Boy Toy Read online

  Boy Toy

  Barry Lyga

  * * *

  Houghton Mifflin Company

  Boston 2007

  * * *

  Copyright © 2007 by Barry Lyga LLC

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  www.houghtonmifflinbooks.com

  The text of this book is set in ITC Legacy Serif.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Lyga, Barry.

  Boy toy / by Barry Lyga.

  p. cm.

  Summary: After five years of fighting his way past flickers of memory about the teacher who molested him and the incident that brought the crime to light, eighteen- year-old Josh gets help in coping with his molester's release from prison when he finally tells his best friend the whole truth.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-618-72393-5 (hardcover)

  ISBN-10: 0-618-72393-5 (hardcover)

  [1. Sexual abuse victims—Fiction. 2. Emotional problems—Fiction. 3. Baseball- Fiction. 4. Psychotherapy—Fiction. 5. Memory—Fiction. 6. High schools—Fiction. 7. Schools—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.L97967Boy 2007

  [Fic]—dc22

  2006039840

  Printed in the United States of America

  TK 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  * * *

  Dedicated to Terry Davis,

  for showing me that it was possible.

  * * *

  Ten Things I Learned at the Age of Twelve

  1. The Black Plague was transmitted by fleas that were carried throughout Europe by rats.

  2. If you first paralyze it, you can cut open a frog and watch its lungs continue to inflate and deflate.

  3. There are seven forms of the verb to be: am, being, been, is, was, were, and are.

  4. In order to divide fractions, you invert the divisor to arrive at the reciprocal, which is then multiplied by the dividend. (Mixed fractions must first be converted to improper fractions.)

  5. In Salem, the witches weren't burned at the stake—they were pressed to death under big rocks ... or hanged.

  6. Islam was founded in the year 610. It is the third of three world religions worshiping the same God.

  7. Each point on a "coordinate plane" (created by the joining of an x-axis and a y-axis) can be described by an ordered pair of numbers.

  8. "Monotheism" is a belief system centered on a single deity, while "polytheism" subscribes to belief in multiple deities.

  9. The area of a circle can be determined by using the formula π2, where r is the radius of the circle.

  10. How to please a woman.

  * * *

  Batter Up

  Things That Happened After and Before

  "Lucky thirteen," my dad said when I blew out the candles on my birthday cake, and my mom shot down his lame attempt at humor with a disgusted "Oh, Bill!"

  But honestly, that's not the important part. Not at all.

  The ending began and the beginning ended and the whole mess just got fucked up beyond belief at the party at Rachel Madison's house a few days later. A few days after

  "Lucky thirteen"/"Oh, Bill!"

  The party turned out to be little more than an excuse for Rachel and Michelle Jurgens and Zik Lorenz and me—the Four Musketeers—to hang out in Rachel's basement. Music videos on the TV and sodas and chips and some sort of hot potato casserole that Rachel announced she had made on her own. And three kids sitting around awkwardly trying to be coy with each other. Three kids and me.

  It was like watching the mating rituals of retarded birds, clumsily stepping the wrong patterns around each other over and over again. I sat to one side on a brittle office chair and tried not to be bored.

  "Something wrong?" Rachel asked at one point, kneeling down next to the chair. My mind flickered for a moment

  —dark room and then a light—

  and I adjusted my position in the chair.

  "No. Why?"

  She gestured to Michelle and Zik, who sat on the floor, leaning against the sofa. They were giggling at the TV, sharing a bowl of chips, their greasy fingers slipping against one another. "Well, you're just sitting over here by yourself..."

  "You're here now."

  Her face lit up. "Can I sit with you?"

  "Well, I guess..." I looked doubtfully at the old chair, which had no room for a second party.

  Rachel didn't wait; she planted herself on my lap. The chair squealed. My mind flickered again—

  —was—was—was—

  and I said, "This isn't a good idea, Rache."

  "It can hold us."

