Corrin – the bully's brother

Things on the home front were weird.

Tonight seemed to sum it up: dinner at McDonalds, Haven squirming in the chair next to him, his grandfather broad-shouldered and wrinkled. Unease a taste like flat soda in his mouth. His cousin was back home; the basement was no longer Corrin's domain; his parents hanging around each other at the hospital.

An elbow to his ribs brought him out of that strange picture – white walls and green scrubs and his mother crying because, while cooking supper, she had forgotten her place in the recipe and restarted three times previous.

"Hey," Haven said. "Do you want the rest of this?"

He stared at her. The puddling ice cream sitting between them. Then, up, into his grandfather's sleepy brown gaze. "No."

His friend, for all appearances, was a manic pixie doll. Ribbons in her hair and purple dye showing on her scalp, the top of her ears. Her leggings were so covered in holes that more skin showed than pattern. She was braiding her hair while she waited for him to finish his fries, her fingers darting around the base of her neck.

Corrin rolled his eyes. Why today? School days were better for experimentation like this. But, for whatever reason, she had waited until dinner with his grandfather to show up in rock star regalia, touting her dream career with each carefully arranged element. It was funny on Mondays. Sometimes on Tuesdays. But not today.

The box his hamburger had come in was covered in grease. He pressed down on it, watching a dark stain seep through a pile of napkins.

"How's school going?" Breaking the silence, his grandfather addressed him, then Haven. "You two have classes together?"

"A couple," Haven said. "We're actually –"

This time, Corrin elbowed her. While he was proud of his drumming accomplishments, he doubted his grandfather would appreciate knowing that that he was in an upstart punk band.

And his parents would know. He wasn't sure if he wanted them to know.

"We have math together," he said instead, "and homeroom."

"And library."

"Library, huh?" Amused, his grandfather smiled. "Is that a class, these days? In middle schools?"

Corrin sponged grease off the table. "It's an, um...after school thing."

"An extracurricular?"

"Yeah." A sigh rested on his chest. "Sure."

Chair scraping against the floor, his grandfather stood and looked between Haven and Corrin. He was quiet for a moment, hands shaking slightly, clenched on the pockets of his jacket.

"If you like libraries," he said, "we should go to a book store. You two like book stores?"

The walk there took fifteen minutes. It would have been shorter by car; his grandfather, paler, coughing now and again, insisted on getting out into the fresh air. Inside the store it was cool and smelled like ink. Murals swooped down from the ceiling. Metal benches and shelves were stacked with paperback volumes, and cardboard boxes on fifty-cent sales clustered beside the coffee kiosk.

Haven took off for the non-fiction – libraries, book stores, everywhere she went, she stocked up on autobiographies of rock stars, journalists, and music producers. She had a habit of swiping posters from the magazine section to share with Corrin over lunch. All though, at times, ridiculous, it was almost funny to watch her page frantically through new issues or pull out yet another dated polaroid.

To himself, Corrin admitted that music was his life. To Haven, he tried to brush it off. Even unpopular kids didn't like obsessors. Rather than follow her, he went to the comics, his grandfather shuffling behind him. They stood side by side in front of the back wall. Contemplating DC and Marvel.

Finally, his grandfather nudged his arm. "You see that one?"

Superman. Once upon a time – which sounded cliché, but it was true – he had been Corrin's favorite superhero. Now, he tended towards villains. On the Marvel front: Dr. Octopus, Ultron. On the DC front: Lex Luther, Bane.

He would have liked to launch into a speech of sorts, but he just nodded. "Yeah – that one's new. The comic, I mean."

"I know what you meant." Still-shaking fingers lifted the slim, colorful book from the shelf. "This was my favorite. When I was your age...these things were still new, you know. Nothing vintage like they are...today. A big deal, not as big a deal. But..."

He cleared his throat. "I always liked the idea of someone being able to save the day. You get to my age, you start thinking that you couldn't be invincible, anymore. And sometimes it's nice to remember a day when you did."

