LUCK HAS NOTHING

4: Of Mice and Men

I had chemistry the week before my internship at the mayor's. We got separated into our official partners, and went about doing chemistry things. Peter wouldn't look me in the eye, for some reason, but I didn't ask why.

"So," he said in a distinctly flat tone. "I heard you one the mayor-interning-nuke-stadium thing."

I nodded. "Yeah. I'm not sure why everyone cares so much."

Peter didn't respond, and focused a little harder on the apparently suddenly fascinating surface of the bench. I raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you okay?"

He tore his head up so fast I thought he'd get whiplash. "I'm fine," he said defensively. I didn't quite believe him, but decided not to press the issue. It was probably none of my business anyway.

We went on with our experiment – we couldn't get it to work in accordance with long-held scientific principles; somehow I doubted we were secretly discovering the secret of the universe, and not just getting it wrong. The class ended eventually, and Peter still wouldn't meet my eyes.

"Be careful," I heard him mutter. I froze in confusion and he looked at me again. There was something stricken in his face, and I couldn't understand it. I didn't want to see that look on his face; that look on anyone's face. There was something familiar about it, and I couldn't say why.

I arrived home to find Trina with packed bag, wide grin on her face. "What is it, big sis?" I asked. "Running away to Amsterdam?"

She shook her head, and turned so I could see the foundation she had smothered her face with – hiding the bruises. "Nah," she said. "Dad called. He wants me to come home. So... I'm going," she shrugged. My good mood died.

"You... cannot be serious," I said. She looked a little taken aback.

"What?"

"Trina," I said. "Look in a mirror. You're still playing cake-face from what he did to you; you really want to go back to that house?"

She bit her lip and looked away from me. "It was this one thing. I was being pretty bad with the con; he lost his temper. We both fucked up," she was trying to affect a flippant tone, but somehow it wasn't quite working. "He feels guilty, he wants me to come home. He said it won't-"

"Happen again, I know," I said. "It will, Trina. Look at me. It's been over a year and you can still see the scars on my back; when he starts, he doesn't stop."

Her eyes narrowed and her posture straightened. She was getting pissed now. "Oh, come off it, Logan," she said. "You were always a little shit. So was I with that fake movie thing. I trust him; if I just keep my head down we'll be good."

I shook my head at her. "You're hopeless."

"Like you can't talk."

I let out a shuddering breath, and ran my hands through my hair, panicking. I went for a different tactic. "What does your darling boyfriend make of this?" I asked, remembering how angry and protective Jordan had sounded. The Aaron Echolls Black-Eye (TM) he had been wearing when he showed up.

Trina looked uneasy. "He doesn't like it," she admitted. "But it's not his choice. It's mine."

I looked at her sadly. "I'm not going to change your mind, am I?"

"Have you ever?"

"Goodbye, Trina."

She clasped the handle of her suitcase willfully. "Bye."

She walked out. It felt a little like a betrayal, but I wasn't that surprised.

I lingered in Woody's office on the first day of the internship, absent-mindedly playing with a stapler. His secretary – a pretty young black woman; her plaque called her Beverly – was waiting with me, sorting through letters with french manicured nails. I was bored.

Eventually, or good mayor entered and I put the stapler down. His face fell when he saw me, but he tried to cover it up. Failed. It didn't matter; I was used to it by now.

"Mr. Goodman, your intern from Neptune High, Logan Echolls," Beverly announced me.

"Hello," I said redundantly. I stood up, and he walked over and reached across to shake my hand. "Logan; Aaron's son, right?" he said with an overly wide grin. I was still a bit pissed off at being defined by my father, but it wasn't like I expected any different.

"Yeah," I said.

"I read your essay; powerful stuff."

"Well, it came from the heart," proving my heart was kind of a cheat, but whatever. No-one needed to know that. Woody let his manic grin droop a little, to an unsettling smile – Woody Goodman was creepy; I'd always thought so – and released my hand.

"Well then," he said, reaching for a bible. "Let's make it official."

He laid it out and I rested my hand on it for a second, then I leaped back, as if scorched. "Ah! That's burns."

He laughed, and I starting taking the thing seriously. I put my hand on it properly.

"I, Logan Echolls, do solemnly swear to uphold the office of Honorary Assistant Deputy County Commissioner, to the utmost of my ability."

"I do," I said. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go fire the sheriff."

Woody and Beverly laughed at that. I wouldn't get to actually fire Sheriff Lamb; dammit. "Let's save personnel changes for later, okay?" Woody said. "For now, I'd like you to help Beverly here. I need this mail sorted; she'll fill you in."

"Uh..." I couldn't really manage to put into words the fact that I really wasn't meant to be a secretary. Or maybe I was. Woody stormed out before I could ask. I looked back at Beverly, who shrugged. "Let's go, kiddo."

I sighed and sat down at her desk. "Sorry 'bout the secretary work. Our Good Mayor wants the PR without having anything for you to actually do," she explained.

"You sound like you don't like him," I said.

"He's my boss. It's like a rule."

I smiled. "He creeps me out, so I'm okay with that."