  She was my size, in a loose sleeveless top and a skirt worn low on her frame. Too skinny, to tell the truth; her skirt was tight enough to emphasize the lack of hips, low enough to expose her concave belly. Her hair was dirty blond and cut short, her face shining, sprayed with an even blast of freckles over the bridge of her nose. Luminous blue eyes. She twisted and put her arms around me. Flicker again

  —Was that what you wanted?—

  and then Rachel saying, "Is this OK? I need to steady myself."

  The chair creaked again, louder, as if to say, "Hey! I really mean it!"

  "I don't think this is a good idea, Rachel."

  "Come on."

  "I'm just worried about the chair."

  She wiggled on my lap. I wasn't worried about the chair.

  I couldn't let this continue. I struggled to move her off me, our bodies chafing against each other. Her butt slipped and ground against my pelvis in a way that was almost pleasant, almost painful.

  "Please"—and I managed to move her off me without dumping her onto the floor.

  She fixed me with a glare and a pout at the same time. Rachel Madison was the first girl I noticed when I started noticing girls in fifth grade. Back then, she was a skinny little tomboy with no breasts and the best on-base percentage in Little League that season at .425.

  By seventh grade, she'd grown out of the cute tomboy phase, though not much had happened in the chest department. Like so many girls, she emphasized the positive, though, with tight jeans and skirts designed to show off the legs and ass toned over months of beating the throw to first. Up top, she favored the loose blouses and shirts that hinted that maybe, maybe, something was starting to sprout under there.

  She sauntered over to the snacks, hips swinging in a pathetic attempt to be older than thirteen.

  "I have to go to the bathroom," she announced suddenly.

  Michelle jumped up and the two girls trooped off to the bathroom together, leaving Zik and me to switch the channel to ESPN, where the Red Sox were clobbering our dear Orioles.

  Moments later, the girls returned. Instead of resuming her make-out position with Zik, though, Michelle clapped her hands together and said, "Hey, guys, want to play a game?"

  In no time at all, we were all sitting cross-legged on the floor across from each other, an empty Coke bottle between us.

  "Whoever gets the bottle pointed at them," Michelle said, as if giving a book report, "gets to go into the coat closet with the person across from them."

  That meant Rachel for me, Zik for Michelle. Coincidence? Of course not.

  "Are you sure this is how you play spin-the-bottle?" I had never played before, but it didn't seem to jibe with the lore gleaned from older kids over the years.

  "This is how my sister plays," Michelle said, and all argument stopped. Michelle's sister, Dina, was drop-dead gorgeous, famous for having had a man offer to leave his wife for her when she was in eighth grade. At least, that was the rumor. No one doubted it, though.

  Rachel spun the bottle, giving it a weak little twist that sent it in a quarter-turn before the top
of it pointed at me like a compass needle pointing north.

  "You and Josh go into the closet," Michelle squealed.

  "It didn't go all the way around," I said. "The bottle has to spin all the way around at least once. Otherwise it doesn't count."

  Rachel pouted again, but went ahead and spun the bottle once more. It landed perfectly and squarely on me. Again.

  "See?" Michelle said, as if something had been proven. She heaved herself to her feet and threw open the closet door. "Get in there, you two!"

  Rachel slid in quickly. "How long are we supposed to be in there?" I asked.

  "Don't worry about it," Michelle said. "I'm keeping time."

  As the closet door closed, it occurred to me that Michelle would do nothing of the sort. She'd be getting her hands greasy with Zik again.

  The closet was nearly empty. A thin sketch of light from under the door made it so that we weren't in complete darkness, but

  I couldn't really see anything at all, except for those weird dancing color spots that drift in front of your eyes when it's dark.

  "Sit down," Rachel whispered. I sat.

  I couldn't see her, but I could feel her just ahead of me, sitting cross-legged. I closed my eyes to a new darkness. Flicker

  —turn on the lights if you want—

  and then back to the present.

