Angry Jonny
By Joaquin Emiliano
Copyright 2013 Joaquin Emiliano
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidences are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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This novel is dedicated to my enemies.
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PART ONE
June 6 – June 7
Chapter 1: Commencement.
“It’s not too late to turn back.”
Jessica didn’t argue.
From their elevated vantage point, she was forced to squint through the slant of a midmorning sun, already turning from orange to a carsick shade of white. Down below, five-hundred-some foldout chairs were spread out in a phalanx, fresh paint jobs joining the glare of stadium bleachers, determined to double the damage, turn up the heat. Make June think it was filling in for mid-August.
The stands were steadily filling to capacity. South end of the field, the seniors were already lined up. Draped in crimson robes, graduation caps like flattened toadstools. Tassels to the right, yellow tendrils hanging limp.
Brookside High’s graduating class of 2009.
Jessica glanced to her right, saw her aunt concentrating on the mass gathering below. Left hand stuck to her brow in a sun visor salute. Her eyes glowed electric blue beneath blond, willowy curls. At thirty-five, Dinah’s smooth skin and distinctly full lips did little to give away her age. They might have brought her down to a tough twenty-nine, but for the dark cradles beneath her eyes. Experience had a way of keeping people alive, alert, and awake well past any reasonable hour of the night.
Dinah was right.
It was not too late to turn back.
But in her seventeen-some years on the face of the earth, Jessica knew full well that most people wouldn’t even consider turning back until well after it was too late. And she knew that, lamentably, she was no exception.
“Yeah,” Jessica sighed. She tugged at her white tank top, doing all she could to circulate some air, cool the moist contours of her torso. Ran her hand through the mop-top of brown curls that came to rest just above her shoulders. “It’s never too late.”
Dinah immediately understood. “So I guess we should find ourselves a seat.”
“I guess we should.”
Jessica felt Dinah’s hand on her shoulder. “I got your back.”
“Ain’t as dramatic as all that,” Jessica assured her. She reached out and took hold of Dinah’s hand. Brown skin interlocking with her aunt’s ghostly fingers. “Can’t be as dramatic as all that.”
Dinah drew Jessica close. Put an arm around her and smiled. “Let’s start some trouble, then.”
The pair took cautious side-steps down the grassy hill. Though hardly a Class VII mountain, it felt inevitable that one of them would take a false step. Fifty-fifty chance, anyway, and the honor was Jessica’s to have; black suede kicks losing traction as she fell backwards, into her aunt’s unprepared arms. A trust fall that sent them rolling in a swirl of denim jeans, chocolate and vanilla curls, depositing them at the back end of the bleachers.
Jessica landed flat on her back.
Dina on top, face mashed between her niece’s tits.
They were instantly met with a chorus of brash, pubescent cackles.
Jessica blinked, vision clearing. Spied a clique of teenagers, breakaways enjoying a quick smoke before the ceremony. Already pointing, voices sarcastic and gleeful, pleased grins leaking RJ Reynolds and nasty innuendo.
“Jessica!”
“Jessica Kincaid!”
“Check these two!”
“That is hot!”
Jessica had long grown numb to the school yard. She stood up, brushed the dirt from her arms.
Dinah followed suit, though hardly as willing to let the matter slide. “Got a problem, assholes?”
It was fuel for the fire, suburban slackers tickled pink.
“No problem here,” one of the sophomores assured them with a leer.
“Not a problem at all,” echoed another boy. He grabbed at his baggy jeans, right about where all his thoughts originated. “We always figured Jessica was into girls.”
“Yeah, don’t stop now, ladies!”
“Give us a show!”
Dinah was fully upright now, five-eight frame a full half-foot over Jessica’s indifferent stance. Dried grass clippings stuck to her face. Flash fires burning bright behind her eyes, cheeks gone sunset red. “Like any of you little bitches would even know what to do with a woman if you had one.”
Jessica winced. Dinner is served, boys.
“And I’m sure you would.”
“Please tell us!”
“Tell us just what to do!”
“Where to lick, honey!”
Fever pitch. Boys all gyrating with hormonal rapture. Open palms rhythmically slapping at phantom asses.
Jessica grabbed Dinah by the arm and led her away. “Brick walls, Blondie.”
“Fuck you!” Dinah cried out over her shoulder. “Buy some belts, you crusty, white, gangsta-wannabe punks!” She flashed them a stiff middle finger, then turned to keep pace with Jessica. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to get used to it.”
“What, like you?”
“Anybody but me,” Jessica said, rounding the bleachers, searching for a spot. She motioned with her chin, up towards the top row. “Let’s get us some nosebleeds.”
By the time they found their seats, a hush had come over the crowd. Down on the field, the graduates were already filing in. First row, second row. All in alphabetized, predetermined order.
Dinah leaned close, whispered over crowd’s proud rumble: “Can you see him?”
Jessica shook her head, as the graduates settled. Sweat had turned the tank top to Velcro against her skin. She glanced to the left and caught a sunburned, middle-aged man staring at her. Parts of her, anyway. She folded her arms over her breasts and took a deep breath. Humid air filled her lungs, atmospheric makings of a weekend on the surface of the sun. The hot sting of aluminum against her thighs suggested second thoughts, that maybe she should have just slept in. Let Saturday be Saturday.
