Clown in a Cornfield

by Adam Cesare

Maybe it was the wide smile or the ancient stains on his flannel shirt. Or the shirt itself, its pairing with the camo backpack. Which was it, did he want to blend in or stand out?

A bit of first-day jitters. Never easy being the new kid—even when you’re not a kid anymore.

Whatever had just happened, the screaming and the drinking and the hugging: it was a kind of exorcism.

“Corn syrup’s just sugar. So at least it makes everything taste better,” Cole told her, but then he paused to think about it. “But it sure as hell isn’t better for you.”

Glenn was in no mood. He hadn’t driven halfway across the country to be tortured by a whole new and exotic set of late-night sounds.

“Way I like to explain it . . . you and your friends are a blighted crop.” He motioned out the window, into the darkness of the cornfields to either side of them. “That’s why we didn’t have a choice. If a farmer has fungus or beetles or any other scourge, it spreads if you don’t take steps to eliminate it. Cut and cull. Root out the problem. Burn the whole harvest if you have to, lose the crop to save the land. Then let the field lie fallow for a couple seasons.”

You can’t say it all yourself. It has to seem like their idea. So you nudge. You tell people they’re right, tell ’em what they want to hear, you listen—really listen, not pretend listen—but then the whole time you’re doing that listening, you’re pushing the boundaries forward. Reshaping morality. Drawing a new line in the sand while nobody else is watching, then wiping away the old one. And the whole time you know . . . You know where it’s all leading.” “Killing a bunch of high school kids at a party,” Cole said, simplifying.

Cole wasn’t going to point out that was fiction. And that Romeo and Juliet hadn’t beheaded anyone with a circular saw.

Madness. Hate. Insecurity. Tradition. The American Dream.

The rifle hadn’t betrayed her, though—it hadn’t seduced her. It had just let her do what she wanted to do. Survive. Kill.