Work Text:
There was nothing special about my 'Summer of 2002,' it’s just one July day that stands out to me. I was carrying copies of Animal Farm, Catcher in the Rye, a collection of Stephen King novellas titled ‘Different Seasons,’ and Season 3 of Sabrina the Teenage Witch. My schoolbag at the time was this huge, horrid, thing that felt like carrying a flat cardboard box. All objects and Harvey (that's my bunny rabbit, remember?) clunked against each other, inside and on a tread back home from the library.
I wanted to leave as soon as it opened, but my father had made me wait. He wanted to drop me off on his way to that dealership. Said if I wasn't home when he got off, he'd come pick me up right away. As if I'd spend all day cooped up in there, like it's my office at work. I thought maybe I’d find out I've forgotten something the second I walked in. I would have to go back with my library card still hot, then I'd check all my pockets half a block down to see if I still have it.
I can't help thinking stuff like that, though I've never actually forgotten anything, and I wasn't thinking like that when I walked by the Courthouse. It was more like just walking by the Steps; steps that seemed larger than life, and longer than some. Those steps felt like they separated a kid like you from law, something you would (usually) have no interest in.
That's where I saw Marty that day, sitting by the rails with a busted knee. I remember catching [his] face first. The way my reactive smile, natural to [him,] seemed to shift with a wince.
“Hey, Suze...” [He] had greeted me with a wave, rather tame compared to the void in his jeans. Little white threads, all torn up on the edges of sticky denim, were colored in by blood and drying up in the sunlight.
I made eye contact with [him,] tried to keep my head from going to that rose garden in Wonderland. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I'm fine... I just fell off the rails.”
“It doesn't look fine…” I had to fight with my own pupils for them to stay on Marty. I was straining them out against dark speckles that scattered down [his] neck and around [his] shoulders. “Did you get a haircut?”
“Nah…” [He] turned [his] head, with an almost secretiveness to it.
I couldn't argue with Marty about how I could clearly see [his] hair had gotten shorter, because my eyes had just broken off my leash. I caught another glimpse of it, the knee. If you saw how little the scar Marty's got now, compared to how it looked still fresh, you wouldn't believe it. It was my first taste of real gore, I think. Younger than I was here, I had been prone to nosebleeds in humidity changes. But that was completely natural to me, I knew that Marty's scrape here was man-made.
I bounced my stare off [his] knee in a blink, like a slideshow flipping to something new, which was the skateboard laying by [him] on the sidewalk. Its underside was caked in bumpy blue paint, clashing with a red slash near the top. It looked angry. It looked like cherry pie with a crust of shattered glass.
“Skate-made…”
“What?”
I point to its scowl, “that didn't come from you, right?”
“No…” My attempt at humor had made Marty crack a small smile, at least. “I got that board for my birthday.”
“I didn't know you liked to skate,” but it made sense to me.
“Yeah, neither did my parents, I think. They were surprised when I asked for it...” With the good leg, [he] flipped the board over, putting a foot down and rolling it a little. “I don't know either, I guess… I'm not really a skater.”
“Well… You gotta start somewhere!”
That made [his] smile grow bigger, showing me some slightly crooked teeth. “My brother actually got it for me.”
“You have a brother?”
“Yeah, I guess you wouldn't really know about him. He's not, well… George's. I got a sister, too... said she'd help me decorate it next time she's visiting. They're both way, way, older than me, though, and got homes way out there... So, who knows when that's happening.” [He] stomped [his] board up on its pink wheels, giving me a brighter view of the canvas. Sketched into the paint I could see a triangular curve, a bit asymmetrical. “I just started doing it myself... it's supposed to be a shark.”
"Is it your first time painting?”
Marty started shaking [his] head, before shifting gear and closing his eyes to give a nod. An almost ‘No,’ and a full ‘Yes.’
“It looks…” I thought it looked fine, mostly because I got the hint [he] would be even more of an amateur at painting than [he] was at skating. “Nice… Are you sure you don't need any help with that?”
I pointed to that bloody knee without even looking. I didn't want to, and I didn't need to. It had a gravitational pull surrounding it, tugging on my hand. [He] shakes [his] head again, a full ‘No.’ It was around here when Marty started standing up, probably planning to go home. Though I was still avoiding its sight like the plague, nearly shutting my eyes, I could still feel every wince and limp in the few steps [he'd] taken before I spoke again.
“Why don't you come over? We can finish painting it together!”
Marty turned around and looked at me. [He] was quick, as if [he] had been shocked I said anything at all, or if anything I said was greatly anticipated. “Really?”
“Yeah, I got the stuff for it- I'm pretty good at it.” I'm great at it, but the real reason why I needed wanted [him] to come home with me was clear. I think it was pretty clear to both of us, but I wasn't supposed to actually do anything. I wasn't meant to do anything about the bloody pulp my best friend had replacing [his] knee. It was like I had disturbed the flow of something, just by caring. “You don't have to, of course...”
