Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC. The fictional band Degenerate Matter, their albums Vagabondage, Ultrarelativistic, WIMPs and MACHOs, Frozen Stars, the songs "Point Place A"/"Stargazer," "Shit Talkers," "Because I'm a Girl," and all the lyrics contained therein copyright to the author of this story (username: MistyMountainHop, maker of Those '70s Comics).
CHAPTER 51
BECAUSE I'M A GIRL
April 1, 1995
San Mateo, California
Francis Beach
…
In the distance beyond the parking lot, waves broke against the shoreline of Francis Beach. Jackie's surface, however, remained peaceful as a windless sea. She was meeting the Blonde Brigade for the first time in weeks. She'd called Brie two days ago, who insisted the Blonde Brigade have a beach-day reunion with her.
Brie and the rest were gathered in front of the Visitor Center. From the parking lot they seemed small and plastic, like LEGO minifigures. Their bikinis stood out, though, brightened by the sun. If they were wearing beach cover-ups, they had to be so sheer as to be invisible.
Jackie, in comparison was sure to be judged as frumpy. A modest one-piece swimsuit clothed her body, along with a pair of drawstring shorts and a thin cotton hoodie. But she felt more comfortable inside her skin than she had in years.
This inner-ease was due to more than one source. In therapy, she'd begun truly processing what Dale Fischer had done to her. It wasn't like staring uselessly and terrifyingly into the abyss of her trauma. The trauma screamed and cried itself out of the Jackie who'd experienced it. No thoughts were attached. The worded and wordless emotions came out on their own. The consciousness of Jackie's current self observed, fascinated by the release.
Afterward, Jackie's present self reasserted full control over her body. She felt shaky from the experience but also lighter, as if she no longer carried a portion of the immense fear and rage Dale had forced into her.
Sarah, her therapist, praised her bravery. Jackie, laughing and crying tears of relief, said that one session had freed her more than most of their previous sessions combined. Sarah answered that Jackie was finally ready to do the real work. Then Sarah asked: what had prompted the change?
Jackie strode now toward Francis Beach's Visitor Center. Her hair fluttered in the breeze, and Steven's sunglasses shaded her eyes from the sun. Going to beaches was one trigger she'd dulled years ago in therapy. The feel of sand on her feet, the sound of waves crashing, they were sensations she'd become desensitized to thanks to Sarah.
Still, anxiety whirled in her chest like a tiny galaxy, but Steven's music kept it from growing. His lyric-less demo, dubbed "Point Place A," was playing in her Walkman. It was an emotional road map, one he'd composed especially for her.
"Stargazer," she sang quietly to the melody. "Stargazer, ever think the stars are gazing down at you?"
Her breathing was calm, but her pulse tightened once the Blonde Brigade was only steps away. Ann-Marie was the first to spot her, but she stayed focused on Deborah and their gossipy conversation. Brie was busy checking her makeup in a compact, and June towered over all them with her six-foot height.
Jackie pressed stop on her Walkman and placed it in her beach bag. "Hello, ladies."
"Hello," June said politely.
"Can we help you?" Deborah said, not as politely.
But Brie fixed her gaze on Jackie's face. "Jackie?" She smiled with what appeared to be genuine surprise. "Get out!"
"Holy shit!" Debora said. "Is this an April's Fools' Day joke?"
June gripped the ends of Jackie's hair with unwelcome but not ungentle fingers. "What did you do?"
"She dyed it," Ann-Marie said. "Honestly, the most obvious of facts don't require questions." She gestured toward the beach, and everyone followed obediently, including Jackie. "What we don't know is why. Jackie, darling, why the change?"
"She met a man," Brie said with a nod.
"That's why you've been gone so long," Deborah said. "You were off having a fling!"
Doubts and self-reproach battered Jackie's mind. She'd expressed the same ones to her therapist last session, but she hadn't gone back to brunette for Steven. She was healing, allowing herself to feel and mourn and be more herself. To accept Steven had left her years ago out of his own psychology, not from her being unlovable. That was a huge step forward, her therapist said, but Jackie didn't answer Sarah's question at the end of the session: what had prompted Jackie's readiness to work through her past and stop letting it color and control her present?
