by Alex Flinn
I didn’t stick around to watch, but somehow, I knew Charlie would step around it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The word invaded my head Thursday morning. Trouble. Trouble at school, trouble at home, trouble with Dad. But not just that. Big trouble. In my brains, in my veins. I tried to shake the feeling over breakfast, frozen waffles still hard in the center. Trouble is a dog. But that wasn’t it. Trouble was coming. I knew it.
The feeling followed me to school, like a kid kicking the seat back. It got out with me. It saw what I saw.
Though it was still early, a crowd gathered outside, halfway between the parking lot and the main building. All stared at the same point ahead. Some fell away, holding mouths, closing eyes. It was something bad. I started toward them.
“Maybe you shouldn’t…” Mom started to say. But I was going. She couldn’t stop me, so she said, “Let me go first.”
Which was stupid. I mean, I wasn’t a baby anymore. Still, the trouble trailing us almost convinced me to let her edge ahead. Nice to have Mommy to do things for me. Not this time.
“Paul, don’t—”
But I was already out, and then I saw it. Trouble. It was Trouble, all right.
At first, all you noticed was his fur, clean, white like always. Then, your eyes traveled up, searching for the red-ribboned ears, bright eyes. Nothing. Nothing but flies. Someone had cut the dog’s head off.
In its place, a note, written in blood, or probably just red marker:
Should have scooped.
My stomach lurched. My eyes were closed, but still, I saw them. David, the mutant, leaning to whisper to his dog, to pet it. David, walking that stupid dog around campus each day, then leading it to the athletic field, the tennis court, to do its business where it did the most damage.
Should have scooped.
When I opened my eyes, I was almost alone. The crowd around me had drifted to the main building. Then I saw why.
Old Carlos, the janitor—Mr. Blanco—stood feet away. He held a shovel and his janitor’s dustpan, wiped his eyes with two grimy fingers. God, he’d been crying. Over the dog? No. Because his son would be upset. Had Dad ever cried for me?
Mom took my elbow. “Come on.”
I didn’t protest, glad for an excuse not to face David’s father.
All morning, I waited. For something. Some horror, some sadness. Some acknowledgment that something bad had happened. Nothing. Between classes, they huddled, whispering.
Did you see?
Cool.
Gross.
Who you think did it?
Who cares?
Cool.
Serves him right.
Loser.
I almost puked.
Had it coming.
Weird.
Cool.
But no one seemed sorry or even surprised.
I met Binky for lunch in the library. It was dark in there, and my eyes hurt. We weren’t really supposed to eat there, but the room was empty except for us, so no one said anything. Binky offered me a banana from her sack.
It was too sweet, overripe. I gagged and put it down, its sugary odor mixing with the library’s old balloon smell. I carried it to the farthest garbage pail so I wouldn’t smell it, then sat back down. “I don’t get it. Some psycho decapitated a dog here. Why are they acting like nothing happened?”
Binky didn’t finish chewing. “Because nothing did.”
“Huh? Repeat that.”
“Nothing happened.” Another bite. I smelled tuna, onions, felt tears spring to my eyes.
“Nothing happened,” I repeated. “So the blood, the psychotic-looking note, that was all my imagination? ’Cause I should probably go home if I’m hallucinating.”
“I meant, nothing happened to them.”
“How could it not have?”
“Does anyone look upset?” Mrs. Booth, the librarian, shushed her even though we were alone. Binky whispered, “David Blanco isn’t one of them.”
“So? Does that mean—?”
“Yes. David isn’t one of them, which relieves them of having to do anything. If it was anyone else’s dog, they’d have started complaining, called all the parents, investigated. People would pull their kids out of school, and everyone would be all upset.”
“And that would be a bad thing? Do you know most serial killers get started killing animals?” I’d read that on-line once. “Do you know that—?”
She put two fingers to my lips, a gesture more intimate than I wanted to think about, and said, “Parents say they send their kids here for a bunch of reasons. But it adds up to one thing: They don’t want to worry about their kids. Spend enough, you don’t have to worry.”
“And this makes them worry?”
“Not at all. It has nothing to do with them.”
I couldn’t begin to understand that. Binky stood, tossed her lunch bag. When I didn’t get up, she turned back.
