Maybe now Monica sees who the real monster in the Valley family is. Me.
“You couldn’t possibly know when or where he was going to lose it. It is not your fault. Don’t think that.” She takes my hand, squeezing it gently. “But I want more. I want some sort of reason, some explanation. And I want to know if it’s because of whatever happened between our parents. Please, Stephen. If you won’t talk to him, let me at least look at Jude’s notebook. Maybe it holds a clue. Don’t you think so, too? Isn’t that why you kept if from the cops?”
How does she know that? I never told her I’d hidden it.
“I left school early the day of the shooting. The principal came and told me what was happening,” I admit. “I had to go home and get the notebook.”
“I wondered why he didn’t have it on him.” She nods, encouragingly. “But you’ve looked at it, you’ve read it?”
“I skimmed it. I saw enough to know I didn’t want to know more.”
The thought of opening the book is still repulsive to me. I should have burned it, should have trashed it in a dumpster.
“Stephen, I want to see it.” Monica’s voice is so quiet, and yet, I hear the pain in it. “I need to see it.”
“Why?” I ask. “It will only hurt you.”
“You need to look at it, too.”
“No. I don’t.”
We are quiet, both of us wrapped up in own thoughts.
Maybe that’s why we didn’t hear Derek and some chick coming towards us in the dark, until they were almost on top of us.
“Why do we have to come here?” the girl whines, her voice cutting through the darkness.
Monica and I both go on alert and silently get up. We hide behind the tree, unable to move out of the park without being seen. Derek comes up the path, the girl in tow. I recognize the easy swagger and the confident voice.
“Because there is no place else to go,” he says with a laugh. In his hand, he is holding a cigarette. He puffs on it. “Unless you want to do it in my car.”
The strong scent of herbal skunk almost makes me cough. Weed. He’s smoking weed, not a cigarette.
“Who says I want to do anything with you?” The girl laughs softly, but she isn’t exactly protesting. I recognize her now. She’s the redhead in our theatre class, the one that talks to Monica sometimes, the one whose name I can never remember.
Caitlin, Monica mouths. I nod.
“C’mon,” Derek practically purrs. “You know you want to.”
“Maybe a little,” Caitlin says as they sit on the bench Monica and I just vacated. She takes a long drag from the joint he offers her, holding the smoke in before releasing it slowly. “But I gotta tell you, having sex outside is not one of my favorite things. Mosquitoes suck.”
Monica rolls her eyes and I almost laugh.
“Oh yeah?” Derek puts an arm around her and starts nuzzling her neck. “Why don’t you tell me about where you do like to have sex?”
“You are such a bad boy!”
They kiss and we are about to sneak away, cut through the woody part of the park, when Caitlin starts talking again.
“Hey, stop for a second, will ya’?” She sounds breathless. “I think we should get a blanket or something. At least put this joint out. I don’t want to waste it.”
“I got a blanket in the car,” Derek says. “Go back and get it.”
“But then I have to walk in the dark by myself.”
“You’ll be fine.” He kisses her. “You’re the one who wants it. The ground is fine for me.”
“You’re such a tough guy.” Caitlin mocks. “When I was a freshman last year, I always thought you were so straight laced, a perfect rule follower who would never get caught smokin’ a joint during football season.”
“Hey, we all gotta break the rules sometimes.”
He goes in for another kiss, but Caitlin touches the bruise above his eye. “Does that still hurt?”
“That little Valley shit can’t hurt me.”
“Why did you really beat him up?”
“I don’t want to talk about that right now, not when we’re about to—”
“Don’t be in such a hurry,” Caitlin whispers, running a hand down his chest. “Besides, I think it’s romantic what you did. Very gallant.”
Monica shudders and makes a gagging gesture.
“Romantic, huh?” Derek tries to keep Caitlin focused on the sex stuff by messing with the front of her blouse. “C’mon. I don’t want to talk about Stephen or any of that bullshit.”
But Caitlin won’t let it go. “Did you really used to hang out with Jude?”
“Yeah. So?”
“Well, did you know he was a psycho?”
“He was moody.” He tries again to refocus her with a kiss. “You’re making me moody now.”
“I always thought he was kind of cute.”
Derek sighs. “Are we going to have sex or what?”
“I’m just making conversation.”
“Look, I hung out with Jude when he was on the football team. He got weird, started spouting all kinds of crap about whatever his views were about anything at any given moment. It got worse when he started dating Simone. I barely even talked to him the last day of school.” Derek grabs her chin. “Is that enough conversation for you?”
“You talked to Jude the last day of school?” Caitlin jerks away. “What did he say?”
Yeah. What did he say? This is the first I’ve heard about a conversation between Derek and Jude on the day of the shootings.
“Nothing much. It was quick. I had been sick all week, and I only went that day because it was the last day. I figured we wouldn’t be doing jack shit in class.” He takes a hit off the joint and stares off. I creep a little closer, risk getting caught. “Jude was getting out of his car when I walked up.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me to go home. That he’d heard school was going to be let out early, that he was giving me another sick day. I didn’t know what he meant.”
“Did you see the gun?”
