Roland West, Loner

by Theresa Linden

  Peter was about to tell the class about the antenna when Foster stood and waved his hand with exaggerated motions.

  “Foster,” Peter said, “you, uh, have a question?”

  “Did you get zapped workin’ on a radio? I mean, is that what happened to you?”

  The class laughed.

  Peter’s temperature spiked. He threw his second death glare. Brushing off the insult, he went to point out the wire antenna and continue with his presentation.

  The back of the radio slipped from his sweaty hands and crashed to the floor. The class roared with laughter. Mr. Reinhard cleared his throat. Everyone started talking at once.

  “Peter, this isn’t Electronics class. Does this radio have some history in your family? Whose was it?”

  “Uh, I found it at a garage sale.”

  More laughter.

  Mr. Reinhard’s face puffed up and turned red. He smiled, a dry, tight smile. “Peter, the assignment was to bring something old that has a history in your family.” He spoke so loudly that everyone else shut up.

  Peter cleared his throat. “Well, it’s a 1948 radio. I’m sure some relative of mine could’ve had one.”

  The class laughed again, but Peter’s heart hammered in his chest and his thoughts jumbled. He’d caught him. Mr. Reinhard wanted the box. But why?

  Chapter 30

  Roland carried his books at his side and walked with a spring in his step. A song played in his mind, and he felt like smiling. Rather than drop his books at his locker before Art class, he decided to see if he could spot Caitlyn in study hall. He would have to go to the other side of the school building, and he might get back late, but it would be worth it to see her. It didn’t even matter if she saw him. He needed to see her.

  Caitlyn’s face hovered in his mind like a sunspot. Lunch period with her had ended too soon. Whenever she had turned her emerald eyes to him and smiled, a spark lit inside him. He’d never met anyone who made him feel more at ease. He could’ve spoken with her all day. In fact, he had the strangest urge to share all his secrets with her.

  A warning flickered inside him. He pushed it back. She wasn’t like other girls. She wouldn’t betray his confidence. He saw it in her eyes. She hadn’t even known he had twin brothers. Everyone else knew.

  A group of girls gossiping by the steps threw glances Roland’s way as he neared them.

  Instead of ignoring them, this time, he nodded.

  They giggled and huddled together, whispering. One of them said his name.

  He didn’t care. He didn’t need their acceptance. Nanny always said as long as you have one good friend, you’ll be all right and he could almost believe her. He had two friends and it felt good, real good.

  Kids stood outside the study hall in groups and pairs, where they would probably stand until the bell rang. A few looked Roland’s way. He heard his name again.

  Roland slowed his steps.

  “. . . did Roland tell you about it?” A snotty-toned girl’s voice came from the study hall.

  “It’s none of your business. Why don’t you ask him if you want to know?”

  Roland stopped in his tracks. Was that Caitlyn’s voice? He moved to where he could see.

  Caitlyn sat at one of the long study-hall tables near the door, surrounded by a group of eight girls.

  “We already know. Both of his parents are criminals,” a chubby girl said as she planted her hands on her hips.

  “Yeah, and his mother’s doing time,” a short girl with glasses said.

  “I know for a fact she’s not.” Caitlyn frowned and folded her arms.

  Roland’s chest tightened. Don’t talk, Caitlyn. Don’t be like them. Don’t betray me.

  “A fact? Really?” the snotty girl said. “Why don’t you tell us what he told you?”

  “Yeah, is she really a witch?”

  “I heard she cast a spell on—”

  Caitlyn let out a disgusted groan. “Are you for real? That’s nonsense.”

  Several girls spoke at once.

  “Mrs. West is in jail.”

  “No. I heard she’s hiding out.”

  “I heard . . .”

  “Just stop it,” Caitlyn shouted. “Their mother isn’t even alive. How can she be in jail? She’s dead.”

  Everyone fell silent.

  Roland stopped breathing. He felt as though Caitlyn rammed a pen in his chest.

  Looking past the girls, Caitlyn’s gaze fell on Roland. Her face flushed and her mouth dropped open. She jumped up.

  Roland turned and dashed away.