  I opened my eyes. Spots whirled and spun. The dark went to semidarkness. I thought I could see something in the far distance. It shifted.

  Rachel changed position, going up to her knees. I felt more than saw her lean toward me in the dark. A sudden giggle penetrated the closet from outside: Michelle.

  "Sounds like they're having fun," Rachel said, her breath clouded, warm, against my face. She was practically on top of me. I almost jerked out a hand in self-defense, but I held back.

  "I guess so."

  "Don't you want to have fun?"

  Flicker

  —touch—

  "I guess so."

  She giggled like Michelle. "I've been practicing spinning that bottle all week."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah."

  She leaned in even closer; her blouse brushed against my hand. Then her lips pressed to my cheek. They were slippery with too much lipstick. She fumbled for a minute, adjusting, and eventually found my lips. More slimy lip action.

  "Don't you like me?" she whispered.

  —touch—

  —lick—

  —OK—

  —yes—

  "Sure." I could feel her trembling—vibrating—over me, supporting herself on her hands, elbows locked. Belly pressed to my knee. Blouse drifting against my hand.

  "Kiss me," she said, and kissed my lips again, this time probing with her tongue.

  I opened my mouth and she sighed deep in her throat when our tongues touched. It sounded familiar. Universal. I closed my eyes again and pretended. Pretended I wasn't in a closet in the Madisons' basement, with Zik and Michelle intertwining their fingers ten feet away through a cheap fiberboard door. Pretended I wasn't sitting cross-legged across from a flat-chested girl with freckles and a too-slutty skirt that looked wrong on her but would have looked so right on someone else.

  Instead, I moved forward with my body and my tongue. I heard a familiar grunt of approval. I reached out to touch her

  —touch—

  —yes—

  and slid my hands down to the bare skin between the blouse and the skirt. I crushed my face to hers, let my hands move the way they wanted, the way they knew...

  And the next thing I knew, Rachel slammed my chest with both fists. She was too small to hurt me, but she managed to push me away, breaking the hold I had on her, jerking my hands away. "No! No!"

  She shoved me, kicked out with her feet, and then the door was flung open and Rachel dashed out of the closet, wailing, tugging at her blouse and skirt, running for the stairs.

  Michelle and Zik were sprawled on the sofa, fooling around. They looked over at me, lipstick-smeared, as Rachel charged up the stairs. I heard an adult voice call out. Then another, and then a babble of them—her father, her mother, her brother, home from college.

  And that was how one part of my life ended. And another began.

  Thirteen years old. Five years ago.

  Strike One

  Chapter 1

  Roland Makes a Decision

  Coach Kaltenbach shouldn't have said it. He shouldn't have opened his big, fat, stupid mouth. Because if he hadn't said it, then I wouldn't have heard it. And I wouldn't have hit him so hard that his head left a dent on the lowest bleacher when he collapsed.

  We were running laps in the gym—third straight day of April rain, so we couldn't practice outside. Mr. Kaltenbach, varsity baseball coach, was standing near the bleachers, yelling at us to "pick it up pick it up pick it up you goddamn girls!"

  "Come on, move it, Lorenz!" he bellowed as Zik ran past him.

  "Get the lead out!" he bawled when Jon Blevins ran by.

  "Do I have to call the girls' softball team in here to show you how this is done?" he screamed to no one in particular.

  As I approached Kaltenbach, his mouth opened and his eyes gleamed, and I waited for the insult.

  And then he said it.

  Truth be told, I don't even remember deciding to hit him. You'd think that hitting a coach and a teacher would be something that you'd ponder. You'd weigh the pros and cons. You'd really consider it before doing it. Especially if you're me, if you're praying for a scholarship, a scholarship to take you out of this little town that knows far, far too much.

  But I didn't think about it. I just stopped dead in my tracks, pivoted on my right foot, and smashed my fist into his jaw.