“Oh yeah, he had it tucked into the back of his pants. When he turned to walk away, I could see it sticking out.”
“What did you do?”
“I left. What the hell did I need to be there for? I was sick anyway. I never thought he’d do what he did. He used to bring all kinds of crap to school for show.” Derek shrugs. “Once when we were on the football team together, he told me he thought it would be cool if he had a knife hidden on him during a game. We were playing the Bulldogs. They have this one player, Alec Mahoney, who is a short guy with a big mouth. Jude didn’t like him, always called him The Little Prick. So he gets the idea that it would be hilarious to give The Little Prick a little prick with his knife on the field. He thought it would be a funny joke, but he didn’t do it. I mean, the guy could talk shit better than anyone I knew, but it was always just that: talk.”
“Wow.” Caitlin leans closer to him. “Do you realize Jude might have saved your life by sending you home?”
“What am I supposed to do?” Derek sneers. “Send him a thank you card or something?”
I’m shaking. Why the hell didn’t Derek do something to stop Jude? With one phone call, he could have prevented everything. I’m about to lunge forward and—
Monica puts a hand on my shoulder and shakes her head. She tugs me away, leading me through the brush carefully and back to a point on the sidewalk where we are unable to be seen by Derek.
“No one had to die that day,” I mutter when we’re a safe distance away. The truth of it hurts so much. “No one would have if Derek had just told someone. Fucking prick.”
Monica breaks down, crying. She tries to muffle the sound by covering her mouth with her hand, but it’s not use. Her anguish is my own. I put my arms around her, letting her sorrow mingle with mine.
“I’ve spent all this time being angry at Jude, at myself for not seeing the truth,” she sobs, “but maybe the person I should be angry at is Derek! He
should have done something.”
While I agree with her whole heartedly, it’s not that simple. Even dumb ass Derek can’t be completely blamed for Jude’s actions. In the end, there is only one person who should be held responsible.
I tilt her chin so I can see her eyes. “But don’t forget. No matter what, Derek did not pull the trigger. Jude did.”
Moonlight bathes her face, making her look exactly like what she is—young and vulnerable. In this moment, there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for her.
“C’mon, let’s go,” I whisper. “We should get you home. Your dad is worried.”
“Doubtful.”
“How do you think I knew I needed to find you?” I smile. “He came to my house, thinking you would be there. I left him alone with my mother.”
“Then I think that’s where we should go.” Monica laughs bitterly. “Let’s go see what those two crazy kids are up to.”
I agree. I just hope they have a damn good explanation for everything.
****
Monica’s dad is still there when we arrive. He is seated next to my mother on the couch closer than I would like, and the two of them are staring at the television. The light of the TV casts shadows on their faces, making them look older than they are. It’s strange to see them both in this dumpy little space, but I get a glimpse of them as a couple. Despite everything going on, they look comfortable together.
I hate it.
Mr. Monroe gets up from the couch when we walk in as if to go to Monica, but she raises her hand to stop him.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
“Yes.” She doesn’t quite meet his eye. “I’m fine.”
“We should go.” Her father gives me a terse smile. “Thanks for your help, Stephen.”
“No.” Monica crosses her arms, defiant. “I’m not leaving. Not yet.”
“It’s late. We’ve bothered the Valleys long enough.”
“Really? Have we? Because what I want to know is how long you’ve been bothering Mrs. Valley.” Her glare could freeze water. “How long have you two been having an affair? I know Mom was telling the truth. Stephen and I have a right to know what’s been going on, especially since it might have affected what happened to…”
Her voice cracks and she can’t finish the sentence.
My mother stares at the floor, her cheeks pink with embarrassment.
“That is none of your business,” Mr. Monroe starts, “none—”
“Off and on for the last seventeen years,” Mom says softly. “Since high school.”
“Karen—”
“She does have a right to know.” Mom looks at me. “They both do.”
“But now is not the time.”
“Then when is?” Mom stands. “When is the perfect time for you? I’ve been quiet all these years—we’ve been quiet—because we didn’t want anyone to get hurt. But look what’s happened! People have gotten hurt anyway!”
“Did my father know?” I ask, furious at the thought of her cheating on my dad with Mr. Monroe. “Was this happening when he was alive?”
“No,” Mom says, quickly. “No. Simon and I weren’t together then. We’d stopped seeing each other when Bud married me.”
“Your father was a good man,” Mr. Monroe chimes in. “One of the best.”
I don’t remember Dad very well. He died when I was two. When he surfaces in my memory, it’s mostly the photograph above the mantel I see in my head. Jude has better memories.
“But after he died?” I look back and forth between the two of them. “You started up again?”
Mom nods, tears filling her eyes.
“Did Jude know?” I ask.
Mr. Monroe and Mom exchange glances.
“Yes,” Mom admits. “He found out.”
I let out a long breath. Damn. Here it is. The possible motivation for Jude’s action.
“Is that why he broke up with Simone?” Monica asks. “Is that why he killed her?”
Our parents look at each other again.
“I don’t know,” Momma finally says. “He found out about it a month before...before the shooting.”
Jude knew a month out? Why the hell couldn’t someone have clued me in, too?