  A girl broke the silence. “How horrible to die in jail . . .”

  LOCKERS AND FACES AND kids blurred together as Roland jogged back the way he came. Laughter and whispers and voices melded into one harsh noise that scalded his soul.

  Afternoon sunlight shone through the glass doors at the entrance to the school and reflected on the pale, waxed floor. Across the street from the school, trees waved their branches and leaves in a gentle breeze, inviting Roland to come. Escape out the front doors. Come away from the pain. Come out where you can be alone. Clouds drifted in front of the sun as the principal stepped out of his office.

  Roland veered away from the front door. Art class. He tried to focus on the door to Art class, a short distance down the hall. He’d been working on a pen and ink—

  Why had he trusted her? Why had he trusted anyone? Who was he kidding? He had no friends. School was hell. Papa would have to let him drop out, let him get a tutor again.

  As he neared the art room, he forced himself to think of his pen and ink drawing. He could finish it today. He had finished the horses, the cloudy sky, and half of the stable. All he needed—

  Across the hall, two kids pulled books from a locker and dropped them into a pile on the floor. It was Peter’s locker. The buzz cuts on both of the kids and the muscles on the taller boy reminded Roland of the kids on the bus yesterday.

  He strode toward them, anger rising up inside. Don’t lose control. He inhaled so deeply his chest shook, but it didn’t calm him.

  “This looks like trash.” Foster pulled a notebook out and dropped it. “And this, this looks old.” A textbook sailed into the pile. “No one uses these anymore.” He laughed and tossed a calculator.

  “I could use that.” Leo tried to catch the calculator, missed, and stooped to retrieve it from the pile on the floor. He examined it before shoving it into a pocket of his army pants.

  Roland stopped inches from Foster. He sneered. Points of light flashed in his view. “What’re you doing?”

  “Hey ya, Roland.” Foster grinned and handed Roland a book. “Wanna help? Remember what I told you yesterday about choosing yer peeps. Help us and you’ll be our friend.”

  Just talk. Don’t touch him. More points of light. Roland let the book fall and thrust his palms against Foster’s chest.

  Foster grunted, slamming into the open locker door with a bang.

  Leo came up from behind and wrapped his meaty arm around Roland’s neck.

  Foster snickered while Roland struggled to get free. “Well, I guess you made yer choice.” He formed a fist and brought it up. “Might be a painful choice. But it was yers to make.”

  Roland tugged on Leo’s arm but it wouldn’t budge.

  Leo laughed.

  Roland latched onto the arm around his neck and, using it to support his weight, drew his legs up and kicked Foster back just as Foster swung.

  Foster crashed into the locker door again.

  Leo growled. He lifted Roland—by the neck—and let him fall.

  Roland’s boots touched the floor and slipped. He threw his arms out to steady himself, but Foster’s shoe cracked his shin. He landed hard on his butt, books and papers sliding under him.

  He glanced up, ready to curse them, seething to jump to his feet and retaliate, only to find them dashing away. That was it? They were done with him? That didn’t seem right, unless—

  Kids had gathered, forming a semi-circle around R
oland, none of them offering help. They stood there, staring. Then whispers traveled through the spectators, and the crowd parted.

  Jarret and Keefe strutted down the hall, in unison, their eyes locked on Roland.

  Roland sighed and rolled his eyes. Could it get much worse? He scooted off the books and picked up a notebook, determined to ignore his brothers and to get Peter’s locker put back together.

  The whispers ceased. The footsteps ceased. His brothers stopped at the edge of the mess.

  Paying them no mind, Roland gathered loose papers and pencils then reached for another book.

  Jarret’s black, leather Dupree boot landed on the book. He chuckled.

  Roland met his scornful gaze.

  Keefe reached down. “You all right?” He yanked Roland to his feet.

  “I’m all right.”

  “I see you’re making friends,” Jarret said. “Who did this?”

  Roland shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It was Foster and Leo,” said a boy with a squeaky voice. He pushed between a few taller kids. It was the bug-eyed, freckle-faced kid who had accidentally blocked the exit at lunchtime.

