Chapter 1
Flinch!
“Instinct is a lie told by a fearful body hoping to be wrong.”
The punch came at him swiftly, but telegraphed. Roman Hildebrandt pivoted on a foot and the fist hit naught but air. His opponent’s momentum unchecked, they took another step in spite of themselves. And that’s where Roman found his opening, stepping inward, arm outstretched and palm open. Tap!
“Goddammit!” Jonat’an Huxley blurted as Roman’s gloved palm checked the side of his headpiece with enough force to knock Jonat’an to his side. He caught himself. “Come on, dude,” he said, stepping back, “Stop playin’, take me seriously!”
Roman found himself disinclined to oblige him. Friend or no, he was bored with this bout, concerned more with finding entertainment than taking things seriously. If it took a playful jab or two then so be it. Roman would have fun, dammit. “Don’t be slow,” he gave back, “and maybe I’ll take you seriously.”
Jonat’an shook his head.
The grain of the tatami mat was rough underfoot as the two circled one another. Jonat’an kept his hands up before his face and bounced on his toes from side to side. Roman, on the other hand, was calm, cool, collected. As far as his reckonings were concerned everything was copacetic. And that was how he liked to play it: smooth, like water. He had up only a single hand tucked beneath his right cheek, his left arm low before the crotch, but lithe and loose, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. It was obvious that Jonat’an bore his doubts for he failed to make a move, so Roman checked him, taking a quick step forward with his right foot. Jonat’an jumped, switching his stance and made to reach out but there was no arm, there, for him to grab and all he managed was to propel himself forward. Roman leveraged his own weight against that of Jonat’an’s, putting a hand beneath his pit and with minimal effort Jonat’an was in the air, end over end, and — smack! — he was on his back.
“Motherfucker,” he managed as he rolled to his side.
“You telegraph your moves, jefe,” Roman gave back with a smirk.
Jonat’an brought up a hand to wipe his nose and sniffed. “You better watch it, hombre. You get clumsy when you’re cocky.”
Roman loosed a wry chuckle. “You’d like to think that.” Then he beckoned him, “Come on, dude.”
Jonat’an didn’t move.
“Come on, whaddya got, jefe?”
But Jonat’an was cautious. He stepped into range, hands up and jabbed — one, two — but Roman deflected one and ducked beneath the other and then slid past him. The two of them turned round to meet each other’s gaze. Come on, Roman said to himself. Come on, dude, show me whatchu got.
Roman could see something new in Jonat’an’s expression, and he wasn’t quite sure of its nature. His eyes twinkled and there was a slight furrow in that angular brow, the corner of his mouth twisted in a smirk. It took the space of a breath for Roman to wonder at what it was he saw.
For three years, now, Jonat’an has been an almost constant and reliable sparring partner. Today’s affair was no exception. Jonny had a suitable temperament but his main flaw was a lacking patience. He was always primed for gun-jumping, taking a step a second too early, giving himself away whenever he moved for an attack. His tactics resulted in a discernable pattern, the sort with which Roman had become a fluent reader. The thing to note about fighting was that it’s comprised chiefly of two stages: what you want to happen and what you expect to happen. If you played your cards right, you were sure to mark a careful distinction between the two. Conflating one for the other was like to leave you vulnerable to attack. At this stage and after all these years, Roman had grown capable of anticipating Jonat’an’s strategies. It was like variations on a theme. And that knowledge in mind, Roman knew almost at any given moment how to move himself and react such that Jonat’an produced only exactly what Roman expected him to do. And the trick: to engineer a reaction such that what he expected aligned with what he wanted to occur, which would leave the poor Jonat’an open to attack.
It was all elementary.
When first the two had met, they hadn’t shared any classes. But they had both been freshman admittance to the Brighton School, which ultimately would prove to their good fortune. There were worse places to be, of course, and Brighton is where you go when you’ve got nowhere else to go but down, a turning point, of sorts, if you’re willing to let it.
