Injustice

Chapter 3

The hallways of Angel Grove high school have never seemed so empty before. I know every face, have seen them every day of my life practically, but I don't recognize them. The looks they give me, the whispers behind my back. It isn't the way I thought it would be. They had semen from the crime scene, had a few more kids come forward, and several teacher's submitting statements about how I'm a good kid, an honest kid. But still, there's a venomous doubt. I'm not a poor, coddled victim; in their eyes, I'm sort of deviant myself.

The things they say are as hurtful as they are wrong. I'm not the type of guy that has those sorts of problems. I'm gay. Baldo has a wife and kid; how could I do this to them? I'm gay. I'm just an alpha-male feeling threatened by a masculine authority figure. I'm gay. The football team hates me. The wrestler's won't even nod in my direction, anymore. Mr. Caplan wonders if I'm seeking attention. They all lord it as undeniable fact. Rumors, personal discrimination, being treated as tangible evidence that I'm lying.

But, worst of all, some think it is funny. They are laughing at me. They are laughing at the idea of somebody raping me. The fact that I actually wasn't touched no longer matters. My character has been dragged through the mud; my name passed from condescending mouth to judgmental ear. I feel betrayed. I feel like punching their faces until I'm holding the squishy grey matter beneath their skulls, then laughing at their pain until my voice is as broken as they are. As broken as I'm beginning to fear that I am.

Skull hands me a cigarette. At least, I think it's a cigarette. Actually, looking at it closer, it's not a cigarette. It smells weird; it tastes weird. I hand it back, coughing out some sweet flavored smoke. Skull smiles, raising his eyebrows as he snuffs it out on the side of the concrete wall. He sits there, nearly on my shoulder as I stand beside him. He looks like a Tim Burton version of John Lennon, with his round sunglasses, civil war jacket, and skull-patterned stretch pants; bright yellow boots notwithstanding. We watch some kids skateboarding in the distance, trying not to mention the event we came here to talk about.

"It's actually better this way," Skull says, nonchalantly lighting up another dubious cigarette.

"How's that?" I ask, trying not to sound bitter. There's a part of me that wishes I'd just walked away and let him fight his own battle. He hasn't exactly been grateful. "I'm being treated like a criminal."

"Oh yeah?" Skull giggles. Apparently, he thinks my frustration is humorous. "I am a criminal! If it were me, they wouldn't have checked for splooge. They wouldn't have even taken my statement."

The silence is thick between us after that. I want to say he is being dramatic, but it's probably the truth. If they can paint me as illicit with a palette as clean as mine was, imagine what they'd make of Skull. Skull, whose parents ride motorcycles, and wear as many spikes and leather as their son. Skull, whose father has been to jail as many times as he's been to one of Skull's birthday parties. Skull, whose status as a juvenile delinquent somehow makes him immune to victimization.

I don't have the heart to tell him they have his bandana.