by M. Billiter
She leaned her head on my shoulder. “What are you doing with my scale?”
“Oh, this piece of shit?” I palmed the scale and waved it back and forth like a flag on Independence Day. “Come with me.” I marched out of her bathroom, through her living room and out the front door of her apartment.
A group of lowlifes sitting on the bottom stoop of her stairs looked up when we came out. I cocked my head toward them. “Just getting rid of a little trash,” I said, then threw the scale like a shot put as far as I could in the alley behind her apartments.
Dakota shrieked, and the guys on the bottom stair hooted and hollered. “Yeah, buddy.”
I grinned. “Nothing’s gonna make my girl feel bad about herself.”
“Hell no,” one of the tattooed freaks said.
She waved to him. “Hi, Scotty.”
He jutted out his chin, which looked like it belonged on a bulldog. The guy was seriously built. I grinned in his direction.
Dakota reached her arm around me and pulled me into an embrace. “Are you crazy?”
“That seems to be the diagnosis.”
She leaned up, kissed me and then led me back into her apartment. “My mom’s not going to be home until morning. Text your mom that you’re staying the night at Jimmy’s.”
I shook my head. “She can check with Jimmy. I’ll tell her I’m staying at Trevor’s house.”
20
Tara
Branson’s journal was propped next to my computer as I waited for the university’s slow web advisor to load.
“Come on.” I tapped my bare foot on the carpeted floor in my office.
Jack and Carson were asleep, and Aaron left to get ice cream with Chelsea. The dinner and dessert he ate mere hours before wouldn’t hold him until morning. Ah, to be a teen again. I felt bloated and couldn’t drink enough water to drown out the salt the cooks at Big A seemed to shake on all their meals.
Aaron opened his heart, and I wasn’t about to close it. So when Branson texted that he was staying overnight at Trevor’s, I didn’t alert Aaron. He needed to be seventeen and carefree, not carrying the burden for his identical half.
While I waited for my computer to load the university software, I thumbed through my son’s English journal. I hadn’t read it in a few weeks, but I imagined it still contained the answers to questions I wasn’t asking.
September 8
Life is going well. I met a new friend today in pre-calculus, Trevor. I’m also starting to slowly get my reputation back. Today I actually talked to two people who hate me more than anyone, and it went surprisingly well. My new favorite classes are English and pre-calculus, not because of the students but the teachers. It’s not the subject they make exciting, it’s making themselves more fun and having more than just the average teacher personality.
The journal entry ended with classroom notes about some woman named Mary Rowlandson who was abducted by Native Americans and held hostage for nearly three months, but survived. She published her journal to reveal God’s purpose to colonial America.
Trevor. So that’s when he met him. But who are the two people who hate him more than anyone? Ashley? Did the little bitch get her rejection letter and decide to suddenly stop terrorizing my son?
I shook my head, knowing the letters just went out. That couldn't be the reason.
I inhaled a deep breath. The air was stale in my office, so I pushed out of my chair and walked to the bay window, lighting the eucalyptus candle. I waited for the mixture of eucalyptus and spearmint to fuse the air, then sat back down and scratched my head. “What two people did he talk to? Is there someone else who's bullying him?”
I glanced at my computer, the spinning wheel signifying it was still loading the university software. I rolled my eyes and returned to his journal.
September 9
Yesterday I switched into AP Government. I now have two AP classes and I'm thrilled. By thrilled I actually mean horrified. I barely passed it last year with a B, and I'm not quite sure what'll happen this year, but I set a goal to get a 4.0 GPA and that's what I'm going to do. Whether I have a social life or not is all based on the extent of homework and activities I have this year. Believe it or not, having to study for a test is more important to me than going to screw off with my friends. My boxing is getting increasingly better, which is awesome. Each day I work out, I hope to get my jabs and hooks faster and more powerful. Let’s just say I won't be an easy opponent to win against.
The journal concluded with bibliography notes on Jonathan Edwards, who delivered some sermons to backsliding puritan congregations that were "falling out of Christ.”
I’m sure Branson loved learning about him. I may not know my son well, but we both shared a disdain for religious fanatics. I also now knew he'd added another AP class. But boxing? When did he start boxing?
I flipped to the next page, which was just one day later, and his opening line literally made me laugh out loud.
September 10
AP is slowly killing me.
I shook my head. He’s had the class all of one day and it’s killing him. Unbelievable. I continued reading.
Each AP chapter is up to thirty pages, and we're expected to make an outline for each one. I spend up to four hours just on AP, and I have all my main classes too! So the hardest part about AP is balancing it with other classes. My other classes are usually easier, so that's a relief, but it's still a lot to take in. I just want to pass these classes and get them over with. We got a call from Coach about how Ash is out of indoor track for the season due to a stress fracture. Wilson is now screwed for indoor track.
* * *
I paused before reading his next passage. Something wasn’t right, but I couldn’t quite figure it out.
I stared at the journal entry until it suddenly made sense—his penmanship had changed. Branson’s normally perfect left-handed prose was gone, and in its place was a page filled with sloped writing. If I didn’t know better, I would've thought Branson had broken his hand and written backhanded.