Principal Hewitt took the stage, ready to get on with the show, and Jessica had another look around. Well aware she could leave at any time. Unwilling to accept that anything was that simple. In for a penny, in for a pound.
Never too late to turn back, but sometimes there was just nowhere to go.
***
In some practical corner of her mind, Jessica thought she should be taking notes. Storing the details, moments, the rituals of this particular milestone. One more year, all things being what they were, and she would be down there with the class of 2010. Smothered in her own rented robes. Shoulder to shoulder with inconsequential classmates. Buried in an avalanche of valedictorian platitudes.
We learn, and continue to learn, every day. Every way that we can.
Why?
Because life is a journey. And this moment is not an end, but merely a beginning.
Wouldn’t be too long, Jessica thought, before life was done with this particular chapter. Time being, she was too hot. Time being, she let the overwrought proceedings creep along, searching for distraction. Mentally naming as many states as possible in under one minute. Then once more in alphabetical order, including capitals. Counting the basketball jerseys in her section, sorting them by conference, and halfway through that laborious task, she awoke from her waking coma.
Vice-principal Clarence Davenport had taken the stage, already halfway through his speech.
At six-foot two, he had to hunch over the podium, gras
ping at either side with thick, paperweight hands. His fuchsia tie bled against a white, pressed shirt, filled to capacity by broad, sinewy shoulders. Pale, full lips that hovered close to the microphone, popping over-pronounced words, digging into the red meat of his remarks.
“We find ourselves, sadly, at the end of this school year, an incomplete community. Our strength and our promise severely wounded by the tragic loss of one of our own. One of our very best…”
An undertow of appreciative murmurs swept softly through the crowd.
Jessica felt Dinah’s knee push against hers.
Davenport swept an impassioned hand through his dark, perfectly trimmed hair. “All of us at Brookside High School mourn the loss of Glen Roberts. He was more to us than just a biology teacher, and will be remembered as a brilliant, compassionate, and involved presence. A man who dedicated his life to the betterment of this school. There are those who might choose to lessen our memory of this great man with the regrettable and devastating circumstances surrounding his departure both from the halls of Brookside High, and from this world…”
He swept his sights across the crowd, eyes of a subterranean rat hovering over damp scraps of food. An effective, subliminal suggestion that sent everyone searching for what was and always would be humanity’s primary reaction to any tragedy: someone to blame.
“But I refuse to exchange Glen’s tenure of devoted service for the dark cloud that hung over him during his final months with us. He was a leader, a tireless worker, a teacher… but above all else he was my friend. And I ask that we all, please, observe a moment of silence in memory of Glen Roberts.”
With the exception of Jessica and Dinah, everyone in that coliseum lowered their heads, chins to chest.
And it didn’t escape Jessica to hear their silent reverence compromised by devious whispers some several seats below hers. Secret aspersions that sent a couple of necks craning. Eyes glaring, glowing behind the shade of worn baseball caps. Their prayers for Glen Roberts handcuffed to an unmitigated hatred of Jessica Kincaid.
Dinah’s hand tightened around her niece’s leg. Nails digging in.
Jessica glanced up, saw her aunt trembling with rage.
Had no choice but to let it go.
Retreat to the games in her head, now categorizing animals by alphabet. Then genus. Then by likelihood of being devoured by anyone trapped on a desert isle. And just as she was concluding that not one of them would be safe from the hungry thoughts of a desperate human being, the air was filled with a swarm of graduations caps. Joyous cries accompanying the end of another school year as those spinning, square tiles fell back to earth, leaving everyone in a state of confusion over which ones belonged to whom.
***
Well overseas, in faraway lands nobody bothered to think about, there were fields overflowing with dormant landmines. Jessica had read about them; war zones no longer host to occupying forces, rebel attacks, insurgent uprisings. The remnants of sewn-up conflicts still lurking under tall grass, dirty landscapes, and murky pools of water. Tricky explosives just waiting to fulfill their destiny. Waiting for the right person to come along, ready to destroy any and all for making the simple mistake of wrong place, wrong time.
The post-graduation crowd was far less dangerous, but no easier to navigate.
Jessica and Dinah waded through the determined joy of excited grins and indulgent backslapping. Every step of the way, familiar faces stared Jessica down with disapproving frowns, lemon juice lips. Judge, jury and executioner all wrapped into one, as word got around about Jessica Kincaid.
And somewhere in this crowd of ugly faces, Jessica caught sight of Malik.
Alone for the moment. No parents in sight.
She cut a quick path, Dinah trailing behind with truncated strides. Jaw set.
His reaction was very much on par with popular opinion.
But for very different reasons.
“Jessica…” There it was. Brown eyes, large and smoldering, matching his skin tone except for isolated patches of acne that had stubbornly rejected all modern miracle creams and home remedies. The only honesty left in his face. He adjusted his cap, awkwardly situated atop a decent afro. “What brings you out of hiding?”