"Oh." Corrin had never thought of that before. He was still in awe of the first few lines: when comics where new, when vintage was mainstream. When things were, surely, much cooler.

"Yup, kid. I would say –" and he smiled again "– that those were good days, or at least better. But all decades have their problems."

"Yeah," Corrin said. He sighed. Kicked his shoes against the carpet. "Like this one, right? That's all the teachers at school: the millennial generation. Fresh out of the gate and ready to screw things up. Like, how about wait on the speech until high school?"

"You'd think," his grandfather said, "that they would be more encouraging."

"Yeah. Right."

"Oh my gosh." Haven, bouncing on her Converse-clad toes, jolted his side, his shoulder. Whacking a DVD box against her palm, she said: "Do you know what this is?"

"A TV show?"

She rolled her eyes. "Thank you, Corrin, for that. You're always so...enlightening. Dear God, you really don't know?"

"No," he said, "I don't."

"This is gold. This is beautiful. This is fresh air. This is...life itself." With her hand against her forehead, she swanned against the bookshelf. When he didn't reply she sighed, repeated herself, and looked at his grandfather, as if to ask, do neither of you people understand?

Corrin flattened the cover of the comic in his hands. "You should audition for the school play."

"What? Me, join a school-sponsored event? Are you nuts?"

"That went...right over your head. Right over."

His grandfather snorted, adjusted his glasses. Half-stepped to the side. Haven was still blinking in confusion, little white stars of rapture still plastered on her face. The box was clutched to her chest, a Holy Grail, a homage, an obsession.

Yet another obsession. Corrin wondered how many phases girls went through like this before they finally made up their minds about what they did and didn't like.

"Wait." One ring-clad finger stabbed him in the chest. "Where you...? Oh, my gosh, you were calling me dramatic."

"Yeah, well – they say lead singers are divas," he said, grinning, "but this is ridiculous."

This time she punched his shoulder. "Unkind. Very unkind."

"How many times have you insulted Tre Cool?"

"The name itself is ridiculous," Haven said. "But: point taken. Anyway, back to this. Did I show you the cover? It's a cop show, and I just...I mean...look at him. Take a good long look."

It was a cluster of twenties, smiling, smoldering. Spray-painted yellow letters overhead. Her pink fingernails were curled around a face on the far right: a youngish, brown-haired guy. He had hollows under his eyes; he looked unwell.

Glancing from the picture to his friend's enigmatic face, Corrin said: "So what?"

"The young Jonny Depp," she said, still ever so dramatic. "There's really no other word for it. I'm thinking dreamy. All though, Dear God, I sound like such a teenager."

"You are a teenager."

"You don't think he's dreamy?"

Eyebrow raised, Corrin asked: "Do you want me to think he's dreamy?"

Behind him his grandfather was laughing – guffawing, more like it, chest heaving, coughing into his plaid shirtsleeves with a huge, sly smile on his face. Embarrassed tension shot through the air, splintered, fizzled out.

Dejected, his friend said, "Downer."

"Yeah, I'm a downer. I'm also...a goner. So," Corrin said, "somebody catch my..."

"Breath. Dear God, Corrin. I'm not playing lyrical musical chairs in the middle of a bookstore. That's, like, sacrilegious."

His grandfather peered between them. "You want the TV show? And the comic?"

"Yes. I've got to help this poor, struggling soul out. His brain is stuck in the early 2000s."

"I'm not..." he grabbed another comic, stacked it on top of the Superman one. "You know what?"

"What."

"You're too open-minded."

She followed him to the cash register. They got in line behind a mother with two screaming children, each holding musical picture books. Song snippets shorted in and out as the books opened and shut. Noise jangled, clashed out. Haven was wincing.

"That's not possible."

"Haven't you heard the saying?" His grandfather leaned heavy on the velvet divider between both sides of the line. Hand in his pocket, he fished for his wallet. "Too open-minded and your brains will fall right out of your head."