“No, I want to!” [He] almost cut me off with that, I think it was the loudest thing [he'd] ever said to me. I had heard [him] yell before, of course, but never at me. “It’s alright with your dad?”
“It's the same as I told you before, Marty. He's never had a problem with you.”
“Not even-”
“Not once.”
“Alright…” [He] confirmed by giving four quick nods this time.
I had picked up [his] skateboard, I didn't want Marty to get back on it. Compared to my bag it weighed nothing, probably could've fit in it perfectly. With my free hand I had grabbed [his] own out of habit, looking both ways before we crossed. My sight lingered on [him,] who now stared on as we waited for the signal to change.
That was when I put it together. [His] hair had gotten shorter, yes… but it wasn't cut. Instead, [he] had begun burning it off.
“Hey, Suzy?” The light had come and we walked. I could feel [his] pulse on every crosswalk line, just in the palm of my hand. “You're not going to tell my parents, right… about me getting… hurt, I mean.”
“Why?”
“I just don't want them to know.”
“Then I won't…” [He] knew I wouldn't, not if [he] asked me to. “Why though? Is everything okay?”
“At home? Yeah, it's fine, nothing ever happens…”
I don't know why I asked that. He's not my favorite author, or anything like that, but I do frequently read George McFly’s work. He never really writes about evil, he's nothing like Steinbeck. “Then what's wrong? I promise, I'm not gonna tell, but I wanna know…”
“If they know something is wrong, then they'll try to find it... They'll look for bullies…” Marty made quotes in the air with right-hand fingers at that. “They’ll ask if I'm on dope… They'll go through my CD collection… Ask me if I'm going to kill myself, or something…”
“Are you-”
“No, I'm not. They'll send me to a shrink, who also probably isn't gonna find out…”
“Why's that?”
“Cause’ that's the thing… I don't know, either.”
When we got to my house I first started painting the stomach white with a single blue tint, only after I had painted Marty's knee in antiseptic. [He] took a sharp breath, inhaling a spear through [his] teeth. I told [him] it would've been worse if [he] had gone home and tried to hide it, [he] knew that. We both knew I’d over-wrapped with the bandaging, I think I was trying to suggest kneepads.
We evened out Marty's original outline, [he] got a pencil and we gave it a more arrow head. I was scraping some of his paint off with both my nails and house keys. He took a stray sharpie out of his pocket and put two little dashes on the snout. “His nostrils,” Marty said.
“Your shark's a boy?”
“Yeah, but that doesn't matter as much as his nostrils. He needs those to breathe.”
“Wouldn’t he have gills?”
“Then he must be a landshark.”
“You don't skate on land… You skate on cement.”
“Cementshark.”
“Cement and wood…”
“...Cement and woodshark.”
I'd gone quiet for a moment, looking at [him] from across the board. [He] didn't notice how long I stared, [he] was focused on the shark. Paint splotches had fallen on Marty's tee, a foot below that litter of burnt hair sticking to [his] over and undershirt collars.
“Don't you need to breathe?”
Marty looked up at me, tilting [his] head in a usual confusion.
“You're wearing two shirts, I mean... It's Summer, aren't you burning alive?”
“How would you know? You were out there wearing leg warmers and a sweater.”
“A cardigan… I wear cardigans.” I didn't even know if there was a difference, just knew I could sound witty. “And I'm not talking about me, I'm talking about you.”
“Then well, yeah… I'm sweating, but I feel comfortable.” Marty looked down again. “I think… I think I'd rather be boiling alive than put in an iron maiden...”
We silenced after that, going back to sea, matching the paint [he] used with the blues I had. It was [his] suggestion to put some grey in it, a great suggestion. Together, we filled in any scratches I had left or any place Marty had missed, my hand and brush staying cautious of the “nostrils.” It started to look a lot nicer, already.
“Time to take Mr. Shark to his dentist appointment.” I think this was the lamest thing I have ever said. Looking back, I guess I was just 12.
“I think I'm naming him Bruce.”
“Like the shark from Jaws?”
“Nah… I don't like Jaws.”
I blinked at Marty, almost like I was seeing a ghost. I swore that I remembered watching that movie with [him,] and the both of us loved it. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Don't get me wrong! It's a great film, and all…” You can hear that defensiveness rise in [his] voice, I still hear it to this day. “I just don't like what it did for sharks.”
“I can understand that, I guess…”
“And with a shark looking that fake, too.”
I started shaping his Bruce's mouth into more of a smile, going with this magenta outline to match the wheels. Marty requested that I give him "razor sharp" teeth, but I already got a feeling that [he'd] want them fixed-up like that.
“They won't hurt you, right?”
“Huh?”
“Promise me they won't hurt you.”
[He] scoffed and rolled his eyes, [he] didn't know what I was talking about. I'm not sure I knew what I was talking about, not anymore, at least. “I promise they won't hurt me.”
