That’s when I see him, this guy running down the hall, toward us. Number
12, it says on his stupid, pretentious varsity jacket. I have a distinct sinking
feeling in my stomach as I watch him gaining speed, weaving between bodies
like he’s on the basketball court and not in the hallway. I hear someone shout
his name and something about being late and how the coach will make him
do laps. He turns his head and looks behind him, laughing as he starts to yell
something back. I see that he’s not looking ahead, that he’s about to collide
into me. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
I could see it happening before it happened.
And then it does. Crassshhh: him into me,
my shoulder into the wall,
clarinet case into my stomach so hard my body keels over involuntarily. It
jolts me back into reality. Time rushes ahead, my brain and body overloaded
in only an instant. Hunched forward, my abdomen aching like I’d just been
stabbed, I stare at my dirty no-name Kmart sneakers. Number 12 grabs my
forearm. It feels like his fingers are burning holes through my shirt. I hear his
voice, muffled, in the background of my mind, saying “Oh shit—shit, I’m
sorry—are you okay?”
But I can’t listen all the way because I seem to have only one thought. Just
this:
Fucking die fucking asshole fucking kill you fucking die, die, die.
I don’t quite know what to do with this thought. Surely it can’t be mine.
But how can I explain those words? They’re on my tongue, about to spill right
out into the open air. And I’ve never said such words out loud, to or about
another human being, yet there they are. In fact, I can’t think of any other
words
in the entire English language; my complete vocabulary is suddenly
composed of nothing more than an endless string of obscenities punctuated
with expletives.
As he stands there in front of me and I stand in front of him clutching my
stomach, he looks at my outfit and my glasses and my stupid hair, but not at
me. “Sorry,” he repeats, and when I still don’t respond, he adds, “I didn’t see
you.” He enunciates his words precisely, as if he truly believes I might be deaf.
He repeats them, those four words: “I. Didn’t. See. You.” Each word like a
match striking against that thin, sandpapery strip on the back of a
matchbook, failing one, two, three, four times.
Let him say just one more word.
“Ohh-kaay?” he says slowly.
Lit. On fire. My God, I burn.
It’s something new, this feeling.
Not anger, not sadness, not
embarrassment. It burns up everything inside of me, every thought, every
memory, every feeling I ever had, and fills itself in the space left vacant.
Rage. In this moment, I am nothing but pure rage.
I watch him pick my clarinet case up off the floor. He holds it out to me.
My hands shake as I take it from him.
Carefully, I hug it against my torso
again, this time for a very different reason. Because everything in my brain
and body is telling me to beat him with it, to hit him repeatedly with the hard
black plastic case.
I hear Mara saying, “I think she’s hurt. You should watch where you’re
going!” And then to me, “Are you all right, Edy?”
Only, I can’t answer her, either, because the gory scene of this basketball
player’s death is reeling through my mind, and it is truly terrifying. Because
I’m not supposed to be capable of thoughts like that, I’m not built that way.
But I feel it tingling in my bones and skin and blood—something barbaric,
something animal.
I force my feet to start walking. If I don’t move, I’m
afraid I might do
something crazy, something really bad, and if I open my mouth, I’ll say those
horrible words. After a second I hear his feet running again, away from me.
He should be running; in fact, they should all be running. I’m dangerous,
criminally dangerous.
Mara catches up with me and speaks the one word that says it all:
“Asshole.” Then she looks over her shoulder and adds, “Although, I wouldn’t
mind if he crashed into me a little. Just sayin’.
”
I look at her and feel the corners of my mouth pull upward, and it almost
hurts, but in a different way than my stomach. It hurts like it’s the first time
I’ve smiled in my whole life. She laughs, and then touches my shoulder gently.
“Are you really okay?” I nod, even though I’m not sure if I am—if I ever will
be.