Pink hair sticking out between her fingers, Haven tugged on her scalp. "I wonder if they'd come out the color of my Splat dye."

"Doubtful," Corrin said. "They'd be grey, and squishy, and all veined –"

"You're disgusting."

They reached the front of the line and put down their purchases; the cashier grimaced at them and began to recite something about credit cards and store credit and coupons. After paying they burst into the parking lot, exhaling the smell of dead fumes. As they began to make their way back to the restaurant, Corrin noticed a group of teenagers loitering near the sidewalk. Five or six of his classmates – kids he saw in school, kids he sat next to, kids who ignored him – were chattering, giggling, bumping elbows and mouths and foreheads.

"Crap," his friend said.

The grandfather walked more slowly. The two kids picked up their pace, trying to get to the spot and past it. The closer they got the louder the group became. Corrin stepped over one outstretched ankle, and the dim went silent.

"Corrin! Corrin!" A kid in his earth sciences class – fat around the stomach and wearing a lacrosse jersey, with curling black hair – grabbed for his foot. "Corrin! Can you see me? Or are you...too cool?"

The group laughed. Face burning, Corrin stepped over another ankle, giving this one a sharp kick. "Shut up, man."

"Corrin! Corrin!" It was a girl this time, short, pimpled, sporting black pants so tight they looked like a second skin. "Can you see me? Because – Dear God! – we can see your friend's hair, all the way down the street..."

More laughter. He was out of the thick of it now, his back turned, not turning to see if Haven was following him, not looking back to check on his grandfather's progress. He just wanted to get out. He wanted to escape. Or snap. But then they would get louder. Snapping was never worth it.

He heard another voice: "Shut up, dude. Didn't you lose –"

And the group was laughing again. When he looked over his shoulder he saw his friend, neck flushed, scrambling to pick her bag up from the sidewalk. A long rip skated across the bottom of the plastic. Lacrosse boy reached out, taking advantage of her occupied hands, and flicked her skirt up.

"Oh my God," he said, "under all that shit, she's mostly human."

The girl in tight pants was yelling, in a mocking voice – "Freaking space cadet!"

At the sight of Haven's face – cheeks red, eyes wet, teeth biting down, hard, on her lower lip – anger flared through Corrin. He felt, in that moment, what he imagined his older brother Esau to feel all the time: uncontrollable.

He marched back to the group. Put his face near the girl's crooked smile.

"Why don't you shut up?"

Lacrosse boy gasped, ugly face laced with humor. "He speaks!"

"Hey," Haven said. "I just wanted to thank you for looking up my skirt."

And, ignoring Corrin – he was distracted by his grandfather, who was stepping forward to intervene – she balled up her fists and punched her antagonist right in the nose.

***

At the grandfather's house, Haven held a wet paper towel to her knuckles.

"I'm not sorry I did it."

Corrin and his grandfather were sitting at the kitchen table. The windows were cracked open. Two cats – a smoky grey and a calico orange – batted at each other across a dish of kibble.

After the punch and the fallout and the inevitable battle of swearing and taunting, of hustling out of the way and back to the car, they had all wound up at the Victorian. So named for the winding porch, the strange history, the wisteria curled around the patch of garden outside. It had been a better place to go than Corrin's house; Haven didn't even have a haven to offer – her parents were divorcing, she said, and neither house felt same anymore.

Here they were, bearing wounds. One fuming, the other calm, practical, restrained. Bearing bloody knuckles and a tough upper lip.

The grandfather sighed. He spread his hands over the tiled tabletop, bracing his fingers down, staring at his cracked fingernails. "Well, girl, I didn't ask you to be. You two still should've let me intervene..."

Corrin interrupted: "They weren't going to stop."

"I know, I know. Remember all my stories? I've got in plenty of my own fights. I know. They weren't worth punching. Which reminds me..." he squinted at Haven. "You must've hit that boy pretty hard to make yourself bleed."