"He creeps everyone out," she muttered, and looked down. I raised an eyebrow. What was up with everyone and this guy?

"So, you get to be the enforcer of boring bullshit secretary work."

"Well, I am the secretary. So suck it up. I don't make the rules, I just apply them with a helpless and defeated attitude."

"Dilbert?"

"Fits as well as anything."

It was day or two later. I had spent these days in humanity's most boring internship – I was pretty much just a second secretary; sorting, filing, et cetera. I was alone in the office, and idly searching through, bored.

I came across a rubber stamp, which confused me. I looked at it and found it had Woody's signature on it. Wow, lazy much? Who the hell can't even be bothered to write out their own signature? Still, it seemed open to letting me use it for my own interests. Woody was an idiot.

Going through the desk drawers, I found a scrap of paper. It was dated paper; from the 15th of October, 2003. Scribbled on it was a phone number and a name: Marcos Oliveres.

I frowned. That name seemed a tiny bit familiar, but I didn't know where from. I looked at the handwriting; large, flowy and cursive. Probably Beverly's; maybe Marcos was an ex or something like that. I didn't really care. I couldn't say what drove me to pocket the piece of paper, but it was over a year old, I doubted it would be missed.

I allowed myself to linger for a bit more, before I heard Woody come in. "Oh, hey," I said.

"Hi. You're still here."

"Where else would I be?" I asked. "Not going back to school if not strictly necessary; being at home in the middle of the day is just too depressing. No point, anyway. No-one there."

Woody looked an odd kind of plastic-sad. "I know... all your time alone... You're an extraordinary young man, Logan Echolls."

I paused. It felt a little uncomfortable, but maybe I appreciated it too. "Thanks," I said.

It was a little like being believed.

Another day or two later, I wound up in Woody's office.

"So," I said. "Half-way through this internship. Do I get a gold star?"

Woody laughed. "So, uh, are you excited about the demolish ceremony on Saturday?"

"Nervous, actually. Someone will probably have to talk me through it," I said. "Push... down, right?"

Woody laughed and wore that plastic grin of his, the one that looked like it was going to split his face it two. The one that made him seem like he was made out of wax.

"Only real problem is, if I get pelted down with rotten tomatoes before I get to press the button," I said and shrugged. Woody let out a little 'hmm' noise. My irritation brewed, and I let myself offload a little:

"Of course, I'm the bad guy in this whole situation. No-one could ever second-guess dearest Aaron Echolls; no, clearly it's all my fault. You know, let's look for some good rationalizations for those scars all over my back; make it a good day to bury bad news," I vented, then I noticed Woody staring at me oddly. "Uh... sorry to dump all that on you."

He took a long moment before responding. "Show me," he said.

I blinked a few times; chill settling in my skin, and my brain stubbornly refusing to comprehend the sentence. "Wait, what?" I asked. He stood up and moved towards me; my instincts told me to move away, but I stayed frozen.

"The scars. On your back. Show me them; let me see if it's true or not," he explained, but it rang false. I felt him turn me around and I wanted to run, but I stayed steadfastly deer-in-the-headlights. I could feel his hands – large, dry, rubbery – lifting the hem of my shirt and I felt nauseous. I couldn't understand what was happening; all my brain would allow me to process was bad.

"It's okay," I heard him whisper, allegedly-comfortingly. "I just want to help you. See if you were telling the truth about your father," he said, and ran a finger over one of my long scars – from just below the armpit to the waist. I shivered; some part of me said I was being pathetic, frozen like this. The dark part of me said frozen was better than unconscious on the bed, and my nausea grew.

I realized Woody was tugging at the waistband of my jeans and the disgust-and-fear spell broke; I ripped away from him and pulled my shirt back down in a rush. I saw him look at me with wide eyes, as if he was thinking What? What did I do wrong?

"Logan?" he asked, as I pulled my arms towards myself. What the hell had just happened?

"I should – I should go," I managed to stammer out, as I pulled on my clothing harder to make sure I was covered. Then I turned and stormed out the door; I barely managed not to sprint away.

"Logan!" I heard him call out as I ran, but I didn't care. Soon I was out the door and in the car-park; trying to locate the shape of my yellow X-Terra – I found it in the nice spot I got to steal from Sheriff Lamb; ha, you bastard. I wrenched the door open and climbed inside, trying to school my breathing and keep calm.

On the long list of things I'd been through, this wasn't that bad. It was just new. I was panicking and I knew it; what happened hadn't even gone that far. Maybe Woody really did just want to know the truth about my scars, but somehow I doubted it. Tears were faintly pricking at my eyes, but I shut them down. This wasn't worth crying over.

But my mind was filled with thoughts of Shelley's party; the feel of a roofie and my unconscious body; that anonymous bastard lifting my shirt and feeling those scars just like Woody had and then-

I shut my eyes; I didn't even want to think the end of that sentence. Words occurred to me: be careful. Peter had tried to warn me; he hadn't at all been okay with this internship plan. At least I had someone to ask for advice, then.

I had to look up where Peter actually lived in the phone-book, and wait until he would actually be there, but still. The extra time allowed me to calm down a little, and even wonder if this was a really bad idea. It probably was, but it felt like something I had to do.

