Guiltless Harvester

Entry 5: New Recipe

Let's make this short: Chester wasn't in the mood to bully Herz after seeing him in AP English, all patched together like Frankenstein's monster. Thus, I had to do it myself. Indirectly, of course. I glued a saw blade to Herz's gym shower this morning before school. Because of the steam those ancient showers produced, he wouldn't be able to see the steel blade before it sliced him open. The shower would wash away any blood, but everything solid...everything warm...would still be intact. I skipped Spanish to see the fruits of my labor. Trying to look inconspicuous, I flipped my jacket's hood over my head. It never occurred to me that my hoodie is bright red with patches of yellow, but I guess my mind was only on Herz at that moment. When I was several doors from the changing rooms, I heard screams.

Dammit, I thought, someone else used his shower! I tried to look as nonchalant as possible while peeking into the locker room. No, my plan worked. The shriek belonged to the assistant sports trainer, who found Herz with his side ripped open. Herz didn't seem fazed. Wrapping a towel around Herz's ragged waist, the trainer knocked me down on his way out the door. Everyone else looked on as Herz grew paler from blood loss. They were trying to ignore him on purpose—freak, you're allowed to die without us crushing your throat, be thankful—so I waltzed in, quickly bent down for the kidney on the shower floor, and rushed back out. As I passed by him, Herz looked right at me. His eyes were sunken into his graying face, the eyes of a puppy run over by a car. Confusion and anger overcame me. How could he still be upset about mutilation, especially after the party, where he was literally sliced to pieces? This was child's play compared to the party! I must have looked angry. He sighed sadly. I turned away from the emerald and ruby embedded in his empty head. I had my kidney—his kidney. Who cared what he thought of me?

A funny tangent, by the way: my mother was home early today. I walked into the kitchen with the cooler, jumping in fear as my mother lounged groggily in a wooden chair. She asked what I had in my icebox. Since I had my lunchbox slung across my shoulder, saying it was leftovers wasn't going to work. I was caught in headlights until I noticed how titled her head was. Vodka. Any excuse could satisfy her when that clear liquor burned in her throat. I'm not a clever person, normally, but today I was rather awake.

"What's in the chiller, Vinny?"

"Vinny is at college, not that it matters. These are ingredients. I'm trying out a new recipe," I said coyly, patting my reliable little cooler.

"Oh, what r-r-r," she said, in that awful drunken stutter she gets, "Recipe? Which one?"

"Kidney pie."

I'm terrible. I walked up to my room, giggling internally the whole way. My mother made a confused, seal-like sound before forgetting I was home. To my disappointment, the kidney didn't retain its warmth after being in my bag. Trial 3, failed, but won, in a different way.