What the hell?
September 11
Today is 9/11, a day no one will forget because, like a holiday, we're reminded every year. Why this day? Why don’t we get reminded every year about the Holocaust? No, apparently killing Jews is no big deal, but flying a plane into a couple of buildings is. Our country is too focused on this attack, so it'll continue to haunt people. Every time we talk about it, all it does is bring up bad memories. And the images don’t help either: people jumping from buildings, piles of ashes with people buried beneath them, people in shock and awe across the nation. Maybe we deserved it. Maybe everybody has what’s coming to them. Don’t get me wrong, it was a sad and memorable moment for US history, but is it really necessary for us to be reminded of the horrors? I think they do it so the people of the US will support what the government is doing, because everything the government does is to stop terrorism, and if we have to invade every country, then so be it. The government doesn’t want our permission, it wants our silence. This is why 9/11 is always mentioned and will always be remembered. It’s propaganda at its best. God bless the United States of America.
Oh my God. I stood up and started pacing the room.
“That’s not right.” I walked to the corner of my office and ran my hands through my hair. “Oh no.” I paced toward the other end of the room. “Okay,” I exhaled. “Branson was only three when 9/11 happened. I remember it as if it were yesterday, but maybe his generation doesn’t have that same connection to it.”
I took a long, steady breath and returned to my desk, standing over his journal and staring at the entry. This isn’t the mind of a sane person. This is the journal entry I’d read in a newspaper article after someone did something horrific.
I reached into my desk drawer and pulled out a silver tin that contained an X-Acto knife. Removing the safety cap, I carefully ran the blade down the spine of Branson’s journal, extracting the single sheet and placing it in my desk drawer beneath the silver tin. I d
idn’t care if he got graded down. Better that than have the journal entry circulate into the wrong hands.
I sat down and turned the page for the next journal entry. It was dated September 25, nearly two weeks later. I flipped around to see if Branson wrote an entry somewhere else, but the pages were empty. Reaching back into my desk drawer, I looked on the backside of his 9/11 entry, hoping another one was written there, but it was blank. What? I put it back in my desk drawer.
“Why is there a two-week break?” I skimmed the journal again, but there was a clear break in journal entries from 9/11 to 9/25. I looked around my office as if there were someone to answer my question, but I was alone. So I did what I always did and turned my attention back to my son’s journal. The next entry was written in the same sloped writing as his 9/11 post.
September 25
I’ve been texting my friend Trevor every day. I enjoy his company, and he's one of the only true friends I have left. Last night I watched The Perks of Being a Wallflower. That movie is one I will never get tired of because it relates to me. Like Charlie. I’m trying to find my place in school. The only difference is that I have a twin to help me out. I even have that inspiring English teacher like in the movie. My teacher used to give me books sophomore year and I would finish them in a day's time due to my interest in them. Unlike the movie though, I haven't found my two friends to change my life, but I have found one. His name is Trevor. One is better than none. I guess every story doesn’t work out for the best.
My desk calendar indicated that we had just entered the second week of October, yet my son’s last journal entry appeared two weeks ago. Another two-week absence. What the hell?
Trevor. I’ve got to find out who this kid is and what, if any, hold he has over my son.
I closed the journal and placed it back in Branson’s backpack in the kitchen. When I returned to my office, the university software had finally loaded, but I still had unfinished business with Branson’s bully to complete.
Before I entered my administrative password, I went to the staff portal and typed in Rachel’s password. The IT department assigned everyone’s password, from faculty to staff, and administrators were given a list of each one in their department. In the event we had to release someone of their job responsibilities, and I couldn’t reach IT, I could disable staff’s access to university records. In short, most people at the university knew they were fired before it happened because they could no longer access the university system.
Administrators were allowed to create their own password, but the dean of the department had them on file. The university had to protect privacy at all costs, so I often reminded my staff to use an outside email, and not the university’s, for personal correspondence. There were eyes on everything.
I scrolled through Rachel’s files until I reached the database with the freshmen applicants for fall 2016. I pulled up my email to Fred Stanley and compared it with our online entry system that Rachel would've updated with my list. A check beside a candidate’s name indicated they had been accepted as an early admission. Ashley Bailey’s name remained unchecked, and her status was still a standard submission, not a legacy. I was sure that would change, but for now, it aligned with my story to Dean Bryant. I pulled up more legacy candidates who I hadn’t chosen and changed their status to standard submission. Should more questions arise about my early admissions selections, this ensured a computer error was to blame.
When I logged off Rachel’s account and entered my password, I was redirected to three different pages before I could access the administrative portal. I then scrolled through my files for the list of seniors at Wilson High School.
Trevor. Trevor. Trevor.
I had no last name, and I wasn’t going to text Branson to ask for one. If this Trevor was, as Aaron feared, an imaginary friend, I had no way of knowing what I was up against or how to handle it. What I did know how to do—very well, in fact—was search an entire student body for a particular person. Or in this case a particular name.
