The Impaler

saying who—but someone told me that Bradley and some of the other guys started doing shots in the dressing room after the show. Bet ol’ Georgie Porgie would love to hear that one. Bradley telling me to get out of my own fucking bedroom!”

Cindy shrugged and led Edmund outside onto the deck. Edmund quickly negotiated the mob around the keg, filled up their cups, and retreated alone with Cindy to a corner of the yard—drinking and laughing and making conversation just as Cindy had hoped they would.

Cindy discovered that Edmund was a Cancer. She was a Gemini, she told him.

“I don’t really believe in astrology,” she added, “but, if I remember correctly, I think Cancer and Gemini are like the two most incompatible signs possible. What do you think of that?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Edmund said. “I should have been born a Leo, but I came out two weeks early because my mother wasn’t taking care of herself. At least, that’s what my grandfather used to tell me.”

Cindy didn’t know if Gemini and Leo were compatible signs, but Edmund assured her they were, and Cindy asked him to fill her cup again. Edmund obliged.

She could not remember if she was on her third or fourth beer (it felt like her fourth) by the time Bradley Cox and the rest of the seniors stumbled out onto the deck. She and Edmund had been deep in conversation about his mother, about how she committed suicide when he was a child. Cindy was on the verge of tears, but Edmund told her not to feel sorry for him and that everything happened for a reason. She wanted to hug him—wanted to kiss him, too—but even though she had good buzz going she held back until Edmund said: “Please, don’t take it as a downer, Cindy. It’s just something that happened. Besides, tonight is about new beginnings, isn’t it?”

Oh yes, Cindy thought. Now I’m going to kiss him. She could see in Edmund’s eyes that he wanted to kiss her, too. But then—

“Okay, motherfuckers,” shouted Bradley Cox. “Gather round, gather round. It’s that time.”

Cindy sighed and gulped down the last of her beer as the rest of the students began crowding onto the deck. Cox and his cohorts—six seniors total, all men—stood on chairs at the far end opposite the keg. Cindy declined when Edmund motioned to get her another beer.

“I’m buzzing too much already,” she said. “Just hold my hand if it gets too bad, will you?” Edmund smiled and took her hand anyway, and Cindy felt a surge of excitement and pride—especially when she saw some of the other students notice.

“We got a shitload of bags to di-perse,” Cox slurred, “to disburse, I mean, so everybody shut the fuck up and don’t make a big deal. Cuz they’s gonna be mean, motherfuckers!”

The crowd cheered.

“Seriously, seriously,” Cox chuckled, “this is all in fun, so nobody start crying and shit—seriously, mine’s like the worst, I’m sure.”

“Get on with it!” someone shouted, to which Cox replied: “That’s what your mom said before I blew my load in her face!”

Everybody laughed except Cindy and Edmund.

“Okay, okay, seriously,” Cox said, and began reading from the top of his stack of lunch bags. “This first Brown Bag goes out to the guy playing Mentieth. It’s called the ‘Perils of Inbreeding Award.’ Jonathan Reynolds: To the porky freshman with one of the most fucked-up grills we’ve ever seen, your teeth look like a leftover makeup effect from Deliverance. In fact, every time you speak on stage, we keep expecting you to add, ‘He’s suuure got a purty mouth!’ Who knew that backwoods rednecks lived in eleventh- century Scotland? Your mom and dad, apparently. Hard to keep a secret like that in the house when you’re brother and sister!”

Some laughter, some groans, and the pudgy freshman who played Mentieth pushed through the applauding crowd to accept his award.

“Witty, aren’t they?” Cindy whispered, her tongue thick with beer. “Mine will come at the end. Watch. They usually go from smallest parts to biggest. With Bradley at the helm, it’s going to be pure poetry all night, I’m sure.”

Edmund smiled and squeezed her hand.

And Cindy was right. The awards went on for about half an hour, the seniors taking turns reading them. Juvenile insults, profanity, and bathroom humor mostly—nothing even remotely clever—and Cindy could tell that some of the underclassmen got their feelings hurt. The worst was the young man playing Macduff, who got the dreaded “Freshman Fuckup Award,” and whose Brown Bag stated in no uncertain terms that his was the worst performance ever to grace the Harriot stage.

Cindy felt sorry for him, but her sympathy was shortlived when she heard her award was to be next. It was pretty much what she expected. The “Monica Lewinsky Award” they called it this time: an eloquent, heartfelt missive about how Cindy got her role because she sucked George Kier-nan’s dick, and that her “Out, out, damn spot!” had something to do with a cum stain on her Harriot sweatshirt.

Cindy didn’t even look at her Brown Bag after she walked up to accept it; was just happy to get it over with and folded it into her purse when she joined Edmund at the other end of the deck. He looked upset.

“They shouldn’t say stuff like that about you,” he said. “It’s disrespectful.”

“Who cares?” Cindy said, aware of the stares from the crowd. “They’re just a bunch of idiots. It’s not nearly as bad as it could’ve been, trust me. Really, it doesn’t bother me at all. Don’t let it ruin our night, okay?”

Cindy smiled and tugged on his shirt. Edmund, stone-faced, narrowed his eyes at her—seemed to look right through her, Cindy thought—then gazed past her toward Cox and his friends.

“And now the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” said the guy who played Banquo. “The ‘My Wife Won’t Sleep With Me Award.’ Bradley Cox: We know how many times you begged Cindy Smith to go out with you this year. And we know how many times she rejected you, so it’s no shocker that you should be playing her bitch on stage —‘Will you fuck me if I kill Duncan, honey? Will you fuck me if I kill Banquo, sweetie?’”

Laughter from the crowd.

“Art imitates life,” Banquo continued. “So what’s next for you, Bradley? Wait a minute, wait a minute.” He pretended to answer his cell phone. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay I’ll tell him. That was your agent, Bradley. They’ve got an audition for you: an understudy role playing sloppy seconds to Edmund Lambert in Psycho Meets the Egocentric Bitch!”

A chorus of “oohs” as the heads whipped around to see Cindy and Edmund’s reactions. Cox stepped across from his chair onto Banquo’s—pushed him off as he snatched up his Brown Bag and waved it over his head.

“Thass-right,” he shouted, smiling, slurring. “I ain’t got in yet, but word from her ex at Sigma Chi is that it ain’t worth shit anyway!”

Gasps, uncomfortable laughter, and all heads turned to Edmund and Cindy.

Then Edmund stepped forward.

“Come here, Bradley,” he said calmly.

The crowd grew silent.

“Edmund, don’t,” Cindy whispered, her hand on his arm. Edmund ignored her, just stood staring at Cox, motioning with his finger for him to come.

“Dude, relax,” said the guy playing Banquo. “It’s all in fun.”

“All of you then,” said Edmund. “All of you who wrote that stuff about Cindy can come over here and apologize to her.”

A murmuring in the crowd—some saying “Relax, dude,” and “Calm down” while others barked out, “Fuck him up, Lambert!”

“What’s your problem, man?” asked Banquo. “It’s just a joke.”

“Now’s your chance,” said Edmund. “If I have to come to you, then your chance to apologize is gone.”

“Dude—”

“No!” said Cox, stumbling off his chair. “Fuck him—fuck you, Lambert—you and your bitch there. Can’t take a joke, then you can go fuck yourself after you fuck her.”

Another gasp, and the students began backing away off the deck.

“Everybody just calm down,” said Banquo, but Edmund was already heading across the deck—calmly,