9. Benji
BENJI
AM I A BAD PERSON?
Sam followed me so closely through the barn, into the locker room, and out into the parking lot that I couldn’t catch a glimpse of his face.
I wanted to turn around, apologize, tell him the whole truth, say I was ready to face the consequences—but I had to wait until it was just us.
That was why I didn’t look back as I walked, why I hid my still quivering fists inside my pockets, even though they wanted to claw at my own neck, pressing until the tension finally released its cold grip.
I wanted to get everything off my chest. He shouldn’t have almost lost his job—or even have thought he might—only because I needed to be a stupid piece of shit for no other reason than to make myself feel better.
We came to a halt between the two barns, right next to the shed where the oranges for the store were kept, about fifteen feet away from my car, the only one left in the lot without a Farley Farm’s logo on it.
Chewing on my tongue, I searched for the words to get it over with, but nothing seemed right.
I scuffed my boots through the dust when a dark, wet spot appeared on the ground at Sam’s feet.
I blinked, watching a second and third drop join it.
My gaze climbed upward, following the trail, until what I saw made my stomach churn.
Tears streamed down Sam’s face, the backs of his hands rushing to swipe them away as if he hoped I wouldn’t notice if he was only fast enough. He sniffled—once, twice, three times—each breath piercing through me like an ice pick to the chest.
He forced the corners of his mouth upward, but lost the battle instantly, as more tears rolled down his chin and splattered onto the dirt. Whimpering, he dropped his head to his chest.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, leaving it unclear what exactly he was apologizing for.
Even then, I didn’t know what to say. I had made people cry before—usually in anger, after I told them off or hit them when they came at me—but not like this. This was different. These tears were nothing but my fault.
The only thing I could think of doing was what my Mom always did when I cried as a kid: offering a hug. But that would’ve only made things more awkward, especially with what I was about to confess.
“Sorry that I dragged you into this,” Sam said, beating me to it, apologizing for something that wasn’t his fault.
The moral ice pick wedged itself deeper into the back of my throat, stabbing again and again.
“But thank you so much for standing up for me, Benji. It means a lot,” he sniffled, “No one ever has—” His voice cracked, swallowed up by sobs before he could finish.
He needn’t say more. The rumors I had heard about him, combined with that half-sentence, made everything clear.
Sam—the famous guy from Red Creek, the one who never had a girlfriend, the one who everybody avoided because no one wanted to be associated with someone like that—probably never had anyone stand up for him before.
His tears weren’t just from sadness; they were from relief—relief at not being alone for once.
As much as I wanted to clear my own conscience by telling him the truth, how could I take that from him now? We had all lied so much already. What harm could it do to let him have this one good thing?
I raised my hand. Since a full-on hug felt like too much, I set my palm on his shoulder and gave him a light pat. That did the trick. A sound half-laugh, half-sob escaped him, before he fully let go.
For a minute, we stood there, his quiet sobs permeating the silence until he finally got it all out.
“Really,” he said once he could speak again, “I appreciate it so much... how you stood up for me.”
“It was the least I could do,” I replied without hesitation. “And I’d do it again.”
“Hopefully, I won’t get almost-fired anytime soon.” Sam chuckled, wiping his thumbs across his blotchy, red cheeks. “But it’s good to know you’d be there.”
Yeah. Without even trying to, he had just helped me figure out how to make it up to him: by being there, whenever, for whatever.
“You need a ride home?” I asked, giving his shoulder one last pat before letting go.
“I’m not going home,” Sam said. “I’m going to meet up with Mr. Penton. You know... the appointment I mentioned yesterday? I moved it.”
“I’m fine driving you anywhere.”
“I have the bike.”
“And I have a trunk. You stayed up all night, barely slept, worked for hours in the sweltering heat, and just cried for a couple of minutes. You think it’s safe to get on a bike now? Really, driving you and your bike is no problem.” Our eyes met. “Don’t make me beg.”
“We’re meeting at Red Creek High. If it doesn’t trigger you to drive there, I’m happy to accept your offer.”