I typed “Trevor” into the database and waited for the computer to filter through first, middle, and last names in a senior class of four hundred and eighty. Six potential BFFs for my son surfaced on my laptop, but only four had Trevor as their first name. While I knew my sons were often called Kovac by their friends, it didn’t seem like Branson was referring to a kid’s last name.
Trevor Thomas DiCamp
Trevor Marcus James
Trevor Lee Macon
Trevor Alan Steele
Ronald Todd Trevor
Warren Jon Trevor
I tapped my fingers against the keyboard. Which one are you? I copied the list of names and moved my cursor to the tab on my computer where I'd bookmarked Wilson High School. I typed in my parent password and entered the parent portal. The next step was a little tricky, because I had to figure out a way to cross-reference the kids in Branson’s pre-calculus class with the list of Trevor names.
Think. Think. Think. There had to be a way. But the only person I knew who could figure how to do it was out eating ice cream.
I pulled up Branson’s class schedule and saw he had pre-calculus forth block. His teacher was Mr. Batrow. I knew Jim; I could always call him and ask about this Trevor kid.
I shook my head at the thought. I knew there was no way Jim would break the confidentiality of his students, not for me or anyone. He was a by-the-books kind of teacher, which was why I chose him for Branson. He had his master’s degree in mathematics and knew how to teach kids math in a way that they’d learn it for life.
I leaned back in my chair. Six Trevors were on one side of my screen and Branson’s math class was on the other. In the middle was my access to every student at Wilson High School.
That’s it!
I sat forward and scrolled back to my university log-in. Putting the list of Trevors in the database, I hit the tab that accessed transcripts.
Transcripts for each of the Trevors popped up beside their name. A wave of pride washed over me. “Bingo!” I’m brilliant.
I scanned the first Trevor and searched his list of classes for the fall semester. No calculus. No math at all. I minimized his transcript and went to the next one: Trevor Marcus James. He was in pre-calculus, with Jim Batrow as his teacher. I pointed toward the screen and followed my finger across to see what block Trevor James had pre-calculus. Fifth block.
I exhaled in a huff. Okay, next one.
I went through the entire list, but the only Trevor that had pre-calculus their senior year with Jim Batrow was Trevor Marcus James. And his class didn’t align with Branson's.
I rubbed my temple. That doesn’t mean they aren’t working together. Branson wrote that Trevor was a kid in his math class. Maybe he meant they both had the same teacher?
“Hey, Ma, what’s up?”
I shrieked.
Aaron laughed. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
I shook my finger at him. “Don’t do that!” He continued to laugh. I waved him over to the computer. “Look what I found.”
“What am I looking at?”
“I found that Trevor Marcus James has pre-calculus with Mr. Bartow.”
“Marcus? No, that kid’s not Branson’s friend.”
“Why? And his name is Trevor.”
“He’s a cocky jock and he goes by Marcus, not Trevor. There’s no way Branson would hang out with him.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive. The last time we talked to that kid, it was freshman year when we were on freshman football. He’s not someone we would hang out with.”
“And you don’t think Branson would be working with him for calculus?”
“Ma, he wouldn’t even make eye contact with that kid.”
I sat back in my chair in defeat.
“What’s wrong?”
I looked up at my son. “Well, that’s the only Trevor in your entire graduating class who has pre-calculus this semester. And if you’re telling me Branson wouldn’t hang out
with this kid….”
“Well, we’d better go talk to Branson.”
I cringed. “He texted that he’s staying overnight at this Trevor kid's house.”
“Ma, we’ve got to find out where he is, because he’s definitely not at Trevor’s.”
“And how do you suppose we do that?”
Aaron snapped his fingers. “Hey, use that app.”
“What app?”
“The one you made us download because you were afraid we’d get kidnapped jogging.” He rolled his eyes. “We’re freaking almost eighteen, but glad you made us download the app.”
“Oh, that’s brilliant.” I grabbed my iPhone and pulled up the Life360 app. A map of Casper appeared on the screen, along with four circles containing penny-sized pics of each of my kids. Jack’s face was attached to mine because he didn’t have a phone, and usually wherever he was, so was I. Finding Aaron, Branson, and Carson was as easy as pressing on their picture. I touched Aaron’s picture and his location surfaced: 4505 Sunridge Ave. Carson’s phone indicated she was at the same address, as did mine. We were all at home.
I touched Branson’s picture. A message appeared on the screen: Lost connection 9:15 p.m. Ask them to reconnect.
I held my phone toward Aaron. “What does this mean?”
“It means Branson disconnected from the app.”
“You can do that?”
Aaron grimaced. “Uh, yeah.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Ma, we’re almost eighteen.”
I tossed my phone on my desk and crossed my arms over my chest. “Well that’s just freaking brilliant. What’s the point of an app if you’re not going to use it?”
“Settle down.” Aaron grabbed my phone off the desk. “Isn’t there…?” He swiped his finger across my phone. “Yeah, here it is.” He held the phone toward me. “There’s a History button where you can check the history of where Branson’s been and where he was last before he disconnected the app.”
“Really?” I felt a wave of relief. “Where was he?”