Jackie's motivation was too new say aloud. Too frightening. She'd fallen in love with Steven. Not the one of her past but the Steven she knew now. It meant she wasn't broken. Despite Steven's romantic unavailability—despite the ache that truth caused—building a new life for herself on a foundation of joy, not pain, might be possible.
Sarah respected her choice not to discuss it yet, and Jackie clung to silence as Ann-Marie took care of the beach-chair rental. They sat close to the surf. Cool air traveled over the water, and waves deposited foam onto the sand.
June tugged on Jackie's beach towel. "You have to tell us everything."
"Everything," Deborah repeated and thrust out her hips.
"There's nothing to tell," Jackie said.
Brie glared at her through silver-tinted sunglasses. "Bullshit."
Jackie ground her teeth together, but at least the Blonde Brigade wasn't criticizing her hair color. "I opted for a change because I felt like it. That's all."
"Because you felt like it?" June said, as if Jackie had spoken an alien language.
"I got bored of blond." Jackie made a show of fluffing her hair, expecting Ann-Marie's pointed, entrapping question next. Ann-Marie always took charge of interrogations, but her main interest seemed to be sunbathing. She'd removed her cover-up, stretched out on her beach chair, and was reading a copy of Forbes Magazine.
Nonetheless, she had to be listening. Ann-Marie was the de facto leader of their social group, and if Jackie's answers dissatisfied her, Jackie might be ousted.
Brie ran her hand through her shattered bob. "I'm tired of being blond, too."
Ann-Marie flipped a page of her magazine loudly. Maybe it was a coincidence, but it was likely unspoken disapproval.
"Everyone around here is blond," Brie went on. "Yeah, we're in Cali, but I'm sorely tempted to follow in Ro Skirving's footsteps and go jet-black."
"Oh, God, don't," Deborah said.
"Black would go perfectly with your new haircut," June said, but disagreeing with Deborah was her favorite pastime. What she truly thought was hard to discern. "So how did this man convince you to go brunette, Jackie?"
Jackie clutched her Walkman at her thigh. "There is no man."
Her response earned a dismissive wave from June and a raspberry from Deborah. Regardless, the full answer was complex and not shareable with these women.
"Believe it or don't," Jackie said, "but I have to know something."
"What's that, darling?" Anne-Marie said, magazine in front of her face, but she'd shot into the discussion like a bullet.
"What do you think about my hair color?" Jackie needed to know, to find out if she was facing exile or not. "Tell me your honest opinions, no matter how harsh. Be as bitchy as you want."
Ann-Marie glanced at her. "It goes well with your skin tone."
"I agree," June said. From her beach chair, she grasped a lock of Jackie's hair and held it to Jackie's cheek. "The blond clashed with your olive skin and brown eyes. This color fits you."
"I think it was a mistake," Deborah said. "Men find blondes hotter. You'll have an easier time snagging a second husband if you go back to blond."
Brie cast Deborah a dirty look. "Jackie, you look sexy as hell. And I'm jealous as hell. I'm so going darker. Maybe even tomorrow. You've inspired me."
"It's a mistake," Deborah sang, and June told her to shut it.
Jackie leaned back in her beach chair, not to relax but out of necessity. She'd become dizzy. Not only was her ostracism from the Blonde Brigade not happening, but three out of four of these women approved her change.
More strikingly, that meant their view of her had shifted. Their battles with her mom must've increased Jackie's value to the group. Or controlling her appearance through indirect threats no longer appealed to them. Either way, her true success didn't lie in their responses. It lay in confronting her status head-on.
Grinning internally, she took out a copy of Beader Magazine. The sun was shining down on her in a cloudless sky. She'd put on sunscreen before leaving her house, but she rarely ever burned.
"Why do men do that?" Deborah said a few minutes later. She was reading Cosette Magazine.