Unlike most, Jonat’an had never thought nor seemed to care to ask how Roman came to find himself enrolled at the all-boys’ school. For that, Roman had always been grateful. Of course, everyone’s got a story, that pivotal indiscretion a sort of social currency: the more extreme the demeanor, the more likely you were to find reverence from your cohorts. But Roman didn’t care for social ladders and good graces and kept such indiscretions to himself. It wasn’t anyone’s business but his own, and not once in the three years they’d known each other has Jonat’an even attempted to challenge that notion.
A fist came at him. Roman ducked back. Then another fist to meet him, but Roman deflected it. The flurry continued and suddenly Roman was on his toes, dancing back, step-by-step, left and right. The two of them danced around the tatami mat, the momentum left unchanged. Roman had never seen in Jonat’an such persistence. But there was no time to think on that. When Roman made to deflect the last punch, Jonat’an spun on a foot and his weight shifted back on its heel. His other foot came up in a wide, sweeping arc and Roman caught it.
Suddenly, Jonat’an was in the air, having hopped off his spare foot, aiming it at Roman’s head. Fast! Roman released Jonat’an’s foot and quickly brought up both hands to block the kick, taking a step back. But then Jonat’an was on the mat and another foot came to sweep him and — smack! — Roman’s ass was on the mat.
Jonat’an kipped up and stood over him, his teeth showing in a sheepish grin.
“That was good!” Roman shouted up at him. Jonat’an reached down to grab his hand, pulling him up. “Did not see that coming in the slightest!”
“You like that, huh?” The two of them stood there together, catching their breaths.
“Damn right, didn’t know you had it in you,” Roman said, bringing an arm behind his head in a stretch.
“Told ya,” Jonat’an said behind a smirk, “you get cocky, you get sloppy.” He made to feint a punch just as Roman was in mid-stretch. Roman flinched. The two laughed.
“Gotta keep you on your toes someway-somehow, I mean fuck, you’re good when you’re serious, bro. I mean…” he swallowed then took a breath, “I don’t get it, what’s your deal?”
Roman shrugged. He knew what Jonat’an was getting at, of course; the refrain was nothing if not recurrent. Jonat’an’s sights were as always set high. It was their senior year and their last attempt to make the national tournament. Jonat’an wanted to see it done before his time at Brighton was through. In his mind, they were here no matter what; the least they could do was give it their best shot. “There’s no way we make it without you,” he told Roman over lunch, “I mean, we could be something, y’know? I mean, imagine that, our group making nationals, kicking ass? Total Cinderella story, man, I’m tellin’ you…” He wasn’t wrong.
At least the sentiment was admirable. Only, the problem: Brighton just wasn’t the sort of place where one wants something for oneself. Wants don’t get you anything. In fact, for most of the Boys of Brighton, wanting things was the common denominator, the requisite quality from which stemmed each of the transgressions which would lead them there. Or so it was for Roman, at least. And it simply does not do to dwell on dreams for those who cannot trust themselves…
Practice ended. Roman took a brief shower and he sat in the downstairs locker room of the Club Facility, lacing up his footgear. Out of habit, he tucked the ends of each pants leg into the top of each boot, slipped on his button-up shirt, then his crimson hoodie, then his cobalt-blue blazer. It was all a methodical, meditative dance, right down to the pushing up of his sleeves and tucking the cuffs of his shirt on the outside. He never had to think of it.
“You ‘bout ready, dude?” he heard Jonat’an ask from the next row over.
Most of their classmates used the transit system to find their way home. But the bus routes didn’t venture out to East Mountain. So for Jonat’an and Roman, that meant hoofing it. Which wasn’t all that bad, the trek was only about an hour and it was a routine which bothered Roman little. It was to be expected, after all it was his own father who said, “…and if you step outta line one more time, you go to Brighton, you lose the car.” It would turn out to be the first time Roman ever lost his car privileges.
A car honked as it passed by, an oft-occurring occurrence given the uniforms. Roman watched its tail-end while Jonat’an kept talking. “Anyway, it’s a good read, man, I’m tellin’ you, you should give it a go. You’ve still got the log-in creds, right?”
Roman nodded his head, eyes locked on the tips of his boots.
