Chapter 4: Alex

I play the guitar. At home and occasionally at church. My Grandma taught me and, when we were kids, used to make me an' Peter and my sister Gracie sing with the children's choir. Playing guitar is the only thing other than football that makes sense to me all the time. I don't get school, I don't get women, I don't get life in general. Football and music, I get.

I don't get Lisa. One minute she's rock solid, the next she's a fuckin' whimp. She still won't tell me who left the bruise on her arm last month. It wasn't me. I know that. I did leave one - by accident. She was being all coy 'bout goin' to the river with Peter an' me an' I grabbed her arm and pushed her into the car. We didn't do anything 'cause she didn't want to fool around which was cool but I just didn't want to be alone while Peter an' Trina fucked.

But sometimes she's got other bruises, shit I know wasn't me. She won't tell me who it is - she just 'falls down a lot' - but if I find out, I'm breakin' his fuckin' skull.

But right now, the four of us are at the river an' I'm playing - mostly classic Spanish shit - and it's nice out here. I finish the song and give my fingers a break.

"Alex?" She has that timid 'I'm scared' tone that makes me want to punch her.

"What?"

She hesitates, moves her hair behind her ear and bites her lip.

"God damn, if it's all that..."

"I just don't want you to be angry with me."

"You piss me off with that whiney shit." I snap, "If-n you got somethin' ta say, say it."

"I wanna break up with you."

I heard the words but I honestly could not understand them for a couple minutes. "What?"

"I'm sorry, I just ... I don't think we're right for each other and..."

"We'd be fine if-n you weren't such a fuckin' whimp." The words come out of my mouth just to prove her point. I stare at her and watch her face change expression.

"Alex..." It's a whisper, a taunt, a needle poking sharply against my thinnest nerve.

I remember the headache creeping up the back of my neck and I remember hearing someone call her a bitch. And then Peter pulls my fucking shoulder out of joint. It hurts like shit and I swear but he's swearing louder.

"What the fuck is your problem, shithead?" he shoves me hard. Then he tosses his car keys to Trina and tells her to go home. I start protest but he shoves my shoulder again and that shuts me up for another couple of minutes. I hear the car doors shut, the engine start, and the vehicle pull away before he grabs my shoulder and yanks it painfully back into place.

That hurts. That hurts like no end of shit but it's not permanent. Peter can and has kicked my ass when I've gone too far. I sit on the ground and try to figure out what the fuck just happened. Peter is staring silently at me. As I'm cataloguing my various aches - shoulder, neck, head, back - I realize that my hand is among them. I look up at him then.

"I hit her, didn't I?" His look answers the question. "Fuck."

It is now official. I'm an asshole.