I’m beginning to think you should have hanged yourself rather than me. I probably would have cried over you, but I wouldn’t have come to this. Jesus Christ, you’re fucking pathetic. I don’t know what I ever saw in you.
It wasn’t Jesse. I repeated that over and over. Jesse was dead, Jesse had loved me, Jesse never would have said those things.
I only killed myself because of you. To escape you. You smothered me, Henry Denton. You loved me to death. You should be dead, not me.
It wasn’t Jesse, couldn’t have been Jesse, but he was right. I should be dead. I wish I were dead. Because you can only die once, but you can suffer forever.
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Coach Raskin discovered me at the end of last period when he came to shut off the lights. Finding me victimized and covered in green paint on the shower floor probably confirmed his opinion of my weakness. I’m willing to bet there was some small part of him that thought I deserved it. He cut the tape around my wrists and ankles, moved me into his office, and gave me a towel, but he refused to let me go home.
Principal DeShields arrived shortly after and hammered me with questions: Who had attacked me? Had I provoked them? What were their names? Why was I in the showers? I did my best to provide answers, but my head throbbed, and the fluorescent overhead lights buzzed, bright and sickly. I wanted to go home, clean the paint off, and never return to CHS again. I didn’t mention smelling Marcus’s cologne because it would have pitted his word against mine, and he had the benefit of both a car and money.
The paramedics’ arrival saved me from further interrogation, but aside from scraped knees and elbows, and slightly swollen testicles, I was unhurt. They took my vitals anyway and tried to clean some of the paint from my face and around my eyes. The police arrived next.
“Are you Henry Denton?”
The officer stood in the doorway of Coach Raskin’s office. Her name tag identified her as Sandoval. She was stiff-backed with serious eyes and a crooked nose. I should have been grateful to see her, but this made it real. She’d file an official report, and everyone would know I’d been assaulted. Now I had no chance that this would quietly disappear.
Principal DeShields straightened her cream-colored jacket and shook Sandoval’s hand. Her dour frown met Sandoval’s humorless eyes, and it looked like a competition to see who could take my situation more seriously. “I’m Margaret DeShields, principal of Calypso High School.” Then she fell silent, like she’d planned a whole speech but had forgotten it.
“I need to speak to the victim,” Sandoval said. I wasn’t Space Boy or Henry Denton; I was The Victim. Coach Raskin’s office was cramped, and I had to gulp for breath to get enough air into my lungs. Sandoval must have read my mind because she said, “Alone.”
Everyone cleared out, but Principal DeShields hovered outside the doorway, probably mentally strategizing damage control.
Officer Sandoval produced a reporter’s notepad and pen from her pocket and turned the full weight of her somber gaze upon me. It was the kind of look I knew could extract the truth the way a dentist tears free a rotten molar. Only, Sandoval wouldn’t use Novocain. “Walk me through what happened.”
I recounted the attack, sticking to the facts and avoiding conjecture. Even though I was sure I knew the identities of the three aliens who attacked me, I couldn’t prove it. Officer Sandoval listened closely but didn’t write anything down. I didn’t tell her about Jesse speaking to me.
“They were wearing masks?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you hear their voices? Could you identify them if you heard them again?”
Marcus McCoy had called me Space Boy so many times that I knew by heart the way his faint Southern accent stretched out the a and clipped the y, but doubt lingered. Maybe I’d imagined it—his voice, the smell of summer. I didn’t want to believe Marcus was capable of attacking me. “No. Nothing.”
Sandoval frowned and scribbled in her notebook. “Do you know why anyone would have targeted you?”
I could have given her a hundred reasons:
I was Space Boy.
Marcus was still pissed I’d refused to hook up with him again.
Adrian wanted revenge for our fight in the locker room.
I was Space Boy.
I was weak.
Fuck it, fuck this place, fuck them all.
“It’s Halloween,” I said. “And I was an easy target.”
Officer Sandoval pursed her lips—she definitely wasn’t buying that line of bullshit. However, I’d endured enough shame for one day. I was sure Principal DeShields, Coach Rankin, or anyone else she asked could tell her what she wanted to know. I was done talking.
The sharp rattle of a slamming door outside the office caused Officer Sandoval to glance over her shoulder, but I knew who it was before the shouting began.
My mom had come to take me home.
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