  Jarret’s mouth curled up into a smug grin. His eyes narrowed. He tapped Roland’s chin with his fist, gave Keefe a nod, and the two headed down the hall in the same direction in which Leo and Foster had taken off. Mumbling resumed among the crowd, and the onlookers dispersed.

  Squatting, Roland picked up the notebooks and loose papers. Kids blew by on either side of him, seeming oblivious to his plight.

  The bug-eyed boy stooped. He handed Roland a pile of papers. “You know, you can take a few days off from school.”

  Roland opened his mouth to say, what are you talking about? but said nothing.

  “No one expects you to be here after your mom died. I think you get three days off. I’d take it if I was you.”

  Roland’s stomach tightened. He wanted to punch the kid, but the kid was the only one helping him. He stood up with an armful of papers and books. “Thanks for the—”

  Sneakers squeaked and pounded down the hall. Peter ran up and leaned over to catch his breath. “Guess what I just saw?” Smiling, he rested his arm on Roland’s shoulder. He seemed oblivious to the fact that his locker had been trashed.

  Roland shrugged Peter’s arm off of him, stuffed books into the locker, and stooped for the last few papers and pens.

  Peter leaned back against a nearby locker and grinned as he spoke. “One of your brothers had Leo up against the lockers. He was, like, throwing up gang signs, threatening him.” He stopped to breathe and laugh. “It was awesome. And your other brother— I can’t tell the two apart—had Foster by the back of the shirt, like he was making him wait his turn, waiting to be threatened by the first one.”

  “The threatening one . . . that would be Jarret.” Roland closed Peter’s locker.

  Peter gave his locker a glance then squinted at Roland. “What’re you doing in my locker?”

  “Why’d you leave your locker unlocked? Foster and Leo had everything tore out of it.”

  “Really? I never leave my locker unlocked.” Peter opened it just as the bell rang.

  Roland cut across the hall for art class.

  “Hey, come over later,” Peter said. “I got some good news.”

  Roland walked backwards. “I don’t know.” Maybe he needed to give the whole friend thing a break.

  Peter whispered, “I called home. I got the key.”

  “The key?” Cool, they could finally open the box. He couldn’t pass up that opportunity. “Well, who else is going to be at your house?”

  He shrugged. His expression grew cold. “The usual.”

  “Caitlyn?”

  Peter grinned, a vexed look in his eyes. “You’ll only come over if she does?”

  “No. The opposite.”

  Peter’s eyes narrowed with a look of confusion. He mouthed, “What?”

  Roland turned and darted into art class.

  Chapter 31

  Peter jumped off the bus, slung his backpack over one shoulder, and walked at a cool stride until the bus drove out of sight. Then he made a mad dash for the front door. When he had phoned home at lunchtime, Mom said something from Uncle Harold had come in the mail.

  He yanked open the screen door and bolted for the kitchen. “Mom, where’s the mail?”

  Mom faced the far kitchen counter. She wore an apron and a white bandanna. She glanced over her shoulder. Something white, probably flour, streaked her forehead. “Hello to you too, Peter. How was school today? Just fine, Mom. How was your day? Oh, it was wonderful, dear. Thanks for asking.”

  A pile of mail sat on the counter next to the receiver he had set up for testing the transmitter. He pushed through the bills and junk mail until he found an envelope addressed to him.

  “It would be nice to have the counter space back,” Mom said. “So when you’re done there . . .”

  One corner of the envelope was crinkled and torn as if mice had chewed through it.

  “Did you see this? What happened to it?” He peeked inside the envelope and saw its entire contents—the key!—without even ripping it open.

  “Are you listening to me?” Mom slid a baking sheet into the oven and stepped to the sink. “I want you to take your kit up to your room. I need the counter back. And tomorrow’s laundry day, so bring your dirty clothes down.”

  “It’s not a kit. It’s a receiver.”

  Mom threw him the boss look over her shoulder.

  “When did the mail come? Did you get it? Was someone in my mail?”

  “Peter, don’t be silly. No one opened your mail. Your aunt Lotti brought it in.” Mom dried her hands on a kitchen towel. “Maybe it got stuck in the postal machine. That happens from time to time. Especially if there’s something inside that won’t slide through easily.” She reached over the stove to set the timer. “Is Roland coming over today?”