Brie chuckled. "You're reading the article on male fantasy, aren't you?"
Deborah hit the magazine page. "This guy claims all men think about women other than the ones they're boinking. Not even porn stars but former lovers. He says his mind's never on the woman his dick's currently occupying—"
"Does the article actually say that?" June snatched the magazine from her and skimmed it. "Gross! Brie, how could your magazine publish such nonsense?"
"It's our monthly men's point-of-view piece," Brie said. "Blame the author."
Jackie tried to concentrate on an article about European off-loom beading techniques. She avoided discussing sex with the Blonde Brigade as a rule, but a debate rose among the women.
"Men aren't built to be monogamous," Brie said. "Especially if you're equal to the man in age. They're always looking for a younger, 'more fertile' model. It's biological."
"Trevor would never cheat on me," June said. "He might find other girls attractive, but I find other guys hot, too. Neither of us are blind. That doesn't mean we actually want to sleep with anyone else. My name's the only one he grunts when we make love."
"Then you're one of the lucky few." Brie tapped Jackie's shoulder. "Back me up here."
Jackie's grip tightened on her magazine. "I'd rather not."
"Come on, Jackie," Deborah said. "Weigh-in."
"Why don't you bug Ann-Marie?" Jackie said.
Ann-Marie licked her index finger and turned a page in her Forbes Magazine. "Because Ann-Marie was the other woman, darlings. Harrison traded in his 'older model' for me."
Jackie swallowed her response. She'd heard rumors, but they'd never been confirmed.
"I'm not claiming men don't have problems with emotional intimacy," June said. "Some probably as badly as the douche who wrote that article. Their minds are incapable of fucking the same woman they fuck with their bodies, but that's far from normal." She lifted her beach bag from the sand and yanked out a copy of Bad Radio Magazine. "Brie, I'm going to show Trevor that article, and I bet he'll write a letter to Cosette in response, recommending the author seek out professional help."
"That would be fantastic, news-making, and hilarious," Brie said. "I fully encourage him to do it."
"He won't be the only man writing the same kind of response. I'm sure plenty of husbands and boyfriends were insulted by that douche's characterization of their gender." June opened her Bad Radio Magazine to the feature on Degenerate Matter. She pointed to the picture of Steven and Ro backstage at a concert, the one where they were about to kiss. "See how he looks at her? There is no way this guy is thinking about anyone but Ro Skirving. If you listen to his lyrics, you can hear how in love with her he is."
"Trevor's converted you into a full-fledged Degenerate Matter fan, huh?" Jackie said, forcing her voice to be even. June could've eviscerated her with a stiletto, and it would've hurt less than the statement she'd just made.
"Monogamy, or the lack thereof, isn't a biological trait," June continued, as if Jackie hadn't spoken "For human beings, it's a choice, like everything else."
"Let me see that." Deborah gestured to June's copy of Bad Radio, and June gave it to her. Deborah studied the picture for a while then fanned herself with the magazine. "Whew! Steven Hyde and Ro must have some dirty, dirty sex."
"They do," June said, like she was an expert. "They were interviewed together, and yeah. They're not subtle about how into each other they are."
"Or it's a united front for publicity's sake," Brie said. "Who knows?"
June dragged in a breath through her nose. "My God, woman, have you ever listened to Degenerate Matter's lyrics? They're as authentic as it gets."
Jackie imagined escaping this conversation by darting to the parking lot or swimming in the ocean or going anywhere but to Ro's birthday celebration today. Steven had invited her to the private party at the First Avenue Club in Minneapolis, promising she'd be in good company. Donna, Eric, Brooke, and Betsy would all be attending, and Jackie's ex-husband didn't have an invite.
She'd declined, however, citing a scheduling conflict. Steven's love for her was platonic. It would always be so, and she understood that. She'd eventually accept it, too, fall out of love with him again, their close friendship remaining intact.