I watched Marty leave that day through my bedroom window. [He] waved at the glass, dusk growing behind him. Even though [he] didn't look directly at me, I ducked my head in an embarrassed shame. [He] left his skateboard with me to dry I assume, [he] didn't really say anything about it.
The rest of Summer flew by fast, and I gave it to [him] on our first day back, after school. [He] was out there sulking, sitting on the steps at the front entrance. It was familiar, but the first day back is never easy, I suppose. I remember how uncomfortable it felt to lug my bag around that day, and I remember how surprised [he] looked when I took it out of my bag. It was like [he'd] almost forgotten about it completely, but I also remember the instant joy that came to [his] face right after. Marty looked like [he] was about to hug me, and it could be the tightest you've ever been held.
We said goodbye to each other, like we did most afternoons, or in the mornings after sleepovers. [He] didn't skate, but walked away carrying [his] board with the wheels sticking out. The sun shined on our shark, showing my painting off to any pedestrian that passed on by. Marty must've been really proud of it.
I bring this story up because, well, I just never wrote about it until now. I stopped writing here when I turned 12, but I’m also here because of something that happened earlier this week, during our fall break. Something bad, all around.
I can't write down the words my boyfriend's “buddies” call Marty, and what I know they want to call me, too. I have my own friends who say the same things, but never to [his] face, never to my face.
Just know we were both sitting in the backseats of Donnie’s car while he was dropping us off. That's my boyfriend, I never got a chance to write about him, either. He dresses nice, and his car looks nice, on the outside… The smell inside, though? Not so nice…
"I'm sorry about that.” When he speaks loud enough so we can hear him over the radio, that's how I know he's being genuine.
“Then why do you hang out with those jerks?” Marty cut him off, with a sourness in his voice I couldn't entirely disagree with. [He] was huddled up by the door, without [his] seatbelt buckled. Between us was that skateboard, broken in half.
‘It’s nothing we can't fix.’ I thought to myself “It's nothing we-”
“You think I like hanging out with those guys? Cause' I don't. If you ask me, I think you did a good thing. They needed a good knock-”
“Fuck off, Donaldson.”
The car went quiet after that. I wanted to tell Donnie it was, kind of, alright. I wanted to make Marty apologize, but ‘screw off,’ Donaldson did. He parked by some pizzeria, left us alone to go in, and to probably get some air.
“Those guys are… dicks...” I began telling Marty, who was already looming over the passenger seat and changing the station. I don't know why [he] felt a need to, Donnie always lets me pick the music, then I just let Marty pick anyways. “It doesn't matter what they say.”
“Yeah, I know they don't matter… I don't care about them.”
“Then why'd you do it?” Why'd [he] break [his] skateboard over some irrelevant dick’s head?
There was both a small chuckle and scoff to [his] words. “I don't know! I've just been out of it lately, I think…”
“What’s wrong?”
[He] still kept mostly quiet, trailing off out the window and the conversation. “I didn't mean to snap at him like that, either…”
“Donnie?”
“Yeah, Donaldson… I really like him, Jenn-”
I raised my eyebrow at [him.] [He's] been making them raise lately, especially when you can hear the start of my middle name in [his] mouth.
“Suzy… I really like him, Suzy, I promise...”
“Well, I would never think that…”
“I promise!” [He] whipped [his] head at me, almost crying. You could hear it in [his] voice, but I saw it in [his] eyes. A flood threatening to spill, and threatening to drown us both, but [he] just sucked it up. “You spend your whole life thinking something, just to…”
“Just to what?”
Marty didn't finish what [he] was saying, hanging [his] head in almost shame instead, looking at the split halves of [his] board.
“Is your brain fried?”
“Maybe, I don't know, maybe… I barely even rode this thing…”
“Bruce.”
“Huh?”
“You named him Bruce, remember? You told me that when we painted him together.”
“When you painted him, I didn't do anything…”
“But you did…” I picked up the head's half and showed it to Marty, pointing at two, now faded, sharpie marks. “You gave him his nostrils, you said he needed to breathe…”
“Yeah, but you did most of the work…” Before I could argue with [him,] about [his] own skateboard, and [his] own usefulness, Marty kept going. “I think that's why I never rode it… I didn't wanna mess up your painting.”
“But look at it now…”
[He] did with guilt, taking another look before turning to the window again. I could hear a sniffle.
“Hey… It's nothing we can't fix…”
Behind a second sniffle, I could hear some kind of amusement. “Yeah?”
‘Really…’ I wanted to say, but I couldn't. We didn't say anything to each other for the rest of the night, not even when Donaldson came back with slices and soda cans for all of us, not even on the rest of the drive back.
We can fix the skateboard, sure, and we can act all chummy tomorrow, sure, but there'll still be something bugging Marty. There'll be something bugging [him] the next day, and the day after that, and in a month. I don't know what it is, maybe [he] does. I don't think there's anything wrong with [him,] I never will, I'd love [him] no matter what. But I know something is going on, something putting [him] through hell. I can't help [him] fix it, not if I don't know what it is. I'm going to find out, though, I need to.