Are you deaf? She asked you to leave her alone!
It took Wade a couple of seconds to wipe the beer out of his eyes and recover from the shock, and by then a couple of our lacrosse teammates had grabbed hold of him so he couldn’t do anything stupid. It was the middle of the season and our team was doing really well. The last thing we needed was for the party to get busted, and a bunch of our best players to get suspended for drinking and fighting. But Wade was furious.
For a week or two it was a big deal in school, like, Hey, did you hear about Wade and Spitzer? But then it just kinda died down. There were other parties, other incidents. Wade got back with Fiona, our team made it to the state quarterfinals, and then it was summer vacation. The whole beer-in-the-face thing seemed like ancient history, except that Wade couldn’t stop brooding about it. We ignored him, because everybody knew that Wade could be a nasty drunk. When he’s sober, he’s one of the sweetest, most laid-back guys you could know.
*
It was just bad luck that night in August. Wade and Fiona were on the outs again, Becca and I were fighting, and our buddy Troy hated his camp counselor job, which required him to spend his days with whiny five-year-olds. We tried to cheer ourselves up by drinking a bottle of Popov vodka in the woods by the golf course, but getting wasted didn’t improve our mood.
Afterward, we drove around in Troy’s Corolla for a while, circling past the same familiar landmarks over and over—the high school, the cemetery, the lake, the high school again—because nobody felt like going home, and at least we could be bored together, and complain about the songs on the radio.
And then, on maybe our eighth or ninth lap around the town, we just happened to see him—Julian Fucking Spitzer, all alone on a dark stretch of Green Street. He was riding his skateboard at a good clip, pushing off with one foot and then gliding for a while, not a care in the world.
“Look at that,” Troy said. “It’s your little buddy.”
He slowed down until we were right on Julian’s ass, and then gunned it, swerving around him and jackknifing the Corolla so it blocked the road. Julian had to jump off the skateboard to keep from plowing into us. He could have run, but for some reason he just stood there, paralyzed, as Wade stepped out of the passenger seat.
“Get in the fucking car,” he said. “We’re going for a ride.”
“What if I say no?” asked Julian.
“Just get in the car, asshole.”
Julian didn’t argue. It was like he’d been expecting this for a long time, and figured he should just get it over with. He picked up his skateboard and climbed obediently into the backseat. Wade ducked in right behind him, so there were three of us back there, with Julian squashed in the middle. Troy started the engine and we headed off.
“How’s it going, dude?” Wade asked in a fake friendly voice. “Having a good summer?”
“Not really,” said Julian.
“Awesome,” said Wade. “Happy to hear it.”
He slipped his arm around Julian’s shoulders like they were boyfriend and girlfriend. I could smell someone’s sweat, sharp and sour, but I wasn’t sure whose it was. It was like we were one person back there, three bodies glued together.
“I’ve been looking all over for you,” Wade said, in this weird flirty voice. “You never answer my texts.”
Julian didn’t reply. He kept glancing in my direction, pleading for help, but there was nothing I could do. This was between him and Wade.
“You shouldn’t have thrown that beer in my face.” Wade squeezed him a little tighter. “That was a big mistake.”
“I’m sorry.” Julian’s voice cracked a little, like he was maybe gonna cry. “I’m really sorry.”
“I bet you are,” Wade agreed. “But it’s way too late for an apology.”
Julian nodded, like he’d figured as much. His voice was small and scared. “What are you gonna do to me?”
Wade didn’t answer for a while. He took his arm off Julian’s shoulders and gazed out the window at the dark houses with their neat front yards, attractive homes full of decent people.
“I’m not a bad person,” he said. “I’m really not.”
I could totally see his dilemma. He’d talked so much about the hardcore vengeance he was going to inflict on Julian, and now he had to deliver. You couldn’t just drive around with the kid for a half hour and then let him off with a stern warning.
“You should fuck him in the ass,” Troy suggested. “I bet he’d like that.”
*
I guess it could’ve been worse. There was no violence, no bloodshed, no tears. Nobody got fucked in the ass. It was just the four of us standing in front of a disgusting Port-A-John near the soccer field in VFW Park. I swear, you could smell that thing from twenty yards away, a cloud of human waste and chemical perfume that had been fermenting in the sun for the whole summer. Wade held out his hand and asked Julian for his phone.
“Why?” Julian asked. “What are you gonna do with it?”
“Just give it to me, asshole.”
Once again, Julian did as he was told. Wade shoved the phone into his pants pocket. Then he pointed at the Port-A-John.
“Get in there,” he said.
I had my hand on Julian’s shoulder. I could feel his whole body stiffen.
“No way,” he said.
“Oh, you’re going in,” Wade told him. “I guarantee you that.”
“Please,” Julian said. “I already apologized.”
Wade poked him in the chest. “I’m not gonna say it again.”
Julian just sort of went limp. All the fight went out of him.
“That’s all?” he said. “You’re not gonna hurt me?”
“That’s all,” Wade told him.
“You promise?”
“I promise. Now get the fuck in there.”
It was all very civilized. Wade opened the door to that reeking closet and Julian stepped inside.
“Enjoy your evening,” Wade told him.
Julian turned to face us. The Port-A-John was slightly elevated, so it was almost like he was on stage. I guess he felt like he had nothing to lose.
“You guys suck,” he said. “I hope you know that.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Troy told him. “You’re getting off easy. If it was up to me—”
“I’m serious,” Julian continued. “Guys like you are what’s wrong with the—”
Wade slammed the flimsy plastic door before Julian could finish his sentence. Then he sealed it shut using the duct tape he’d found in Troy’s glove compartment. He wrapped it really well, using every last bit of tape on the roll, turning that Port-A-John into a prison cell.
“Yo, Julian,” he said. “I’m leaving your phone out here.”
“Fuck you.” Julian’s voice sounded muffled and far away, though he was right next to us. “You’re a terrible person. All three of you.”
Wade dropped the phone in the grass.