  Peter ripped open the envelope and dropped the key into his hand, smiling uncontrollably. Now he had the key, but he had no one to go with him to get the box. “Roland? No, I don’t think so. I told him to come over, but I doubt he will, even though he said he wanted to hang out until his . . .” Peter shut his mouth to control the flow of words before he winded up divulging Roland’s secret. “Well, he’s moodier than a girl, anyway.”

  Mom smiled, shaking her head.

  A yellow scrap of paper stuck to the inside of the envelope. Peter pulled it out and read it: This should be the right key for that box. If not, give a call. Uncle Harold.

  Peter groaned. “Uncle Harold isn’t even sure this is the key.”

  A noise sounded from the back of the house.

  “Peter’s home!” Toby, in an oversized t-shirt and pajama bottoms, burst from his bedroom and galloped down the hall.

  “Hey, Toby.” Peter braced himself for the lung-smashing hug Toby always gave. He ruffed up Toby’s hair, and the key slipped from his hand.

  “Key?” Toby squatted, pouncing on the key. “Toby’s key?”

  “No, and I don’t want you touching it.” Peter squatted for it.

  Toby jumped up and bolted for the dining room, key in hand.

  “Toby, give it back.” Peter followed. “Mom, make Toby—” His blood ran cold, and he stopped dead.

  Toby slid into a booth and sat next to Aunt Lotti, directly across from Mr. Reinhard.

  A slow grin formed on Mr. Reinhard’s face. “Hello, Peter.”

  His low voice sent a shiver through Peter’s bones. He exhaled and a grunt came out, though he had meant to say hi.

  “What do you have there?” Mr. Reinhard’s beady eyes fixed upon the key in Toby’s hand.

  “It’s nothing.” Peter forced himself over and grabbed Toby’s wrist. “It’s mine, Toby. Give it back.”

  Toby let out a nail-bending, ear-piercing whine.

  Peter released his grip.

  “It goes to a box,” Aunt Lotti said, “that Peter received from . . .”r />
  Oh good, now Mr. Reinhard could get the whole story. Peter rolled his eyes. Thanks, Aunt Lotti. “Toby, now! I want the key, or I’ll take your fishing pole.”

  Toby stuffed his fist under his arm. “No, thank you.”

  Peter growled. “Look here, you little twerp . . .” His blood boiled. “I’m gonna take your fishing pole.” He took a few steps back to show that he meant business. “Fishing pole.”

  The phone rang just as Toby slid out of the booth and zipped past Peter.

  Peter lunged, but Mom stepped in his path.

  “It’s for you,” she said, handing him the phone.

  Before he took two more steps, the doorbell rang, and Toby slammed his bedroom door.

  Peter glanced at the door. Roland? No, Roland wouldn’t use the door. He seemed to prefer coming in through the window. He pressed the phone to his ear and headed down the hall. “Hello?”

  “Oh, Peter, Peter, I did something just awful today.” Caitlyn’s high, emotionally-distressed voice made Peter’s ear want to close. He imagined she had tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “Oh, yeah? What’d you do?” He jiggled Toby’s doorknob. Locked. Heading back to the kitchen, he made a glance to see whom Mom had just invited into the house.

  Roland stood in the doorway. He combed his hand through his hair a few times and gave Mom a shy nod in reply to whatever she said to him. Then he gave Peter a look, went around the loveseat, and sat down. Mom headed for the glass doors to the bed-and-breakfast.

  “It’s about Roland. I was only trying to defend him,” Caitlyn wailed into the phone. “The girls were saying such awful things. I couldn’t stand it. I knew it wasn’t true, and I wanted them to stop it. I can’t believe the things they said about him.”

  Peter shuffled into the living room and mouthed, “Just a minute,” to Roland then said, “Okay, so what’d you do?” into the phone. Not wanting Roland to hear the conversation, he sat in the recliner, across the room from the loveseat.

  “I told them something Roland had just told me,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “And he was right there. He heard me. He saw me. And the look in his eyes . . .” She moaned into the phone.