"His girlfriend scratched me as I was pulling back; she had on fake fingernails." She threw the paper towel into the sink, red blossoms staining the porcelain. Faucet water rushed clear over her cracked hands and dripped pink off her fingers.

"Faker."

"Goner."

"Downer."

Haven and Corrin smiled at each other. The grandfather got up for a cup of coffee. He retrieved a cup out of the cupboard, popped it into the Keurig, and left it black to drink. Quieter as he returned to the table, he cleared his throat. "You know those kids from school?"

"Not really. The one wearing the jersey – he was in my science class."

"He does this to you at school, to? In the halls?"

Yes, Corrin thought, and scratched the back of his head, feeling defeated. It happened on B Days – the rotation his school operated on, which really came down to days he had gym and art and days he didn't. Those were the days he saw Lacrosse kid, but not the only days he was bothered. There was always someone else who kicked him, checked his lunch tray, or stepped on his books.

Indignation curled hot and tight in his chest. He was sick of being a target. He was sorry Haven had punched Lacrosse boy before he had had the chance – what would that say about him, that he couldn't fight his battles? Would the teasing grow worse? It was bad enough that he was friends with a girl, hung out with one all the time. But then to get a rep that he couldn't defend himself – it would be social suicide.

While he didn't believe in social circles, he believed in personal pride. And his, his was gone.

His foot connected with the leg of the table. Hands curling into fists, he pressed his knuckles into his thighs. "Come on!" he said. "Haven. You should've...you should've..."

"Hey, it was my skirt he looked up, wasn't it?" Ripping off another paper towel, she balled it around her injured hand. "Wasn't it? Doesn't that give me that right to punch him?"

"He tripped me!"

"He kissed me!"

Aghast, Corrin stared at her. "What the..."

"Crap," she mumbled. "I wasn't...I didn't want to tell you."

She whipped around to face the window. Her shoulders and legs were shaking; pink hair dusted her neck, parting along the center of her scalp to reveal vulnerable white skin. The scene – Haven, backlight, Corrin and his grandfather, gaping – was quite dramatic.

But not insincere. With no small degree of horror, he realized that she was crying. Unshakeable at school, solid and unafraid and bolstering. Nothing ever seemed to affect her. Clearly, this did.

"When?" he said.

"Friday." Still facing away from him, she said: "He shoved me up against the locker. And then..." she motioned, helpless. "Well. You know. Put his hand up my skirt and...all of...that. That stuff."

"I'm going to kill him!"

"No," his grandfather said. "You're going to report this to the principal. In fact, I'll do it for you."

"No! Please." Haven reached in to intercept him as he picked up the phone. Makeup smudged black, racoonish, around her eyes. For once, she was unfamiliar, because, for once, she was vulnerable.

His grandfather paused. Notepad in hand, fingers tucked between the Yellow Pages. His face was serious, drawn. The light over the kitchen table picked up the shadows between his wrinkles, the gathers of smiles lines and sun spots. His chin was covered in white stubble and there was an inquisitiveness about his cocked head. Thin forearms crossing over each other, he set the phone back in its cradle.

"Tell me why this doesn't deserve to be dealt with." he said.

Corrin did not have an answer. Haven did not have an answer. Both stood, furrowing brows and coughing away anxieties. Justice, in school situations, was a problem of white noise. Problems were not dealt with but avoided.

Schools could run anti-bullying campaigns and hang up posters and hold rallies. Social networks could be monitored and awareness could be touted and sensitivity could be held up as an object of value. But during the six hours he walked the halls, Corrin could see the truth. It wasn't a matter of taking initiate. It was a matter of changing behavior.

He thought of that group of teenagers. The image was enough to rouse his anger. It hurtled through his veins, a live-wire that left his skin scratchy, tight. Touch it and congealed blood would crack open. "It does," he said. "But."

Slow and careful, his grandfather tucked his ankles under his knees, hands on the table, and stood. Sweat ran clear down one temple.

