Will watches Brian's eyes open.
People begin to move again, yet now there is a funereal pace to their travels and a whispering shroud has fallen over their voices. Danny crouches to help Ashleigh up, whispering softly to her. Caitlyn is watching him, corpse pale and yet still startlingly beautiful. Her eyes roll back and she stares at the ceiling.
“I can't believe they . . . can't believe they did that. Just . . . just announced it like that, like it's nothing. Like he's fucking student of the month or something. Jesus, like they're announcing a rally for a football game.”
Aluminum. His mouth . . .
“Jesus,”Caitlyn says again, but now it's a whisper. She stares at him. “Will, you're bleeding. Your mouth is bleeding.”
His fingers flutter toward his mouth, wildly, as though they may not find anchor there. When at last they alight upon his chin he feels wetness, sticky and strangely cold. He touches his lower lip and it stings. His tongue runs out over his mouth and the metallic taste is stronger than before.
He gazes down at his fingers, slick with his own blood.
In that moment when the words were announced over the loudspeaker system, he had bitten through his lip. As he traces his mouth now, his finger finds the wound, plays at the edges of it, and idly he wonders if he tried to force it, would his finger push all the way through until his nail tapped the enamel of his bloodstained teeth?
He feels his face collapse, the muscles turning in upon themselves, and the tears come. “Why him?”he rasps. “Why did it have to be him?”
The throng has begun to churn again, to stream and flow toward classrooms and lockers. His friends are all looking at him now and he feels their eyes but cannot meet them. Ashleigh and Danny and Caitlyn—his Caitlyn—he leaves them behind as he forces his feet to move, stumbling along the corridor and around the corner to the men's room.
The door slams open, clacking against the tiles, perhaps cracking the tiles, and it hisses softly closed behind him. He does not enter the first stall but the third, the one he always chooses. Inside that intimate cube he slides the lock across. There is a coat hook on the back of the door—miraculously unbroken—and now he grasps it, nearly hanging on it, holding himself up as his forehead presses against the cold metal of the bathroom stall door.
Aluminum. In his mouth, that metallic tang is joined by the taste of salt. Blood and tears.
His mind flashes back to his bedroom at home, where there are multicolored candles and bits of reptile skin, whittled yew and ash branches, red ribbons, herbs, and dried apples. There are books there as well, two of them stolen from the special collection at the library, shoved down his pants while Brian created a distraction. These things are in a box in his closet, a box he has not opened since the previous year. He has not opened the box because all it contains is bullshit.
It's all bullshit, and yet he thinks of it now and wishes he had not.
Blood and tears.
A spark, a floating orange, a glass of blood, a memory trick, a cut healed as though it never was. Nothing. Games. Foolishness. Certainly not magic.
Bullshit.
There's no such thing as magic.
Only blood and tears.
. . . and then he wakes.
WILL'S EYES SNAPPED OPEN and he inhaled sharply, greedily, convinced in that moment that he had stopped breathing while he was asleep. Apnea, he thought, apropos of nothing having to do with his dream or the day ahead. The word popped into his mind and just then seemed far more important than anything else. Sleep apnea. Stop breathing while you're asleep, never wake up.
The thought filled him with cold dread, an enemy he could not fight. He took several more breaths and then shook his head to clear it. Maybe he had stopped breathing a moment, but he had woken up instantly. It was ridiculous to be afraid of such a thing.
Will laughed softly, but there was an edge to it that he did not fail to notice. Idly, almost as though his subconscious mind did not want him to realize he was doing it, he licked his lips as if his tongue thought it might find something there. A milk mustache. A ring of chocolate, the way he had so often had around his lips as a small child, thanks to indulgent parents.
“Jesus,” he whispered, and then he shivered, the curse/prayer an echo of his dream, though he could no longer remember precisely why. He grasped at the remnants of the dream and it fled him, so that he could now remember only small snatches of it.
The day they had learned Mike Lebo had died. Will sat up in bed now and sighed. He had been a hell of a guy—self-effacing, his presence always calming—and the loss had shaken all of them. In some ways, though, it had also brought them closer together.
Most of them.
A flash of the previous night's events came back to him now, the weird moment of disorientation that had come over him when he and Danny had talked about Mike. Will slipped out of bed and padded to the bathroom, his bladder heavy.
What was that about? he thought. What's wrong with your head? How could he have forgotten, even for a moment, that horrible day in the early autumn of their senior year, the scene in the corridor, Ashleigh's sobbing, and the taste of blood in his own mouth? Though he tried to push it away, Will was worried about such a lapse in his own memory. What did it say about his mental state that he could construct in his imagination a fanciful alternative, where Mike had never died?
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” he muttered to himself as he pushed open the bathroom door and flicked on the light.
The fan whirred overhead.
In the mirror his face was pale and there were dark circles under his eyes. Not enough sleep, he thought. Or just troubled sleep. He knew that after this weekend was over he was going to have to make some calls, try to find someone to talk to. The idea that he had been so haunted by Mike's death that the imminent arrival of the reunion had caused him to go into some bizarre denial was upsetting, but not nearly so upsetting as the alternative, which was some kind of mental deterioration.
