which my dad might need, actually, now that I think of it, so we can just add that to the list of drugs he's already taking.
Anyway, since I'm alone, I do what I do on most mornings—I rummage around for a videotape and watch it for a little while. It's that first tape I made at the Burger Joint, way back when. It's cued up to the part with Leah. I watch it a little bit.
Then I switch it out for another tape. The picture is jerky and moves too much—even with the motion stabilizer turned on.
I swallow with a dry throat. on eBay, I've seen people sell cameras that can see through clothing. or special lens attachments that shoot at ninety-degree angles, so that you can aim at one thing but record something in a different direction, without anyone knowing.
God, I hate myself.
I hate myself, but I can't stop myself. If the camera wasn't broken, I could bring it to the party at Leah's. To the
pool
party.
An X-ray lens. Filming right through a wet bathing suit ...
God. Stop it, Kross! Stop it!
I watch the tape and I hate myself over and over again.
At times like this, I wish I
could
pray. For strength. Strength to stop. But I can't do either.
Chapter 12
Villain-Type
I DON'T KNOW MUCH ABOUT CARS . The one the mayor has picked out for me is brown.
After school, Dad takes me to the lot and literally kicks the tires—don't ask me why. He pokes around under the hood, grunts and clucks his tongue a couple of times, and then, as if he can't believe he's doing it, nods and gives me the OK to buy the thing.
There are reporters here for the Big Event—two local guys with their photographers and a kid from the school paper with his little digital camera. It cracks me up that there needs to be five people here to record me getting a car.
Poor mayor, though. He's getting his free publicity, but he's a little depressed to find that I don't actually
have
the reward money yet. The producers of
Justice!
have to fill out all kinds of legal paperwork and stuff. But there are press people right here, and I guess he doesn't want word to get out that he denied the Hero of Brookdale his pre-owned wheels.
"You come back in a couple of hours and I'll have some paperwork figured out."
So that's how it goes, only Dad has to get to bed early for work, so I call Flip later that day to take me there.
It's like nothing's changed—the press people are still here, and I amuse myself for maybe half a second by imagining that they've been waiting this whole time for me. But they all look sort of cranky and pissed off, so I imagine the truth instead: The mayor got all up in their faces and made them come back to see the actual Hand-off of the Car.
Flip checks out the car and pronounces it worthy (like I care) and then goes off while the mayor puts the papers together for me. I sign everything and we're good to go. He hands me the keys and puts an arm around my shoulders, with a look on his face that says,
I'm so glad there's a camera here to catch this!
"Enjoy the car, Kevin. God knows you earned it and more." He probably wishes there were a TV crew, too. He can probably envision the headlines: Mayor Advises Local Hero.
And then, just as I'm about to hop into the car, the mayor suddenly snaps his fingers. "Wait a minute, Kevin!" He rushes into the office and comes back with two magnetic ribbons that he slaps on the back of the car—the one on the left is yellow and says support our troops. The one on the right is red, white, and blue and says united we stand.
"Can't let you drive out of here without those, can I?" He winks at me.
The two newspaper reporters and their camera slaves leave, but the school reporter hangs around. "Mind if I follow you for a bit?" he asks.
"Uh, why?"
He shrugs. "My editor thought it might be a cool idea to show you with the car in your driveway or something like that."
It's official. This whole town has gone Kevin Krazy. "Fine. Whatever."
And then I'm driving home. Wow!
It's weird, driving by myself.
Anyway, since I'm alone, I do what I do on most mornings—I rummage around for a videotape and watch it for a little while. It's that first tape I made at the Burger Joint, way back when. It's cued up to the part with Leah. I watch it a little bit.
Then I switch it out for another tape. The picture is jerky and moves too much—even with the motion stabilizer turned on.
I swallow with a dry throat. on eBay, I've seen people sell cameras that can see through clothing. or special lens attachments that shoot at ninety-degree angles, so that you can aim at one thing but record something in a different direction, without anyone knowing.
God, I hate myself.
I hate myself, but I can't stop myself. If the camera wasn't broken, I could bring it to the party at Leah's. To the
pool
party.
An X-ray lens. Filming right through a wet bathing suit ...
God. Stop it, Kross! Stop it!
I watch the tape and I hate myself over and over again.
At times like this, I wish I
could
pray. For strength. Strength to stop. But I can't do either.
Chapter 12
Villain-Type
I DON'T KNOW MUCH ABOUT CARS . The one the mayor has picked out for me is brown.
After school, Dad takes me to the lot and literally kicks the tires—don't ask me why. He pokes around under the hood, grunts and clucks his tongue a couple of times, and then, as if he can't believe he's doing it, nods and gives me the OK to buy the thing.
There are reporters here for the Big Event—two local guys with their photographers and a kid from the school paper with his little digital camera. It cracks me up that there needs to be five people here to record me getting a car.
Poor mayor, though. He's getting his free publicity, but he's a little depressed to find that I don't actually
have
the reward money yet. The producers of
Justice!
have to fill out all kinds of legal paperwork and stuff. But there are press people right here, and I guess he doesn't want word to get out that he denied the Hero of Brookdale his pre-owned wheels.
"You come back in a couple of hours and I'll have some paperwork figured out."
So that's how it goes, only Dad has to get to bed early for work, so I call Flip later that day to take me there.
It's like nothing's changed—the press people are still here, and I amuse myself for maybe half a second by imagining that they've been waiting this whole time for me. But they all look sort of cranky and pissed off, so I imagine the truth instead: The mayor got all up in their faces and made them come back to see the actual Hand-off of the Car.
Flip checks out the car and pronounces it worthy (like I care) and then goes off while the mayor puts the papers together for me. I sign everything and we're good to go. He hands me the keys and puts an arm around my shoulders, with a look on his face that says,
I'm so glad there's a camera here to catch this!
"Enjoy the car, Kevin. God knows you earned it and more." He probably wishes there were a TV crew, too. He can probably envision the headlines: Mayor Advises Local Hero.
And then, just as I'm about to hop into the car, the mayor suddenly snaps his fingers. "Wait a minute, Kevin!" He rushes into the office and comes back with two magnetic ribbons that he slaps on the back of the car—the one on the left is yellow and says support our troops. The one on the right is red, white, and blue and says united we stand.
"Can't let you drive out of here without those, can I?" He winks at me.
The two newspaper reporters and their camera slaves leave, but the school reporter hangs around. "Mind if I follow you for a bit?" he asks.
"Uh, why?"
He shrugs. "My editor thought it might be a cool idea to show you with the car in your driveway or something like that."
It's official. This whole town has gone Kevin Krazy. "Fine. Whatever."
And then I'm driving home. Wow!
It's weird, driving by myself.
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