"You tell me if that happens again, boy."

"You aren't going to call anyone?"

"No," he said, and his voice was granite with disappointment. "No. But you hear me, boy?" Turning to Haven, he added: "You hear me, girl?"

They echoed, "Yes."

"Don't think I'm gonna forget about this, you hear. This is...serious. That boy shouldn't be touching you. And Corrin, I'm not asking you to be a hero, but open your eyes at school. You can see your enemies a whole lot better that way, better than if you walk around blind."

Smokey grey cat scratching at his calf, Haven moving fragile and pixie-pink in the corner of his eye, Corrin nodded. He understood. He got it. But that didn't mean – when pushing became shoving and mocking began hurled fists – he was going to listen.

***

Saturday, he biked over the Seven's house. His cousin had been home a week; Eden and Taegan, who formed up and gone out as a search party, had returned to North Twain as well. The other day he had jogged past their street and a white van had passed him on the right. Percy, sticking his head out the window, had yelled – "What's up, man!" – and Corrin had tripped, turned red.

It meant a lot that someone remembered him. His own parents forgot about him – they got busy with Esau, frantic, especially after the whole arrest and student loan scare – and he felt a lot like he was growing up by himself. Which was okay. Better when he could channel the weird, strange things knocking around in his stomach into music.

Pulling up the driveway, he coasted across the makeshift basketball court, flattened his feet on the pavement and dragged his heels to a stop. The outside of the house was quiet: no weeds on the lawn, no instrument strewn around the porch. Through the open garage door he could see his Uncle Stefan, hunched over the hood of his rusted 1970s Ford.

Corrin threw his bike down on the grass. "Hey, uncle."

Stefan started violently. He dragged his hands over his thighs, leaving behind a finger-fingered print of black grease. "Hey, kid." Turning, he nodded. Didn't smile. Hair greased back from his forehead, he was barefoot, tools sticking out of his pockets.

"Seven home?"

"Ah – the whole clan's home. Two of his bandmates are in there. Slept over. Watch it – Eden's a bit..."

"Yeah," Corrin said. "What else is new?"

"Nervous breakdowns. Watch, um, watch where you step. With your...words."

With a nod, he passed over the grimy garage floor and entered into the mudroom. Extra sets of shoes were stacked around the benches – Doc Martens, All Stars, flip-flops, and a pair of dark brown dress shoes, new and shiny enough to reflect light. In the library, his Aunt Joanna sat on the floor, blanket bunched under her feet, paging through an encyclopedia. She glanced up at the sound of footsteps.

"Corrin. Hello."

"Hey, Aunt Joanna." He peered over her shoulder. She was on the E's – Egyptology. Pictures of bodies with animal heads and carved death masks and cross-eyed pharaohs stared sightlessly off the page. "Mummification," he said. "Brains out the nose. Does it say that anywhere?"

Quirking one eyebrow, she said, "I haven't gotten to that part yet."

"It's the coolest thing about Ancient Egypt. My teacher broke out all the stuff about the pyramids last year – I was bored out of my mind – and then she started talking about mummies."

"Yes, well," Aunt Joanna said, "all this about dead bodies and action movies – Seven was just like you, at thirteen."

Corrin put his head around the corner, followed the curve of the staircase with his eyes. Music was playing from one of the rooms upstairs; mud tracked up the steps. "Where's Seven?"

"I wouldn't bother him."

He pulled himself back into the room. The blanket under her feet was an animal skin – the stuffed head of a tiger bared its teeth at him. Teeth bared right back, he made a face at it, then frowned at his aunt. "Is he in the basement?"

"He's sleeping," she said, "and I wouldn't wake him. He was..."

"What?"

"Nothing. Just a bit of insomnia. Woke the rest of us up –" she laughed, a choking sound "– but he's out now, and it smells like lung cancer down there."

Astonished, Corrin let his hands drag by his sides. Traces of Ancient Egypt swept out of his brain and left him feeling disoriented. "Seven smokes?"