Too young for that shit, by far, he thought as he pissed into the toilet, the hissing sound of it hitting the water disturbingly loud in the silence of the apartment.
Will flushed, then shook his head again. He ran water from the faucet and splashed some on his face. This weekend was his chance to reconnect with old friends, some he was intimate with, and some he had lost in the fog of passing time. He had begun that with Stacy Shipman last night, and then he'd had to bail.
Enjoy the weekend, he thought. There'll be enough time on Monday to find out if you're cracking up.
Staring into the mirror, he studied the small scar just under his lower lip, that thin white reminder of Mike Lebo's death that had been with him for eleven years, ever since he had bitten into his lip that day and tasted his own blood.
Will ran his fingers over that scar, so familiar and yet somehow also alien to him, as though he had always had it but never managed to really see it before now.
He stared at it, troubled.
THE CLASSIC ROCK STATION Will often listened to was playing the Goo Goo Dolls as he turned off of Union Avenue and into the rear entrance to Cougar Stadium. Ten and a half years ago, when his high school graduation had been held here, there had been only a gravel road and yellowed grass out behind the stadium. Sometime since, the de facto parking lot had been paved over to confirm its use for that purpose. Cougar Stadium was not nearly grand enough to have earned the appellation, but its bleacher seats were modern and numerous enough that field had apparently been rejected as too limiting a description.
The paving over of what had once provided parking only to those savvy enough to sneak in the back way did not really alarm him. It was progress, of course, and he could not begrudge anyone that. On the other hand, the idea that the classic rock station was playing the Goo Goo Dolls—a band that had had its greatest success in 1998—got under his skin. Not that there was anything wrong with the band, but the whole classic rock format implied certain things, among them the suggestion that if you'd
grown up contemporary with the music, you weren't precisely young anymore.
Will glanced at his watch and saw that it was a quarter after one. He went through the rear gate of the chain-link fence that surrounded Cougar Stadium, but instead of going up into the stands he went around the rear wall toward the front. It was the coldest day of autumn thus far, and he wore a heavy black leather jacket over his favorite Red Sox jersey and a clean pair of blue jeans. Will sipped from the hot chocolate he had picked up at Dunkin' Donuts on his way.
There were groups of parents with giant coffee thermoses threading along the yellow grass toward one entrance or another, and students in small gatherings—boys laughing, girls leaning up against the wall, smoking and eyeing the boys suggestively. In one arched entryway the cheerleaders for Natick High—the opposing team in today's game—were in a huddle, waiting for the festivities to begin.
Around the front of the stadium the cars were parked at every angle, tucked into spots that had clearly never been intended to hold them. Though inside there were concession stands that sold hot dogs and pizza, fried dough and pretzels, there were people barbecuing in the main lot, tailgating, drinking beer. In that way, things had not changed at all since he had been a student here. The lot looked like a miniature version of the tailgating bash that always took place down in Foxboro before a Patriots game.
Will sipped at his hot chocolate, warming his hands on the cup, and steam came from his breath and from the small tear in the lid. He looked at the main gate and saw the people lined up at the entrance and out on the sidewalks. A motorcycle cop pulled up in front of the entrance to Cougar Stadium and dismounted, blue light spinning on his bike.
The parade had arrived.
A broad grin spread across Will's features and he picked up his pace, hurrying along through parked cars until he merged with the mass of people who flanked the entrance to the stadium. He glanced around in search of familiar faces, hoping to run into some of his classmates, but at first he saw only students. The current batch of kids at Eastborough High seemed horrifyingly young. It had only been ten years, but as he studied the faces of the jostling boys and posing girls, he could not remember ever being that age.
That's what we looked like, too, he thought. Kids. But we never felt that young. He knew it was true, remembered all too well how world-weary and wise they had all believed themselves to be. Not children anymore, but teenagers, with all the presumptuousness that implied. Now he looked at the latest generation and marveled at their youth and naïveté.
And how he envied them.
The first car through the gate was an antique Dodge Charger with the logo of the Eastborough High Cougars painted on the hood. Will laughed out loud. The car had been leading the parade for something like thirty years and had been kept in working order all that time by the kids in the shop class. The driver of the car was Mr. Murphy, who had been Will's English teacher and had been partially responsible for inspiring him to seek a career in journalism. There were other teachers in the car but he recognized only Annelise Berendt, who had come in as principal of Eastborough the year after Will's class had graduated.
They waved GO COUGARS banners and blew whistles, and then another car came through the gate carrying several other teachers and a heavyset, balding guy he assumed was Mayor Aaron Pirkle, if the sign on the side of the car was any indication. There were cheers and some catcalls from the crowd, but then the voices were temporarily drowned out by the sound of thumping drums and blaring horns, and the Eastborough High School Marching Band strode through the gates in perfect synchrony.
The band had always been a source of pride for the school. No matter how many people teased those who took part in it, the members of Eastborough High's marching band never listened. They competed on a national level, even though the school's football team had never won its division.