But watching him focus his romantic attention on Ro right now would be toxic. Avoiding it forever was impossible, of course, but Jackie was finally healing. Being in love—being capable of it had allowed positive thoughts and dreams for herself to arise. She needed to hold onto that feeling a while, until she'd done enough work for the positivity to stick on its own.
"Perhaps Steven Hyde fantasizes about Jackie when he and Ro Skirving make love," Ann-Marie said, and her voice tightened around Jackie's throat like a garrote. "I read in the Arts and Entertainment section of The L.A. Times that he was recently sighted dancing with a mysterious brunette at a Minneapolis rock club. I thought nothing of it … until today."
Three pairs of eyes trained on Jackie. Brie, June, and Deborah clearly expected a response, and Jackie gave them one.
"Go fuck yourself."
Ro liked to say that her birth was a prank on the cosmos, that being born on April Fools' Day was fitting. Hyde didn't view it that way. Her existence had a positive impact globally and individually. He'd witnessed the former and experienced the latter, which was why he'd agreed to her birthday request: performing a solo acoustic show at The Entry.
The smaller venue of the First Avenue had a 250-person capacity, meaning 249 people were packed inside to listen to him sing. The attendees were mostly friends and family. The rest was security and Degenerate Matter fans who'd paid the five-thousand dollar charity price tag.
Backstage, Hyde's palms were sweating. Ro's guitar tech, Rick, was acting as Hyde's guitar tech. He'd be on standby with a guitar strings, picks, and a fresh Martin acoustic-electric if Hyde fucked his up. Rick was also acting as a morale coach. "It's only a half-hour set," he said. "You'll get through it in no-time. Like a half-hour."
He laughed at his own joke, and Hyde considered shoving him onto the small stage to perform instead. But Ro had helped Hyde prepare for tonight, simplifying certain guitar parts, altering the keys of songs so his voice could reach the higher notes. The emotional preparation, though, he'd had to do on his own.
This show would merge the disparate pieces of his life together. In a way, it was as much a present to himself as to Ro. The Formans had come to Minneapolis to see him play. Hyde included two packs of earplugs so they could enjoy the music. Neither Red nor Mrs. Forman had started to lose their hearing yet, and he wouldn't be responsible for making them deaf.
Forman and Donna were in attendance, too. They'd brought their daughter, Izzy, who'd had an obvious growth spurt since Christmas. The top of her head reached Forman's belly button. She also wore hearing protectors, earmuffs designed especially for younger kids.
Brooke and Betsy were also somewhere in the club. Brooke had given Betsy a break, bringing her here from Chicago without Kelso, who wasn't invited. Kelso's presence might've turned tonight into a mental-emotional minefield, not just for Hyde but for Jackie if she changed her mind about coming.
"Hyde! Hyde! Hyde!" The crowd had started chanting for him, no doubt incited by Ro. Rick patted him on the shoulder and pushed him toward the stage.
"Yeah, yeah," Hyde said. "I'm goin'."
A notebook full of lyrics was crammed under his arm, and he carried a bottle of water in his hand. He walked through a dark tunnel and emerged onto the blue-lit stage. The Entry shook with a collective roar of greeting, The sound vibrated in his chest, and he scanned the audience before settling in. Ro was front and center on the floor, surrounded by the rest of Degenerate Matter. Ro's tall, suit-wearing dad wasn't far from her. His new girlfriend held hands with him.
Ro seemed to be cool with her. She'd said as much the night before, but at no point did she mention her mom. Ro was turning thirty, another year of withholding her feelings about her mostly motherless childhood. Hyde had learned early in their relationship not to dig, even with a tiny plastic spoon.
He put his notebook on the stage, using a pair of old, heavy belt buckles as paperweights. A microphone stand and his guitar were set up by a stool. He sat down, balanced the guitar on his knee, and said into the microphone, "What's up?"
The crowd shouted its responses unintelligibly.
"You all know who I am and why I'm here," he said. "I know who you are and why you're here, so let's get this shit started."
The crowd laughed, but he doubted his cursing pleased Mrs. Forman. No matter how old he got, she'd always see him as the kid she'd taken in.