  Kaltenbach made a sound like "Hut!" and staggered backwards, arms pinwheeling, his clipboard dropping to the floor. There was no way he was going to keep his balance; he went over backwards, landed on his flabby ass (good news for him), and then the top half of his body kept on going and he fetched up against the bottom bleacher with the back of his head. Whonk! Crack!

  I wasn't sure what had cracked—the bleacher, or Coach's head. I didn't really care, either.

  Behind me, the sound of running feet squeaked to a stop on the gym floor. Someone said, "Holy shit," loud enough for it to echo.

  Zik was at my side in an instant.

  "Dude. What the fuck?" He was breathing hard. On the other hand, I was breathing regularly. I touched my fingers to my neck; my pulse was normal.

  Kaltenbach groaned from the floor and rolled to one side.

  "Oh, man," Zik moaned. "Why did you do that?"

  Kaltenbach winced as he sat up, probing the back of his head. I think he wanted to say something or get up and get tough with me, but I just stared at him and clenched my fists by my sides. He was so out of line and he knew it.

  If it had just been the two of us, he would have let it slide. But there were witnesses.

  "Office," he said, then hissed in a breath as he touched something tender where he'd fallen.

  ***

  Which is how I ended up in the office of (according to his desk plaque) Roland A. Sperling, Assistant Principal. Known to students far and wide as "The Spermling."

  "Joshua, Joshua, Joshua," he says, sighing as he squeezes into his chair. "Joshua."

  "Roland, Roland, Roland," I mimic, right down to the sigh. "Roland."

  "We've talked about that before. You need to show proper respect."

  "Calling you Roland is better than what the other kids call you, isn't it? And at least I do it to your face."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  Sure he does. "If you say so, Roland."

  The Spermling is a fat slug of a man. He goes beyond obese and into "generates his own gravity" territory. I'd say he's a black hole, but black holes are small.

  The Spermling is more like a Jupiter-class gas giant, bloated and round.

  On his desk near one sausage-y hand lies my student file—I recognize it instantly from
the sheer bulk. It's at least twice as thick as any other I've ever seen. He taps it with his pen and looks at me thoughtfully. "I thought you liked baseball, Josh."

  "I do."

  "You won't go very far in the game if you punch your coach."

  I bite my lip. It's been twenty minutes since I decked Kaltenbach, and my knuckles still hurt. They throb. But that's OK. It's a good kind of throbbing because I know where it came from. It's a justice-throbbing.

  "I won't be playing my whole life. I'm not planning on going pro or anything. I just like the game."

  "Discipline and respect aren't just about baseball," he tells me. "Or even just about assistant principals. When you're out there in college or in the real world—"

  "I know. I won't be allowed to punch people."

  He starts tapping his pen again, this time against the plastic Rolodex. "Did he say something to upset you? It's been a while since you've lashed out so ... physically. He tells me he was goading you boys to run faster."

  For a moment, I'm back in the gym. Been like this for years—I get these weird full-body flashbacks that last maybe a second, maybe two. I call them "flickers." So for a second, I'm back in the gym, just as Kaltenbach says it.

  And then back in the Spermling's office.

  "I don't want to talk about it. Just go ahead and punish me."

  The Spermling leans back in his chair, finding a new target for his pen tapping: the computer keyboard. "Josh, I don't like punishing you. You're a bright kid, and I think you've got a bright future waiting for you, if you settle down long enough to take it. I've cut you a lot of slack because of your history and because your grades are, quite frankly, better than any other three students' combined."

  "I appreciate the vote of confidence, Roland." I get up to leave. "I'll be seeing you, then."

  "Sit down." His chair howls in protest as he leans forward against the desk. "We're not finished. Assaulting a teacher is serious business. You could get in a lot of trouble. Legal trouble. I don't think you want to be in a courtroom—" He cuts himself off here, as if something has caught in his throat. What the hell?

 
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