I rang the doorbell, and was greeted by a pudgy, dirty, three-quarters drunk man. Peter's father, I guessed. "What is it?" he said.

"Is Peter here?" I asked, not bothering with manners anymore than he had.

He groaned. "Oh, don't tell me. Little fag dragging one of his ass-bandit buddies into my house; the fucker."

My stomach churned unfairly, given my circumstances for being here, but I affected my trademark mocking smirk anyway. "Wow, someone didn't march in the pride parade. And no, by the way. I just... need to talk to him."

"Dad, what is it?" I heard Peter say from behind us, snidely. I looked at him, and he blinked. His face was a mix between concern and confusion. "Logan?" he asked.

"Hey, Peter," I said slowly. "Can I talk to you?"

"Come in," he said, and I walked past his father, who rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. I followed Peter to his room, uncomfortable.

"So... what is it?" Peter said, sitting on his bed. I leaned against the wall and held my arms close to my body.

"You, you told me to be careful. About Woody," I said, then hesitated. Peter bit his lip. "Look, something... weird happened."

"What?" he asked, tone flat.

I took a deep breath. "Okay... It started because he asked to see, y'know, my scars. From my dad," I had never checked to see if Peter actually did believe me about those scars or not, but it wasn't that important at the moment. "But then... you know; he started rubbing my back and creepy shit. So I bolted," I said. Peter nodded.

"Doesn't surprise me," he said. His tone sounded broken, but he was clearly trying to hide it.

Sighing deeply, I pried myself from the wall and sat next to him on the bed. "What did he do to you?" I asked.

Peter paused for a long moment. "I played for his Little League team. Back when I was just, what, eleven? Twelve? Anyway... Turned out, he had a slightly different definition of 'playing' with us boys there," he explained, and I watched as his shoulders went up a little, as if some weight had been lifted.

It took me a while to respond. "I'm sorry," I said. What else what there to possibly say to that? "Were there... you know, others?"

"I warned you for a reason, didn't I?" he replied. "There were plenty of us. I only know a couple by name; actually who they are."

I bit my lip and reached into my pocket, handing Peter the scrap of paper from before. "I found this, when I was at the office. It might not even be relevant, but..." I trailed off when I saw Peter flinch at that name. "He has something to do with it, doesn't he? Was he-"

"One of us?" Peter cut me off. "Yeah. Yeah he was."

I hesitated. "Are... are you, you know, going to do something about it?" I phrased that question as non-judgmentally as I could, to avoid the hypocrisy in it.

"Logan. Look. Woody Goodman: mayor, well-respected, fucking loaded. Me: poor, annoying fag. Who do you think they'd believe?"

He had a good point. He continued: "I... I was considering it before. I thought, if I could get the 09er on our side... but then, you happened. You proved something to me. Can't take a man like that down after all."

I shuddered a little; unfairly feeling like a burden. "Gee. Aren't I a special snowflake?" I asked, and paused. "09er?"

"He'd kill me if I told you who he was," Peter said. I accepted that. "I'd probably have never have gotten him to help me anyway. It doesn't matter."

I nodded. "Yeah. He... whoever... probably none of my business."

Peter was now staring at a slightly chipped spot of paint on his wall. "So," he said.

"So," I replied.

There was nothing else to say.

Unfortunately, I still had a good amount of my internship left to go. I avoided Woody whenever I could, and he seemed more than willing to let the whole thing slide. He seemed almost scared of me – of what I knew.

Beverly avoided my eyes too, and I looked down at the piece of paper I was still carrying. Beverly's girly handwriting. Marcos Oliveres. October 15th. Right after Keith lost his job; right after Neptune proved how it had loved it's rich men. I didn't know the guy, but I knew how he related, and I bet Beverly had known too.

"You don't like him much, do you?" I asked in a flat tone. "Woody?"

She gave me a bemused smile. "Didn't we have this conversation, just like, a few days ago?"

I sighed, and held the paper tighter. "Who's Marcos Oliveres?" I asked. Her smile fell and she looked down to the floor. "No, don't answer that. I already know."

"We both... after you... you can't take a man like that down," she half-concluded. Then she looked back up at me: "I don't make the rules. I just enforce them with a helpless and defeated attitude."

The demolition ceremony was less fun that it ought to be, but that had something to do with being in the proximity of a known – if only to a select few – child molester. I really just wanted to get this over with.

I heard Woody making some sort of speech about the history of Shark Field Stadium; I didn't care. I looked at the building I got to destroy. It would be cool.

Eventually, Woody finished and I took the plunger. The crowd was still looking at me skeptically – they did not like me – but I ignored it. I pressed down, and watched as the stadium started to implode. Cool.

There was a sort of power in it; in destroying this thing. But I looked at Woody smiling at the cameras, and remembered who I was. People like me – me, Peter, Beverly, whoever Woody got his hands on – didn't get the power. We got to be the victims, as a evil son of a bitch got to run rampant, because we weren't going to start a war we couldn't win and suffer the casualities.

Just another day in Neptune, then.