“I know it’s time travel and you hate that ish but trust me, you’ll like the story anyway.”
“Is that all you do when you’re not fighting: read comics?” he asked his friend.
“What else is there?” he gave back. He began to count on his fingers, “…lost my Switch privileges so no Zelda, lost the car so no mall, no VR-cade, oh! — and, lest we forget, no credit card so no Subway, which is mighty relevant right about now on account o’my being hungry as fuck.” Jonat’an held each backpack strap in either hand, pulled taut against his shoulders. Roman took note of his posture, there seemed something of a youthful exuberance in the way he carried himself, and Roman wondered how it was Jonny had the energy for it. “This is all I’ve got,” he started again, “All-New X-Men and MMA. Leave me to my devices, a’ight?” Jonat’an chuckled and Roman smiled. As usual, he made a salient point. Roman counted himself lucky. His own offense had been a meager and minor misdemeanor, but in Jonny’s case, his parents had no choice but to crack down and hard. That’s what you get, it seemed, for selling Adderall to your classmates. And yet, by contrast, it seemed to Roman that all he had was MMA…
…“first-world problems”, essentially.
“Could be worse, dude,” he offered with a shrug.
“Yeah, yeah, I get that, perks of the trust-fund babies…I’m just sayin’ I’m fucking bored, fucking hungry and fucking bored.”
Roman smiled. “You know I can’t buy you lunch — ”
“ — I totally get that, I know,” Jonny said, resting a conciliatory hand on Roman’s shoulder. Roman could only smirk and chuckle to himself, shaking his head. “I just want to get-the-fuck-outta here — senior year, dude!” he said through gritted teeth, emphasizing each word with a hop in his step. Roman understood the sentiment completely. It had only been a week since the resumption of class. Already it had seemed like the last three years passed in a flash, and for that, Roman was thankful.
“A-fucking-men,” he replied.
“I think that’s the most enthusiasm I’ve ever seen from you, off the mat,” Jonny said with a smile.
Roman gave back a one-sided shrug. “What can I say, I’m laid back — ” Oh god…Roman thought, catching himself almost immediately as the words left him, just as Jonny started…
“…‘with my mind on my money and my money on my mind!’”
Jonny laughed heartily through a shit-eating grin.
“You’re a fucking moron,” Roman offered with a smirk of his own and a shake of the head.
“You walked right into it,” Jonny said, patting him on the back. Roman knew it, too.
They went on like that for some time. And it was a familiar rhythm. Roman was obliged to let Jonny do the lion’s share of the talking. If anything, Jonny seemed always to have something to say and maybe that was the ADHD. And despite the circumstances, it was easy to imagine there were worse ways to wile away the late afternoon. After all, Pine Tree road was a mostly desolate thoroughfare with only the occasional passing truck or diesel. Roman and Jonny kept mostly to the gently rolling hills covered in tall grass, either side of the road dominated by sentinels, lush and green pines and a crisp scent, and when the road was empty, you could hear the songs of bugs and birds, nature’s own harmonies at work. Roman even took a moment to bring his hands behind his head, fingers interlocked, pointing his head to the deep blues and purples of the sky above, streaked with thin clouds and the silhouettes of birds in flight. And all the while, Jonny talked. It was a decent afternoon.
Roman had not a single care in the world.
“…which reminds me — dude,” Jonny said, nudging Roman’s elbow, bringing him back to the present. “how goes the recruiting?”
The dreaded “R”-word: Roman squinted his eyes. “Aye, what of it?” he asked.
Jonny let out a bemused huff from behind that lopsided grin. “You’re kiddin’, right?” he said, laughing. “How’s it going, what’ve you got, what’ve you been doin’?”
The answer was nothing, so Roman said nothing. He offered only a one-sided shrug.
