We Need to Talk About Kevin_ A Novel - Lionel Shriver [131]
“I’m not playing a part. I am the part,” he said hotly. “Brad Pitt should play me.”
(So he’d heard; a movie was already in development at Miramax.)
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “Brad Pitt’s way too old to play some pipsqueak high school sophomore. Even if he were the right age, no audience would buy that a guy who looks that street-smart would do anything so moronic. I’ve read they’re having trouble casting, you know. Nobody in Hollywood will touch your filthy little part with a barge pole.”
“Just as long as it isn’t DiCaprio,” Kevin grumbled. “He’s a twit.”
“Back to business.” I sat back. “What was your problem with Ziggy Randolph? You could hardly accuse him of failing your exalted artistic standards, like Denny. Word was that he had a professional future in ballet.”
“What had a professional future,” said Kevin, “was his butthole.”
“He got an overwhelming reception when he gave that speech, explaining he was gay and proud of it at assembly. You couldn’t bear that, could you? The whole student body cooing how courageous he was.”
“And how do you like that,” Kevin marveled. “Standing ovation for taking it up the ass.”
“But I really haven’t been able to figure why Greer Ulanov,” I said. “The fuzzy-headed girl, short, with prominent teeth.”
“Buck teeth,” he corrected. “Like a horse.”
“You generally had it in for the lookers.”
“Anything to get her to shut up about her ‘vast right-wing conspiracy.’”
“Ah, she was the one,” I clued. “The petition.” (I don’t know if you remember, but an indignant petition to New York congressmen circulated Gladstone High School when Clinton was impeached.)
“Admit it, Mumsey, having a crush on the president is totally low-rent.”
“I think,” I hazarded, “you don’t like people who have crushes of any sort.”
“More theories? ’Cause I think,” he returned, “you need to get a life.”
“I had one. You took it.”
We faced off. “Now you’re my life,” I added. “All that’s left.”
“That,” he said, “is pathetic.”
“But wasn’t that the plan? Just you and me, getting to know one another at last.”
“More theories! Aren’t I fascinating.”
“Soweto Washington.” I had a long list to get through, and I had to keep the program moving. “He’s going to walk again, I’ve read. Are you disappointed?”
“Why should I care?”
“Why did you ever care? Enough to try to kill him?”
“Didn’t try to kill him,” Kevin maintained staunchly.
“Oh, I see. You left him with holes in both thighs and that’s all on purpose. Heaven forbid that Mr. Perfect Psychopath should miss.”
Kevin raised his hands. “Hey, hey! I made mistakes! Letting that little movie nerd off scot-free was the last thing I had in mind.”
“Joshua Lukronsky,” I remembered, though we were getting ahead of ourselves. “Did you hear that your friend Joshua’s been brought on board the Miramax film, as a script consultant? They want to be historically accurate. For a “movie nerd,” it’s a dream come true.”
Kevin’s eyes screwed up. He doesn’t like it when tangential characters collect on his cachet. He was equally resentful when Leonard Pugh posted his web page, KK’s_best_friend.com, which has garnered thousands of hits and purports to expose our son’s darkest secrets for the price of a double-click. Best friend my ass! Kevin snarled when the site went up. Lenny was closer to a pet hamster.
“If it makes you feel better,” I added sourly, “Soweto’s basketball career is no longer a slam-dunk.”
“Yeah, well as a matter of fact that does make me feel better. Last thing the world needs is one more darkie who wants to play hoops in the NBA. Talk about stale.”
“Talk about stale! Another high school rampage?”
Kevin cleaned his nails. “I prefer to think of it as tradition.”
“The media assumed you picked on Soweto because he was black.”
“That makes sense,” Kevin snorted. “Nine kids locked in that gym. Only one of them’s of the Negro persuasion, and bingo, it’s a ‘hate crime.’”
“Oh, it was a hate crime, all right,” I said quietly.
Kevin half smiled. “Totally.”
“They said the same thing about Miguel Espinoza. That you went for him