He strummed the opening chords of "Singularity," and he sang the first words softly. Each note and syllable was a nettle, stinging him with Jackie's absence. But as he delved deeper into Degenerate's catalog of songs, she faded into the background and other emotions took precedence, some of which were only wisps in his awareness.
His playing grew violent on "Shit Talkers," a metal-inspired song he and Ro had written together. "You want change without making the change," he sang, practically biting the microphone. "You don't get somethin' for nothin'. Talk ain't enough. Words, no matter how pretty, won't win you the pageant. Fight for your cause. Fight for yourself."
He ended the set with "Because I'm a Girl". He'd chosen it for several reasons. One, out of nostalgia; it was the first song he'd ever heard Ro play. Two, out of solidarity to women and girls. Three, out of a sense of humor. And four, he knew his throat would get sore from singing—and it had—and this song tended to be a sing-a-long. He'd get plenty of help.
"Because I'm a girl, I can't count..." he sang with the crowd's collective voice. "One, two … what comes after fuckin' two? Because I'm a girl, I'm just a cunt to you. A cavernous hole."
Whenever Degenerate Matter played this song in concert, Ro climbed the lighting truss during Lee's solo. But as Hyde neared the last chorus, Ro jumped onto the stage. She secured the guitar strap around his shoulders and removed the microphone from the mic stand. She kept the mic at his mouth, even as she pulled him off the stool and stood on it herself. Then she attached herself to his back like a snail shell, all the while holding the mic for him.
The crowd went crazy over the move, screaming and hooting. Hyde tried not to laugh as he finished up the song. He walked from one end of the stage to the other with Ro on his back, and she sang the last lines with him: "Because I'm a girl! Because I'm a girl! Because I'm a girl!"
He carried Ro backstage with the guitar. Rick, along with some of the road crew, dashed past them to dismantle and load-out the equipment. Ro slid off Hyde's back, and he put down the guitar with slightly trembling hands.
"How did that feel?" she said?
Exhilarating. Exhausting. "Can't believe people tolerated my singing that long."
"You give yourself too little credit." Behind her, five chairs were lined up against a graffiti-scrawled wall. He'd left a clean T-shirt on one and a bottle of Old Spice deodorant, just in case, and she handed both to him. "You also need these."
He did. Beads of sweat were rolling down his temple, and the shirt he wore was damp from effort. From nerves. He took it off, rolled deodorant onto his armpits, and said, "How do you feel?"
She grasped the sides of his face before he could slip on the fresh shirt. She kissed him, pressing into his mouth deeply, and her teeth sunk into his bottom lip at the end. It hurt, but he swallowed the pain as she said, "Lucky as fuck."
Her good mood stuck with her during the fan meet-and-greet backstage. The rest of Degenerate Matter and two members of its security team joined them. The band sat in the chairs by the wall, with Ro in the center, flanked by Hyde and Lee. The first two fans arrived a few minutes later, wearing VIP wristbands. They'd paid five-grand for this opportunity and were led backstage by black-shirted bodyguards.
Everyone in the band stood up, and Hyde shoved his hair behind his shoulders. He was used to working as security himself during these events, not publicly acting as part of the band. But as different fans came and went, he gave each what he could. He signed copies of Degenerate Matter albums, smiled for pictures, even accepted a hug from a trembling, freckled-faced woman named Carla.
She couldn't have been older than twenty or taller than five-feet. Her curly head pressed heavily into his chest, and she said, "Oh, wow. Oh, God—I love you!"
He had no idea what to say back, and she seemed reluctant to let him go. Her mom, who'd accompanied her, cupped Carla's shoulder, as if to pull her back. One of the bodyguards asked Hyde wordlessly if he needed help, but Hyde indicated that Carla could stay put. "If you got anything else you want to say, Carla," he said, "go for it."
Ro's eyebrows rose at his statement, but she'd been just as gracious to the fans, shaking hands, being personable and personal.