“He told Simone,” Mr. Monroe says. “She confronted me, and I tried to explain, but she wouldn’t hear it. Understandably, she was pretty upset. I have always thought…well, I thought the relationship between Karen and myself might have had something to do with what happened in May.”
The same hot flare of anger I felt towards Derek runs through me. The hurt is turning to blame and outrage. Why didn’t Mom keep a closer watch on Jude? She knew what he could be like when he was pissed…
“These last few months…have you been seeing each other?” Monica asks.
“We haven’t been together since before May,” Mom says. “It’s over.”
Mr. Monroe looks at her quickly as if this is news to him. Then he shifts his feet restless and uncomfortable. “Monica, we really should go now. It’s been a long night.”
For a moment, I think she might resist, but then she nods, exhaustion hooding her eyes.
“See you tomorrow,” I say as she walks to the door.
Monica looks back and smiles wanly. “Yeah, see you tomorrow.”
The door closes behind them and I’m alone with Mom. She is looking at the floor again, one strand of her hair stroking her cheek. A momentary pang of sadness for her briefly slices through my rising anger. What must it be like to know your child killed your lover’s daughter? I can only assume she must have loved Mr. Monroe a lot to keep seeing him even though he was married.
How like Jude to take away anything that made her happy.
“Stephen, I’m so sorry.” She looks at me, her eyes filled with tears. “You shouldn’t have found out this way. Are you all right?”
Am I all right? Honestly, I don’t know. But I do know that I’m pissed. Very pissed and I’m unwilling to hide it. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m not going to go crazy and shoot up the cafeteria or anything. I can handle it.”
She flinches, but stays silent. It’s a low blow, but I ignore the guilt as I brush past her and go down the hall, pausing outside of Jude’s room. I run my hand down the rough grain.
“Stephen!” Mom has followed me and the fear in her voice stops me from opening the door. “Don’t go in there. It’s a mess. The cops tore everything up.”
“What were they looking for?” I ask.
“Evidence. Reasons why he did it.” She twists her hands nervously. “And the notebook.”
I play dumb. “What notebook?”
“The book he was always journaling in.” She takes a small step towards me. “It’s missing.”
“How did they know to look for it?”
“I told them about it. I had to. Right before he…Jude left me a message on my cell phone, told me to look in the notebook, that he wanted me to keep it. There was something in it he wanted me to see.” Tears slip down her cheeks. “He expected to be dead.”
“He should have been dead. I wish that teacher had let him kill himself.” Harsh words, but I don’t give a fuck. I’m tired of all these secrets.
“They never found it.” She wipes at her eyes and gives me a knowing look. “Where did you hide it?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I go into the Jude’s room and switch on the light.
The mess of my brother’s life assaults my senses. There is a musty smell, like old papers mixed together with sweat. The mattress is overturned, the bed sheets half ripped off. Various styles of Converse and Vans are scattered around the floor, evidence of my brother’s taste in shoes. Papers litter the floor and the desk. Clothes have been ripped from the hangers of the open closet and tossed around. The computer is missing, probably confiscated by the police, along with some of his drawings. I notice the bookshelf on the wall is empty. Did they take the books, too?
The last time I saw this room, it didn’t
look so bad. Jude never would have tolerated it.
I close my eyes and that whole last day comes rushing back.
“Stephen, what is the name of Romeo’s friend who was stabbed by Juliet’s cousin, Tybalt?” Ms. Edgar asks, fanning herself lightly with the paper she holds. The school air conditioner is on the fritz and the room is too warm. The colorful educational posters on the classroom wall with all of their hints and clues about how to write well and when to use a semicolon are starting to bend at the edges from the heat. When I hesitate, she says, “Come on. We talked about this one way back at the beginning of the year.”
I know we did, but a whole freaking year has gone by. As I sit in my scratched up desk, graffittied on my bored students of the past, I just want the bell to ring. Trivia ala English Lit is not exciting to me. And I know the answer. I just don’t want everyone else to know I know it.
However, I’m saved when Mr. Lawson, our principal, comes into the room. He pulls Ms. Edgar aside and whispers to her.
Then they both look at me.
“Stephen, you need to come with me,” Mr. Lawson says. “Bring your backpack, please.”
I turn five shades of red as the class gives a low “Ohhhhhh.”
My heart pounds as I remember what I could have done to merit a visit with Mr. Lawson. I’d been mostly on my best behavior. However, me and a couple of the guys had been the ones who spray painted a verse from an old Iron Maiden song on one of the back country roads again, unable to help ourselves even though we’d already gotten caught once. Still, they couldn’t pin anything on us this time. We’d covered our tracks.
Unless someone has talked.
Oh shit.
Zane. I bet anything that little weasel totally ratted us all out and that’s why I’m going to the office. I’m gonna kick his ass.
But as we walk down the long, empty hall to his office, I catch sight of teachers peeking out of the windows of the classroom doors at us, anxiety in their eyes. A few of them are crying. I can’t figure out why they would all be so upset about a few lyrics spray painted onto the road.
Then I hear the sirens.
“Stephen, there’s been an incident up at the high school.” Mr. Lawson clears his throat as we walk. “It involves your brother.”
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