In Between, the Summer

Words by Lin Morris

Art by Yaleeza Patchett

All anybody could talk about the last month of ninth grade was that mysterious VHS tape of Howie Jerkins. The following September, as sophomore year commenced, all anybody could talk about was Howie’s suicide. 

In between the two, the summer of 1986, when Howie never left his house.

For someone so looked-down-upon, Howie sure took up a lot of space in people’s heads. They talked about his death as eagerly as they’d dissected the tape four months prior. 

That tape.

It just showed up one morning in homeroom, sitting on Mr. Pike’s desk. Nobody knew where it came from. Mr. Pike said, “Well, let’s watch it, shall we?” He wheeled the television stand to the front of the room.

“What if it’s a porno?” somebody laughed from the back. You could see Mr. Pike consider this for a second, weigh the loss of job and tenure. Then he gave a little chuckle and said, “Cut it out.”

He pushed play.

The tape started with a bunch of quick random shots, like someone turning a camcorder on and off. No discernable sounds. Until, suddenly, a wobbly close-up of a nervously smiling Howie Jerkins, the social leper of ninth grade, talking to the unseen person operating the camera. 

“Hi,” he said, before averting his eyes, like he was shy even with someone he knew.

What his exact words were after that, nobody quite agreed upon. The tape was seen just the once, after all, and for less than a minute.

But it’s agreed that what he said was along the lines of, “I really like him, I wish he liked me back. He’s so cute and nice. I watch him sometimes. I like the way his hair moves when—” That’s when Mr. Pike swore out loud in front of his homeroom, hit the eject button, and grabbed the cassette so hard the videotape spewed out the top like streamers. He turned and glared at Howie.

Whatever the words, the content was irrefutable: as everyone had long suspected, Howie Jerkins was a dirty queer.

A pale, shaking Howie stood, collected his books, and walked right out of the school for what was (we now know) the last time.

The story became instant legend. 

You didn’t even have to see the tape firsthand to be able to quote it to the person whose locker was next to yours or who sat behind you in Geometry.

I didn’t see the tape myself, but heard about it immediately, its essence, what it proved. 

“I like the way his hair moves when … what?” everyone wondered.

I knew the what.

Because I was the boy Howie liked.

* * *

I had run nearly every day since my sixth grade P.E. teacher said he reckoned I had a real knack for it. In his praise, I heard something that set me flying, a secret word that pulsed and echoed as my feet smacked pavement or grass or dirt.

Cross country was the lowliest school sport, but it suited me, quiet and solitary. No crowds, no cheerleaders. No need to speak except to mutter “On your left” as I passed runner after runner. And I passed them all. My feet kept a steady rhythm, beating out my secret word, the one that always brought me victory.

* * *

Howie and I hadn’t shared ten words before the April morning I took a nasty fall as I ran the street that bordered our farms to the east. Our back pastures abutted each other, which I guess made us neighbors, though our houses were pert near a mile apart. I hobbled to his house, t-shirt tied around my bleeding knee. Howie’s sister Joanne drove me home in their station wagon. She was a junior and more popular than you might think, her being related to Howie and all. Howie stared at shirtless me from the front seat with what I can only call wonderment. 

For the next month, when I ran our common cross street, I’d sometimes see Howie, or sense him watching me: up in a tree, hidden among bales of wheat, peeking out the barn window. One day, I found him standing on the gravel shoulder, silently holding out a glass of cool water.

I wonder if things would be different if I hadn’t stopped to drink it. Because after that, Howie was there every day. Later, after he’d killed himself, there skittered across my mind the question of, had anyone ever seen us talking? 

* * *

Joanne called me soon after the funeral no one had attended to tell me she was who Howie was talking to on the tape. It was a little conversation they’d had while dinking around with their father’s new camcorder. She knew I was the boy Howie liked, but said she wouldn’t tell anyone. I asked if she knew how the tape ended up on Mr. Pike’s desk that morning. Joanne said no, someone must have stolen it, who knows why. But knowing this town’s small-minded ethos (a word I had to look up in the dictionary after we hung up), it could have been any number of people.  

I said, “If you ever tell it was me, I can just deny it.”

“True,” she said. “That’s your choice.”

* * *

The last conversation we had, Howie invited me into the barn to see their new foal. As I looked at the horse, I could feel him staring at me. 

“What?” I said.

“I like the way your hair moves up and down when you run.” His cheeks immediately blazed red and he suddenly looked away, the same way he did in the videotape.

He seemed so pitiful and awkward, like he just really needed someone to show him some kindness. I think that’s why I kissed him. 

But I realized what a terrible mistake it was before our lips even parted. Without meaning to, I’d been cruel, planted false hope. I had no sexual feelings for Howie; I wasn’t even sure yet if I was gay. 

I pulled away, but Howie grabbed me around the waist.

“I’m sorry,” I said, squirming out of his grasp. “That was stupid.”

“But I like you,” he said. Words I will hear forever.

“I don’t like you, though. Not like that.”

The next day, he tried unsuccessfully to give me water. 

The day after that, I changed my route.

Four months later, he was dead. I hope not because of me.

I kept running, letting the slap of my feet summon my secret word: escape. 

Because I knew one day, I’d run straight out of town and not stop.

About the Author

Lin Morris somehow never made it out of his hometown of Portland, Oregon, and he's okay with that. His work has appeared in several online and print publications, including Unlikely Stories, Trembling with Fear, Flumes Literary Journal, Second Chance Lit, and Micromance Magazine; and in the anthologies Flash of Brilliance, Coffin Blossoms, Breathless, TWF v. 3, Bullshit Lit, and The One Percent: Tales of the Super Wealthy and Depraved. He won the 2020 YeahWrite Micro Fiction Competition. His novels Spot the Not and The Marriage Wars are available on amazon.com.

He is and will always be stubbornly and proudly left-handed. 

About the Artist

Yaleeza Patchett has been creating illustrations since the moment she was able to pick up a pencil. Through her artistic journey she became well versed in the mediums of graphite, ink and acrylic. Recently she has begun to further exercise her artistic skill in the realm of dark macabre, pagan, and blackwork illustrations. Through this she has found meaning and new love for her artwork. Yaleeza currently resides in the Southside of Indianapolis, Indiana with her husband Jon, her bloodhound Jojo, and her two cats, Boogers and Finn.