“Why would it trigger...” I raised my voice, but lowered it again right away. “I’m happy to drive you to Red Creek High.”
We smiled at each other. And when a rumble of voices rose from inside the barn, we took off before they could catch up with us.
I hadn’t expected Red Creek High to stir anything in me, but it still surprised me how completely blank it felt—no ill feelings, no awkward memories.
On the contrary, staring at the big brown brick of a building, which still looked like someone had cut a gigantic piece of earth out of the ground, thrown it into the middle of a field, stuck a sign on it, and called it a day, left me oddly indifferent.
I’d spent years there, but now it was a building like any other.
I couldn’t care less what happened inside.
Sam thanked me four times for driving him, and only after I heaved his wedged bike out of the trunk—because when he tried, he was so careful not to scratch anything that we would still be there by midnight if I hadn’t taken over—only then did he stop thanking me, and only because he went inside and couldn’t anymore.
If he’d had my number, I was sure he would have sent me four more messages with the exact same words.
That actually triggered me. His words of gratitude made my chest feel light, as if I were filled with helium and could lift off at any second, floating away into the sky with no idea how to get back down.
When I sat back in the car, the weightlessness made me lean back into the seat.
I smiled, though I had no idea why—but the smile didn’t last.
Although part of me wanted to hang around, wait until Sam came back out, and drive him home too, waiting wasn’t an option. What I should’ve done was give him my number and tell him to text me if he needed a ride home, but it was too late for that.
So instead of acting like a creep, I started the engine and rolled down the little side road that ran parallel to the street, the one built so that parents dropping off their kids wouldn’t block the entire intersection.
When I reached the exit, I should’ve turned right, driven home, and eaten dinner with my parents. Instead, I turned left.
The road took me out of town toward the mountains I usually only saw from afar, and I kept driving until the fuel gauge dipped too close to the red zone to ignore, with no gas station in sight.
On my way back, I veered off toward the actual name-giving creek of Red Creek, which, funnily enough, was fifteen miles out of town.
I parked. Sat in the car for a few minutes. Got out. Stretched my legs. Wandered down to where the thin layer of water rippled away, constantly brushing over the stones beneath it like it was quietly polishing them.
I crouched and touched the surface, dipping my fingers in to feel the fresh coolness of the stream before I sank onto the ground and just sat there, waiting for everything to be over, only getting up after the sun had set.
A faint orange glimmer painted the sky, leading the way, as I drove home.
My eyes automatically drifted toward the school building as I passed it. I slowed down, as if something in me hoped he’d come out right then, so I could pull over and offer him a ride again. But the windows were dark, and the bike was no longer strapped to the rack.
Dad’s Nissan was already in the driveway, parked so far back it left barely enough space for me to squeeze in without scraping the paint off both cars.
So I parked behind Dad, blocking him in so tight that I could already hear the complaints that would hit me in the morning, but I couldn’t care less.
Not my fault if he parks as if he were the only person coming home tonight.
I made my way up the driveway, the flicker of a TV program flashing behind the living room curtains, and slid my key into the lock.
As I pushed the door open, gunshots from a Western movie greeted me, along with my father’s snoring.
He lay on his back, left arm draped over his head to block the flicker.
Quietly, I dropped the keys into the little bowl on the side table and shut the door behind me with a soft click.
My grumbling stomach dragged me toward the kitchen. A small note was pinned to the fridge under a watermelon-shaped magnet:
Dinner is in the fridge. Reheat in the microwave for three minutes. Love, Mom.
A smile tugged at my mouth. I popped the fridge open and, as promised, found a plate with leftover meatloaf and mashed potatoes. When I set it in the microwave, the soft rustle of the plate spinning joined the gunshots from the TV, but Dad didn’t flinch. His snoring drowned out everything.
When the timer hit 00:01, I still stopped the microwave early to avoid the beeping and snuck to my room with the hot plate and a fork.
The second I closed the door behind me, my shoulders dropped. I had made it through without having to talk to anyone, and I had food in my hands. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.