"I wrote you a letter," Carla said, and her quivering arms squeezed Hyde harder. "A few years ago, when Ultrarelativistic came out. You wrote me back, and it—it saved my life. When I read about this event on the website, I begged my mom to get us tickets."
"She didn't have to beg me," her mom said. "I would've paid any price for my little girl."
Hyde tried to remember Carla's letter. "Your brother committed suicide—"
"Yes!" Carla's voice broke apart, leaving only sobs. Her mom wasn't far behind, and she hugged him herself once Carla finally let him go.
"The world needs more people like you," she whispered into Hyde's ear. "God bless you."
He sank to a chair, drained, when Carla and her mom were eventually led out. Nate patted his shoulder and said, "That was heavy, even for me."
"You'll have to tolerate one more," Ro said.
Hyde shut his eyes. "Shit."
"Oh, my God!" The familiar and welcome voice opened his eyes. It belonged to Betsy. She was backstage, holding Brooke's hand, and Hyde looked at Ro for an explanation. Her policy stated no one under eighteen was allowed at these meet-and-greets, but Ro said, "You stretched tonight, so I'm stretching."
She and the band interacted with Betsy kindly, and Hyde's admiration for Ro—and respect for Lee—grew ten-fold. The band answered Betsy's questions about composing certain songs, and Lee even wrote her out a tab for "The Entry," his instrumental about this club.
"Could I ask you something personal?" Betsy said to Ro afterward. "In private?"
Hyde expected Ro to make a hasty retreat, but she slid her arm around Betsy's shoulders and led her away from everyone. Brooke gazed at him questioningly, but he hardly believed what was happening. Ro never talked to kids. He'd told Brooke that more than once, but upon Ro and Betsy's return, neither of them appeared traumatized.
"You've got a good kid here," Ro said to Brooke.
"Thank you." Brooke reached for Betsy's hand, but Betsy rushed into Hyde's arms. He hadn't seen her in months, and Izzy wasn't the only one who'd had a growth spurt. Betsy was almost as tall as him. He couldn't tuck her head beneath his chin anymore.
"I miss you," she said.
"Me, too, French fry. "
He held her tightly, and her breathing grew rough, as if she were crying. "I love you," she whispered. Then, almost inaudible, she added, "I wish our story was different."
Story. The word gave him a clue about her conversation with Ro. "Our story's not over yet," he said, though he wished their story were different, too. What he'd done to her dad, what her dad had done to Jackie, what Hyde might yet have to do … all of it equaled consequences for someone who hadn't earned them.
Betsy wiped her eyes on his shirt before releasing him. Lee, Sherry, and Nate said their goodbyes and went back into the club, but Ro stayed by the graffitied wall, giving Hyde, Betsy, and Brooke space.
"Mom," Betsy said, "can we please set up a time Steven can stay over?"
"Got to keep you out of the tabloid crosshairs," Hyde said before Brooke could answer. "Until the hype dies down, it's better we stick to phone calls."
Betsy's sneakers squeaked on the floor. "That could be forever."
"Nah. We'll figure somethin' out, sooner rather than later."
She nodded, but her face grew red, and she clutched Brooke's hand. Security led them out, and as they disappeared, Hyde's blood pleaded for a cigarette. For almost Betsy's whole life, he'd protected her—from bullies, from Kelso, from being completely fatherless—but he couldn't protect her anymore, not when the monster was his own absence.
The birthday cake had been presented, and "Happy Birthday" had been sung. Ro was onstage, chatting with some friends who'd flown out from Ohio, and Hyde sought out his dad at the crowded bar.
"Hey," Hyde said, and his dad sat up straighter, as if that one word had communicated everything.
Dad had the bartender take away his half-full gin-and-tonic, an unnecessary courtesy. He also used his clout, and brass, to clear out the bar. The bartender went "on break," and security formed a perimeter around the area. No one was getting to the bar, not unless Dad or Hyde consented.
