I didn’t say anything as we finished creating our Machu Picchu. We had built the skeleton out of LEGOs, had used real sod for the grass, and had been making little cube-shaped papier-mâché buildings for weeks. In my memory, the project looks magnificent—like I’d never made something so beautiful before or since. And Asher had been really proud of it just the week before—excited even. But just as I put the final bit of paint on the last structure, Asher started to smash the project with his fists.
“What are you doing?” I yelled, because we had spent weeks on it.
He just kept punching and smashing, sending down fists from above like some cruel boy-god.
It was so fucking awful to watch—not just because he was ruining all of our hard work, but because I could clearly see he was coming undone.
I tried to grab him and he punched me in the face hard—giving me a black eye.
Then he just started to cry in this really violent way.
His mother came in and saw what was going on. She said, “What happened?”
I stood there with my mouth open as she tried to hug Asher, but he just ran right by her and into his room.
I’d never been so confused.
I couldn’t even explain what had happened to my parents, because I had no idea.
You’d think they would have called Mrs. Beal and asked a bunch of questions, but I don’t think they did, and I remember my dad saying, “Boys fight at that age. Just part of growing up,” to Linda, who was more concerned with how ugly my black eye appeared than the reason for Asher’s freak-out.
Asher didn’t come to school for a few days, and then he just showed up at my house late one afternoon and said, “Can we talk?”
“Sure,” I said.
My dad and Linda weren’t home. We went up into my room and he started pacing like a caged animal. I had never seen him pace like that before.
“I’m sorry I fucked up our project,” he said.
“It’s okay.” I didn’t really care about failing or anything like that, but what he had done to me definitely wasn’t okay, and I knew it.
Why did I say it was okay?
I should have said, “Why the hell did you punch me? What the fuck is wrong with you?” But I didn’t.
I wish I had.
Maybe if I had gotten angry . . .
“Something happened on the fishing trip,” he said.
He looked at me in this crazy way.
He looked so desperate.
But then he broke eye contact, said, “Never mind. I have to go,” and walked out of my room.
I was so confused that I let him walk away without saying a word. I know now that I should have chased him, asked again what was wrong, promised to help him, or—at the very least—I should have told someone that Asher was acting weird, but I was afraid of that desperate look. I didn’t want Asher to punch me again—and I was just a kid.
How was I supposed to know what to do?
The next day, Asher returned to school and really appeared to be okay. For a while everything seemed to go back to normal. Our teacher even let us redo our Machu Picchu model for three-quarters credit, which we accomplished in half the time it took us to build the original.
But then Asher started picking fights with kids at school who were small and quiet.
He started to make fun of me during lunch periods—saying crazy weird stuff like he caught me jerking off to a picture of his mom, or that I tried to grab his dick in the locker room—and he was always trying to trip me in the halls and pushing me into lockers.
I didn’t like it at all, but I didn’t say anything.
Why?
I should have said something—not just to stick up for myself, but because I think Asher wanted me to save him.
Like maybe he wanted me to make it stop the whole time and on some subconscious level he was pushing me to get so fucking angry that I would finally tell the adults in our lives that he needed help. I wonder now if all of what happened afterward—the bullying and then the really bad shit—was his way of punishing me for failing to protect him.
When I finally stood up for myself—when he stopped with me—I knew there would be others.
What if I had the power to save both of us—all of us—all along?
I need to take care of what I should have taken care of a long time ago.
I need to make it stop permanently.
TWENTY-EIGHT
My target suddenly makes an appearance in Mrs. Beal Makes Her Perverted Son His Last Meal—there he is on the kitchen’s bay-window drive-in movie screen.
I start to sweat.
Enemy collateral target known as “Asher’s mother” gives the primary target a kiss on the cheek.
Primary target says something before disappearing.
Primary target looks like the all-American next-door boy in the movie—like the kid you’d pick to take your daughter to the prom. The dutiful-son lie plastered all over that drive-in movie screen gets my heart pumping machine-gun blood drops that race through my veins as I turn the P-38 safety off with my thumb and finger the trigger.[61]
Every inch of my skin is slick with sweat, even though it’s probably less than forty degrees out. A minute ago I was shivering, but now I fight an urge to take off my shirt—that’s how hot I feel. It’s like I swallowed the sun.
Primary target’s bedroom light comes on a second later, which is supposed to be my cue to move and put the plan into action, but my feet remain rooted to the ground.
Primary target flicks on his computer and his face glows like an alien.
Kill the alien, I think.
Remember what he did to you.
You have every right.
He’s not human.
He’s a thing.
A target.
Remember to use your military training—what you gleaned from the Internet.
I leave my body and my essence floats up maybe fifteen feet above my head so that I am looking down on the flesh and bones and blood—the matter—I used to inhabit.
I can’t see my expression because of the Bogart hat, but my right arm is outstretched and the P-38 is pointed at the primary target.
My legs don’t walk, but I start to glide across the backyard, through the darkness, light as a ghost.
I look like a rigid lowercase r being pulled across ice.
What’s pulling me? I think as I hover through the stiff winter air looking down, which is when I realize my essence is being pulled too—I’m sort of following my flesh like a helium birthday balloon tied to a little kid’s wrist.[62]
I’m standing in the target’s window now, remembering what he did to me in that very bedroom so many times.
How confused I felt.
How I wanted it to stop.
How he intimidated me.
How he psychologically tricked me.
How he said if I stopped doing what we were doing he’d tell people in great detail all about what we had done together and then everyone would call me a faggot and maybe even beat the shit out of me.
People would believe him and not me, when he said I made him do it.
And how if I stopped doing what he wanted me to do he’d post the video he secretly made of us with his computer camera that I didn’t know was on.
62
This is what used to happen when I was alone with Asher in his bedroom too—I’d just sort of detach and float above as what happened happened. And for a while that was enough to protect me from feeling too bad. It was like what was happening was happening to someone else, while I floated safely with my back against the ceiling and my eyes closed.