Ryun Caruthers shot himself
last night. In a game of
Russian Roulette he spun, pulled, and
missed enough to still live

but not remember who he is.
This is what I know. He
was cool. His mother loved
him despite the ghetto. East

Austin loved him despite his mom's
disdain for "niggers." His
older brother, a Dungeons and
Dragons nerd, loved him. His

father, a son of a bitch, left
before his eighth birthday
but must have loved him. I know this
because we loved him—eight

boys who grew through Sunday School
together, raised hands, sang hymns;
later, skipped Sunday School
together, snuck into the gym,

made mazes of dividers and
folding chairs, listened as
Ryun revealed hushed secrets
of twelve year old girls.

He taught us what we weren't supposed
to, but needed to know,
like how to hold a cigarette
firm between the knuckles.

Not that we tried, but in case . . . . Or
how to kill rabbits. Once,
camping at Enchanted Rock, he
took a dozen flares, trapped

rabbits in small holes, stuck the flares
inside and lit. He howled
loudly as they exploded. We
congregated around

him nervously, noting how cool
he was. We became cool
because we knew his coolness. Sheryl,
the preacher's daughter was cool

because she knew his lips. He let
us in on this conquest
at my fifteenth birthday party.
He told us how her breasts,

small, but mature, rubbed against his
chest as he held her. We
loved him for it. His conquest
was ours, as if we each

had kissed her. Then came the rumors
that Ryun had stolen
her virginity. The Bishop
met us one-on-one,

informed us Ryun had gone too
far, made sure that we "grew
not party to his sins." From here
on I hesitate to

know him. Over the next months I
saw him maybe once at
church, heard awed whispers of drugs,
stolen cars, even that

he killed a man. He was still cool;
could do forbidden things. We lived
through these rumors. But for five years I've
heard nothing, until this.