"Don't be naïve, dear." His aunt only said things like dear when she was trying to be sharp, which was usually right before she started crying. "But whatever the fire, he's not up for drum lessons today."

"Uncle Stefan said Percy and Taegan were here. You think Percy's awake?"

"No," she said, crisp and alarming as the buzz of the school bell. "You cannot bash around downstairs when I have one with a panic attack and the other with a case of unrequited love. It's maddening enough around here; why do you think I'm reading an encyclopedia?"

"I'll just go check. Upstairs."

"Corrin..."

"I just want to say hello!"

He took the stairs two at a time. Up, not down. While he wanted to see Seven, he had no desire to barge in on a hungover, moody musician at ten in the morning. The hallway was empty. Music louder now, he fringed around the corner and caught the edges of a voice, humming to Nirvana's In Bloom (which he had also learned backup drums for, way back in sixth grade).

Open doorway, two bodies sitting side-by-side on an unmade bed. Another figure – fragments of a leg, a wrist, an arm – skirted in and out of view.

Corrin rapped on the doorframe. "Hello?"

One of the bodies turned. Percy. Mohawk hidden under a black beanie; paper cup of coffee in hand. "Hey, man. What're you doing here?"

The leg retracted. All the fragments followed each other, until Eden was sitting cross-legged on the ground smirking up at him. She shrugged her shoulders – "This is like his second home." – and shook her hair back from her face, necklaces jingling along her collarbone.

"You're Seven's cousin?" The question came from the second figure. In profile, his chin was weak and his hair was too long on his neck. Then he turned completely, and it was Taegan, the Taegan, and Corrin shoved his hands in his pockets because he was on the verge of throwing them up in the air in excitement.

"Yeah." That was all he could manage. Again, "Yeah. That's...me."

"Dude," Percy said. "Took this kid out to dinner and he didn't stop talking. Don't be shy, kid. Taegan's like, this giant..."

From Eden: "Teddy bear." And she blushed, red and shocking, from frigid to melting.

All Corrin could think was: why are all the girls I know turning into strangers?

Out loud, he said, "A teddy bear?" Just to watch her face shrink, one more time.

Percy snorted into his coffee, making gurgling noises that sounded like he was drowning in caffeinated liquid. He surfaced and he was laughing, low and steady, looking from Eden to his bandmate and back. Lifting his cup at Corrin, he gave a knowing – not so secret – wink.

"I wasn't – I'm not –" Eden was sputtering. "We...just got back. I'm exhausted."

"Two days ago," Taegan said. "Thanks for letting us stay here."

Grinning, Percy added, "For about the fiftieth time: thanks. Nashville's a sore drive. Totally not looking forward to that."

"Y – You guys live in Nashville?" Under his breath, Corrin cursed. He sounded like an idiot when he stuttered.

"Y – Yeah," his cousin said, "they do."

"Oh, like you knew, until – last week. When you went on a 'road trip.'"

This time, Taegan blushed. "We made it halfway back from Syracuse when we got the call. It wasn't –"

"– A long trip. Just a short one. And then we bumped into –"

"Me." Percy pulled a thin straw out of his pocket and raked it through his coffee. "Bleh. This stuff gets muddy after a while. I ask for Splenda, I get sugar, the sugar settles at the bottom, I'm drinking sift."

"Artificial sweeteners are bad for you."

Glancing over at his cousin, Corrin rolled his eyes. She was the faithful interjection to any conversation – her advice was never asked for but always given.

"Well, I think sweeteners are –" she began.

"We really should go –" Taegan said.

"Dude, silt, crystal silt –" Percy complained.

"Shut up." Corrin said.

He listened. Listened again. Heartbeat dead in his ear, he asked, "You guys hear that?"

When they shook their heads he frowned. "Listen."

The clock chimed. The music hit a drumroll. The air grew tight and stale. And, unexpected and wild and manic, the screaming tore through the house.