Jonny chuckled, “Dude, seriously?” He shook his head as he looked down at his feet and then up at the sky above. The sun was approaching its descent, its longer rays beginning to stretch across the ionosphere, painting the sky in broad strokes of pink and deep purples. Soon, they’d be home. Jonny stopped his walking, grabbing Roman by the shoulder, pulling him to a stop. “This is serious, dude — I’m, I’m being serious, here, hear me out…”
Roman almost hated it when Jonny got like this. But he was about the only friend Roman had, so if he owed him anything it was his own attention. After all, it was a small price to pay. So he took a breath, letting it out in a near-huff, raised his brow and cocked his head to the side: his typical “I’m-listening” posture and then crossed his arms.
“You don’t have much a care in the world, I totally get it. I’m not asking you to care. I’m just…I’m only asking you to help us find people who might: care, I mean, who might care. Look, I’m sure it wouldn’t convince you, but…” he sighed, looking down. Then he met Roman’s gaze. “I fucked up, a’ight? I did. I get that. I had a likely shot and, well you know the score — I threw it away. I didn’t rise up, I stumbled, I fell. And guess what — so did you. No judgment,” he added, raising his hands, “just an observation of fact. We fucked up. But, like, check it — we gotta shot, now. We’ve got a real thing goin’, here. I know I say this a lot, dude, but you’re a fucking phenom. You kick ass, resoundingly. Nobody expects us to be anything more than the Boys from Brighton. They all think we’re done. But we’ve gotta shot, hombre. And I wanna take it, I wanna rise up…”
Roman didn’t say anything: not at first, at least. Not that he wasn’t sure of what to say in response: only, he felt a considered pause was most appropriate. Jonny chose to wear his heart on his sleeve and Roman didn’t feel it fair to betray that. And again, Jonny had a point. He wanted to get somewhere, and he was asking for his help. Roman began to nod his head.
“Yeah?” Jonny asked, fishing for an affirmation.
“You know what I’m thinking…” Roman offered.
Jonny turned his head, watching him with squinted eyes beneath a furrowed brow.
“… ‘I’m young, scrappy and hungry and I’m not throwin’ away — my — shot!”
Jonny gave him a wide smirk and punched him in the shoulder. “Fuck you, man.”
Roman laughed.
It was night out, and outside Roman’s bedroom window there was nothing but blackness. Not that it mattered. He wore his air pods which soothed him to the smooth stylings of old-school Coldplay. As was routine, he had removed his blazer, hoodie, and button-up, draping them carefully over the back of the chair which sat behind his desk. No computer, though. That had been taken away as part of his ongoing punishment. But not his iPod Touch, thankfully. It mattered little. Still donning his slacks and boots, he laid back on his bed, his feet dangling over the edge as he rotated his left ankle in idle circles. As ever, it was destined to be a lonesome night. The lights were out upon his arrival, but he’d made out his mother’s keys and her ID badge sitting on the small, waist-high table which sat in the hallway adjacent to the front door. On Fridays, she tended to work the afternoon shift. She was likely already abed and dead to the world. He checked the oven to find a serving of the night’s dinner waiting for him. He heated it and devoured it before heading upstairs to his own room.
They hardly spoke anymore, him and his mother. It had been hard enough, missing birthdays and holidays and summer vacations. But Roman had grown accustomed to this fact. In spite of that, Mother would always wear for him a sincere smile, as though he had been the greatest thing in the world. And it had seemed like there was nothing he might do to ever change that. But then it happened. “I can’t even look at you,” she said, ashamed, her dark bangs hiding tired eyes, “Get out of my sight.” That hurt. Something delicate had broken, and there was nothing he could ever say to fix it.
So he said nothing.
Three years later and her eyes were still tired and she never smiled. She still called him sweetie, though. That was a blessing.
This is why you never dream, he remembered thinking, expressly for this very reason. He hated dreaming, hoping: because there was nothing, in the end, always nothing.
I know you don’t care, Jonny had said to him, But I’m not asking you to.
But Jonny never got it, and maybe he never could — maybe no one could. Because the truth, that delicate and broken thing having unfurled before him —
— Roman wanted to care. But there was no one to show him how.
That was how it ended, the first week of his senior year: without preamble, without pomp or circumstance, just another in the long run of unremarkable days. And eventually, his eyes closed and Roman slept.
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