrible preppy outfit to the face of Phil’s assailant.

“Gus, thank god, man!” Even with his face devoid of makeup and bruised to pieces, Garth’s smile remains charming. “I’m here to save you!”

I can’t hit him without letting go, so I settle for spitting on him.

Garth isn’t what I dreamed he was, but it’s still a shock when his face twists and he grabs my coiled right arm and pulls down on it. My shortened muscles scream and I do, too. It’s the worst agony. My tendons are threads of string cheese being stripped apart.

“Sorry, Gus.” Garth lets go of my bad arm—I whimper—then twists my good one behind my back. He pushes me forward, leaving Phil alone and bleeding at the feet of confused strangers.

I tell myself anyone would feel helpless in a situation like this. But as my right arm spasms, I have to wonder whether other people would have already escaped, whether others could be dragged toward the Maverick Diner’s patio.

“Got him for you, Mr. E.,” Garth says, like some comic book cliché.

“Thank you, Garth.” An old man in a golf shirt stands up from his table. “These bones aren’t what they used to be.”

Garth beams wide. “Just trying to help.”

The old man turns his cataracts on me. “Enough, Gus. Time to come home.”

I stop, and I listen to the shouting and the sudden silence as the band finishes marching. I let the story take over. Grandpa Ellis is here to take me away, but that’s not what numbs me.

Mom is with him, sitting at the table with fries in front of her, wearing that black blazer and absolutely no expression on her face.