The band was followed by the first parade float, a masterpiece painstakingly fashioned from paper flowers. It was a bit of rugged terrain, rocks, and trees, and in their midst, a huge cougar, the mascot of Eastborough High. Will stared at it in astonishment, wondering if the thing had really been created by high school students.
There were a couple of other floats far less impressive than the first—obviously the committee had chosen the Cougar float to focus on—and then a rolling exhibition that was not quite a float at all. It was a flatbed truck with the school colors draped over the edges of the bed, laden with what must have been the entire Eastborough football team and the cheerleading squad as well. The cheerleaders—in skimpy uniforms that would not even have been allowed at Eastborough High ten years before—were already engaged in the call-and-answer patter of their discipline, screaming themselves hoarse before the game had even begun.
They were having a hell of a time.
Will grinned as he gazed up at them, at their smiles and the expressions on the faces of the football players. This had to be quite a moment for them. In his mind's eye he could see his own senior year Homecoming parade, could remember the way the air seemed to have a special tang to it, a flavor and a scent that was unlike anything else in the world.
People were shouting and throwing flowers at the players and cheerleaders as the truck passed. Students and parents, mostly, but across the street Will caught sight of a few familiar faces. Martina Dienst, Brian Schnell, Scott Kelso, and Mia Skopis were all hooting and waving to the players with such fervor that for a moment it almost seemed as though they had forgotten a decade had passed since the last time they had stood here and done the very same thing.
In the midst of the crowd, off to their left, he saw Caitlyn.
A shiver went through him that had nothing to do with the chill in the air. A thousand images like the shards of a broken mirror spun through his mind, just as clear, just as jagged. Caitlyn had hurt him, badly. And yet they had shared so much that he would not trade the years they had spent together for anything. In the crowd, everyone so intent upon the parade, Caitlyn had already noticed him.
Her blue eyes shone even from this distance and she raised a hand, fingers curled in the most delicate and hesitant of waves. Testing the waters. Wondering what would happen.
The oddest thing was the way his own hand lifted as if of its own accord. Will waved back, one side of his mouth lifting in a wistful smile. It hurt, seeing her; it stirred up a melancholy deep within him that would never go away. And yet somehow under these circumstances, seeing Caitlyn as part of the tableau of their past, amidst old friends they both shared, was surprisingly OK.
Then Martina saw him and waved, smiling with such unaffected sweetness that he wanted to hug her. When he glanced back to look for Caitlyn again, she was lost in the crowd. Part of him wanted to speak to her, but even just with the small exchange they'd just shared he felt a sense of relief. Pushing Caitlyn from his mind, he waved back to Martina and edged through the crowd, waiting for a break in the parade so he could dash across to join them. After the flatbed, the cars began to roll through, festooned with ribbons and crepe paper. Another wave of cheers went through the crowd as the current Homecoming King and Queen rolled past in the back of a classic Mustang convertible. There were enough people trailing the car and walking alongside it that Will was able to slip across the street.
“Hey, Marti,” he said happily.
Martina arched an eyebrow. “You know, you're the only person in the world who ever gave me a nickname.”
“Do you hate me for it?”
“No. It's actually kind of nice.”
She kissed him on the cheek and then the two of them turned to face the others. In high school, Brian Schnell had been sort of gawky and unkempt. His shirt was forever half untucked and his hair always needed combing. Childhood baby fat had lingered on him, giving his face a doughy look though he wasn't overweight at all. Adult Brian was still recognizably the same guy, but one look at him and all Will could think of was the bizarre alternate-universe episodes shown from time to time on Star Trek. Alternate-universe Brian dressed
well and wore his clothes as if they'd just been pressed. He had a goatee and his black hair was well groomed. He was only twenty-eight, but he already had some gray in there.
When he saw Will, his face lit up with genuine pleasure, as if someone had just told him a wonderful joke.
“No shit. Will James,” Brian said, and he opened his arms.
Will hesitated, but only for a moment. Once upon a time they had been the best of friends. It hadn't ended in any kind of obvious falling out, really. It had just sort of happened, the way those things did, the two of them drifting apart, finding they had less in common with one another and more in common with others.
Still, that was what this weekend was about. Reconnecting with the people who had drifted away. So when Brian went to embrace him, Will hugged back.
“Good to see you, Bri. How've you been, man?”
Brian broke the embrace and held him at arm's length. “I've been good, Will. Really good.”
“You look it,” Will told him.
For just a moment, Brian's smile faltered. Will felt an unspoken communication pass between them, as though without words they had just begun a conversation about the death of their old friendship. It was awkward and surprising, since Brian seemed to have been so amiable at first.
Then the moment passed. Brian's smile returned and he shrugged. “Time heals all wounds, they say. You look like you're doing pretty well yourself.”
“Will!” a voice shouted, and he looked up to see Tim Friel riding in the back of a ragtop Cadillac with Tess O'Brien, who'd been Queen to his Homecoming King eleven years past. Other reunion class royalty rode by in various cars, all following the reigning pair.
When Will turned back to Brian, Martina had him in conversation, so he said hello to Scott and Mia, catching up with them briefly. Then Martina abruptly broke off talking to Brian and stepped closer to put a hand on his arm.
The Boys Are Back in Town Page 6