The Music of What Happens - Bill Konigsberg Page 0,104

tells me to go back to Mexico, or when Fabio Breen calls someone faggot at practice. I know I say that shit doesn’t bug me, but. Sometimes it does, okay? So I come and I beat the shit out of this thing until I can hardly swing another punch at it.”

I hit the bag half-heartedly. This is a dumb idea. When I said I wanted to punch something, I meant it as a metaphor. Someone from my AP Comp class ought to be able to understand a good metaphor when it appears before them in a dust storm at 2:20 a.m., but apparently my boyfriend is blind to figures of speech during monsoons. The dusty wind must obscure his vision and understanding of language.

“Come on,” he says. “Harder. And punch flat. You can break your hand or wrist if you punch wrong. Make a fist and hit the bag flat with your knuckles, ’kay?”

“Not sure telling me to do something that might break my hand is making me feel more like —”

“Hit. The fucking. Bag. Jesus.”

I hit it. Pretty hard. My bicep wobbles at contact.

“There ya go. Again.”

I hit it again.

“Add a sound.”

I hit it again, silent.

“Listen to me. Let the sound out, however it comes out.”

I hit it again and emit this high-pitched squeal that would make me laugh if it didn’t carry with it my entire broken heart. And Max doesn’t laugh either. Just says, “There ya go. Again. More.”

And I hit and hit and hit, and I scream and then I pound and cry and it’s not a classy, well-put-together cry like I’d want but a messy, snotty wail that comes with so many punches, I get dizzy throwing them. And I’m wailing on the poor punching bag and screaming my guts out, and I don’t want to stop, ever. And sadness bleeds out of me. And grief. And fury. And missing Dad. And missing Mom. I’m sad angry sad angry and I hit and hit until I’m doubled over in fatigue on the scratchy purple carpet.

Max rolls up next to me and spoons me, and for a bit I’m just numb in his arms, spent. It feels … beautiful. I’m spent. I’m not that angry anymore. I mean, I am, but it’s all been screamed and punched out and I’m exhausted and I start to laugh.

He laughs too. “Isn’t that awesome?”

“Yeah,” I say. “You’re kind of awesome.”

“I know, right?”

I elbow backward into his ribs and he rolls on top of me and he’s smiling that wide Max smile and his dark eyes are peaceful and wise and playful and … everything.

And this time we don’t go to the bathroom and claw at each other. We just lie there, looking into each other’s eyes, breathing in harmony, and waiting for the next thing to happen.

“Hey Dad,” I say.

“Broseph!” he yells into the phone. “What up what up?”

“Nothing,” I say, lying. It’s Sunday morning, and I’ve called him before I even went out to say hey to Jordan or my mom. My dad doesn’t even know that Jordan has been living with us over a week now, and you know what? That’s fine.

“I got a gig at Comedy Works in Denver! This is YUGE for me. I never played there before. Scouts and agents and shit like that. The cool thing is I get to do a greatest hits, because they haven’t seen me up there. I get to bring back Axe body spray fails and the whole Bloomin’ Onions shtick.”

“Nice,” I say.

“I feel like it’s happening for me, you know? Like I’m a step away. I’m not that old. Larry David, Ricky Gervais. Both were older than me when they got their breaks.”

“How come you didn’t say anything when I called you about the rape thing?”

Dad is quiet for a second. “Wait what?”

“I called you at, like, four in the morning. Asked you a question about the definition of rape. Why didn’t you question what that was about, Dad?”

It takes him a couple beats to answer. When he does, his voice is unsure. “I didn’t — what was I …”

“Dad,” I say. “You’re my dad. Ask. You should ask.”

More beats before he asks in a thin voice, “What happened, Max?”

“I was raped,” I say, my voice cracking as I say it. My heart is pulsing crazy. “Like I said. The guy wanted to and I said no because he was a fucking racist fuck. He sat on my legs. I froze up, okay? I’m supposed to be