“Just wanted to see you graduate.”
“Uh-huh...” He pushed his dark-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. Stared down with his own particular brand of venom. “I think what you mean was you wanted to show how bad-ass you were coming here. Swimming with the sharks.”
“I really just wanted to see you –”
“Yeah, coming from anybody other than my ex-girlfriend…” Malik shrugged. He gave a quick nod to Dinah, got no reciprocation. Malik shrugged again. “Well, you saw me walk the line, so…”
“I don’t see why you gotta be like this…” Jessica sighed. “Most ex-girlfriends, given the circumstances, wouldn’t bother coming to see your ass for anything other than an execution.”
“Great. Let’s bring all this up, please.”
“How about let’s not act like some child who just got his fire truck confiscated.”
“Yeah, yeah –”
“You’re angry at me?”
“I stuck by you, Jessica,” Malik whispered, practically spitting through clenched teeth. “When everyone else was calling you a liar, talking shit that you were just some bitch looking for attention, I stuck by you. Like a goddamn fool, I stood up for you, –”
“See, you call it loyalty.” Jessica struggled to hold the volume down, knowing the rumor mill to keep diligent summer hours. “Considering how you spent all that capital, I’m just going to go ahead and call it leverage.”
“It was one time –”
“The boy can count, how about that?”
“I was going to tell you,” Malik insisted. “I was going to tell you, and you had to go and dig around –”
“Now you’re angry I found out?”
Malik’s eyes grew distant. Faded, like the last days of a family portrait. Soft, unreadable features quietly weighing his thoughts.
“What?” Jessica snapped, crossing her arms.
“I know you think the whole world is out to keep the truth from you, pull the wool over your eyes,” Malik ventured, still floating somewhere beyond their present conversation. Made as though to touch her, then thought better of it. “And I understand why you think so. I really do –”
“Your blessing is so welcomed.”
“Welcomed or not… People need their secrets, Jessica.”
“Only because people need to have it all.”
Malik sighed. “I’ve apologized. I’ve apologized over and over. What more do you want from me?”
Jessica wished she hadn’t already crossed her arms. She searched for a gesture, a look, anything to cover the undeniable fact that she simply had no answer to his question.
Still trying to pull a rabbit from the hat, when they were joined by Malik’s parents.
His mother limped to his left, cane clutched in her left hand.
His mother gave Jessica a pert nod as she limped to Malik’s side. Cane clutched tightly in her left hand. A necessary tool that somehow always came across as a mere accessory to the thin, aristocratic angles of her body.
Originally from Queens, Patricia Council had received her law degree from Columbia. Soon after, she was working point on several police brutality cases for the ACLU. History had a habit of siding with the city, and after too many years of watching the other side walk, she packed up shop and moved down to Verona. She became a registered nurse, opening a chain of free clinics for Verona’s uninsured. In 2007, even as the economy was only just starting to fall into recession, the state pulled all its funding. Every last clinic was shut down by 2008.
Malik’s father gave his own halfhearted wave. Meticulously trimmed beard doing little to hide his indignation. Eyes always serious behind oval, wire-rimmed glasses. Phillip Council, born and raised in Verona. Graduated from Verona Central with honors and an M
A in political science, then went on to earn his Master’s in Education at Pantheon University. Rejected Capitol Hill to serve on the Verona Board of Education, before penning a national bestseller on No Child Left Behind, then settling in as a Pantheon professor. With tenure.
Jessica was a working class waitress and Kentucky runaway. With a white aunt.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Patricia managed.
“It’s Malik’s big day.”
“Proud day for any father.” Phillip put a proud arm around his only son and heir. “Guess it’ll be your turn soon enough, Jessica.”
Jessica nodded.
They let the conversation drop dead on the spot. Patricia toying with a string of pearls. Phillip loosening his purple, Sachs Fifth tie. Their son trapped in the middle, eyeing Jessica with a hurried, apologetic expression.
“Well, now that’s taken care of,” Jessica said. “Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Council.”
More passive smiles from the grownups.
“Thanks, Jessica,” Malik ventured.
“Yeah…” She took a few steps back, feeling the cold coming off Patricia’s stare. “Good luck, Malik.”
Jessica did a one-eighty, back into ninety-degree heat. She closed her eyes, trying not to imagine the revulsion that would surface now that her back was turned. Quicksand steps that lead Jessica back to her aunt.
“You all right?” Dinah asked.
“Right as rain,” Jessica told her. “Let’s get out of here.”
They wormed their way out of the frenzy, between a set of bleachers, and began to traverse back towards the hill. Flanked on the right by the hollow insides of empty risers. Crisscross infrastructure of aluminum pound signs. Approaching their original crash site, when Davenport’s voice came out calling from behind them.
“Jessica, wait up!”
Dinah kept walking. There was no doubt she had the right idea, but Jessica recognized a showdown when she heard it. Turned, planted her feet. Ordered them to grow some goddamn roots, as Vice-Principal Davenport loped towards her; a thick skeleton, fervently glancing in all directions. Bringing his trot to a close with a gracious smile.