"What's wrong?" Dad said, and Hyde's experience at the meet-and-greet poured out of him. He was at a loss how to process it. His reflex was to figure it out himself, but his dad had taught him that avoiding other people's wisdom was an unnecessary waste of time.
"Betsy said, 'I love you,' backstage, too," Hyde said, "but her love I understand. I helped freakin' raise her." He drummed his fingers on the bar. "These other people, when they say it, I don't know what the hell it means."
"People often mistake gratitude for love, son. Translate their I-love-yous into thank-yous."
Hyde's shoulders slumped, not from defeat but relief. "So should I say, 'You're welcome'?"
Dad laughed and gestured to the bodyguards surrounding the bar. Forman and Donna emerged from behind the wall of black-shirted muscle and entered the off-limits area without Izzy. Red and Mrs. Forman had to be on kid-watch.
"Why the beefcake force field?" Forman said. "Are you two planning a hostile takeover of another record company?"
"He's just learning how to deal with his adoring public," Dad said.
Hyde shuddered, mostly for show. "Too many I-love-yous, man. I've got no response to that. I barely tell the people I actually love that I love 'em."
"You can always say you love cake," Forman said and hooked his arm around Donna's waist. "It worked well for me."
She hugged him loosely. "Right. So well."
"To be fair, you did marry me and have my kid."
"Fine. In the long run, it didn't hurt," she said. "I'll give you that." Her focus turned to Hyde, and all traces of levity in her voice dissolved. "An old colleague of mine called a few days ago. I could've told you this then, but I wasn't going to ruin your performance tonight. You seemed nervous enough already, but … Come On Magazine is publishing a supposed 'tell-all' exposé about you. This week."
Hyde pointed at himself. "Me?" Ro was the face of Degenerate Matter, not him. His role in the band was no longer a mystery, thanks to Donna's Bad Radio article.
"They got to my mom," Donna said.
He leaned his elbows on the bar and rubbed his eyes. "Fan-fuckin'-tastic."
"It's not just her," Donna continued. "It's a lot of people, Hyde. A lot. My contact faxed me a draft of the article. I memorized a few names: John Accardi, Shawn Gridders, Olivia Francis. My contact said Come On had tried to do a piece on Ro, but they had a hell of a time tracking down anyone who'd talk about her. They couldn't get enough to write up even one page. So they went after you."
"John Accardi, Shawn Gridders..." his dad said, "who the hell are they?"
"People Edna screwed or screwed over." Hyde stared at his fist. The memory of Kelso's blood stained his knuckles red. "How deep did they get, Donna?"
"Deep enough, but whatever stories you told the police, those are the stories they have."
Hyde unfurled his fist and flattened his hand on the bar. Donna knew what he'd done to Kelso. Forman felt forced to tell her after Hyde took the fall for Kelso's third DUI. Donna acting out on her anger, mischaracterizing Hyde as a drunken screw-up to everyone they loved was too much for Forman to handle. He'd needed her to know what kind of guy Hyde really was, that he wasn't an out-of-control, untrustworthy asshole. That Hyde made one terrible mistake five years ago, at the time of the telling, out of love for and protectiveness of Jackie. And the guilt had been rotting Hyde from the inside-out.
Donna was furious at Forman for covering it up, for keeping it a secret from her, but forgave him the same day. She understood his reasons, learned Hyde had practically begged Forman to let her know the truth from the get-go. That Forman chose not to in order to save her the burden of carrying such a secret.
She had more trouble forgiving Hyde, though. Not for nearly killing Kelso—she might've done the same herself for Kelso's rape of Jackie—but for leaving Jackie like a coward. She did forgive him, however, in a matter of weeks. She realized that his mind was breaking apart back then, that he had no emotional capacity to stay for Jackie let alone explain anything. He'd gotten off easier with Donna than he should have.
His dad, unlike Donna, didn't know his son was an attempted murderer. To him, the reference to "the stories he told the police" would be about the DUI. That was all. And if that that was the worst Come On Magazine had on Hyde, he'd get off easier than he should. Again.