“Right or wrong, the Blancos feel blessed that the school’s educating their son. So, they don’t mind that the administration’s also letting it get spread around that David killed the dog himself.”
I stared at her, stunned. I hadn’t heard that one. Finally, I said, “And you believe that?”
She shook her head. “You weren’t listening, Paul.”
She left seconds before the bell.
David wasn’t in class that day or the next. I knew because I looked for him. When he wasn’t there Monday, I went to the janitor’s cottage after seventh period.
It looked more like a tool shed or guest house than anyplace a family could live. Ancient coral rock with a green door so old it could give way under strong wind.
Or a hard knock. I tapped. No answer. I called, “Hello?”
The door creaked open. David stood, looking neat as ever, neater even, in his Gate uniform polo and pants. Except where there had been only scars from his various piercings, now he wore jewelry, cheek rings, earrings, nose rings, all glinting in the afternoon sun.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I wanted to say I was sorry.”
“Sorry?” The word twisted around, mocking. “For what?”
“About Trouble. I’m sorry for what happened.”
“Why? Did you do it?”
“No. I mean, of course not.”
“Then, don’t be sorry.” His mottled face was angry now. “You are the one person who should not be sorry.”
“What do you mean? They didn’t all do it.”
“Didn’t they?” He held up a hand. “You know there’s a kid here who, every afternoon at three, pisses on the tile of the second-floor boys’ room so my dad has to mop it before he can go home?”
That sounded crazy. “Sometimes people … miss.”
“Every day, same time, under the sink.”
I shook my head.
“And someone else leaves dead rats by the cafeteria door, mornings, for my mom to find. And someone else breaks windows here, usually in the rain. And his friend, who tears my uniform shirts in half during P.E. class. Or the other guy who…” David stopped, brushed hair from his eyes. “… who kills my dog … and leaves his head on my doorstep.” He glanced down, red-faced, as if expecting to see it again.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry!” A shriek. He started to slam the door, slowed, and said, “You take world history?”
“Sure.” Actually, I’d read it at home with Mom.
“In Nazi Germany, people who reported their neighbors to the Gestapo—were they innocent?”
“Of course not.”
“How about the ones who helped Hitler gain power?”
“Um, I guess not. No. They weren’t innocent.” He sounded crazy. But I’d probably be the same if they’d done that to me.
“And how about the other ones, the ones who stood by, watched it? The ones who said, ‘I’m not Jewish, thank God, so I don’t have to worry.’ Were they?”
I stared at my feet. “No. No, I guess not.”
“How do you know I don’t?”
“Because you’ll be next.”
I didn’t want to think about that. “Well,” I said. “I’m sorry anyway.”
“Don’t worry about it. It was just another mess for my father to clean.”
That week in chapel, the choir sang “By the River” and Reverend Phelps sermonized about “Whatsoever Ye Do Unto the Least of My Brothers, Ye Do Unto Me.” David wasn’t there. I thought about him, though. All the time. Even as I left my usual messages for my father. Maybe especially then.
When I came in from P.E. the day after I talked to him, I found my uniform shirt outside my locker on the bench. Someone had cut it in half, neatly down the middle.
I remembered what David had said: You’ll be next.
I knew it was true.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Friday. Another pep rally after school. We were playing John the Baptist High, so all over school, cheerleaders posted signs proclaiming, BEHEAD JOHN THE BAPTIST or BAPTISM BY FIRE until Principal Meeks made Old Carlos take them down.
I didn’t go. Didn’t walk around campus, either. It seemed wrong, with no prospect of running into David and Trouble, so it was back to the computer lab. I didn’t care what Mom said.
The trailer they used for a computer lab was the only place I felt comfortable at Gate anymore. Its hollow floors thumped and echoed when you walked. That day, it was empty, as usual. The stink of someone’s lunch filled the air. Bologna. I signed in, turned on the light, chose a station away from the window. I still heard the shrieks and cheers through the walls. I logged onto AOL and scrolled through the member-created rooms. I barely heard the door open. Whoever it was didn’t stop to sign in. He walked, silent as a soldier, across the loud floors and took the station ahead of mine. I chose the Teen Truth or Dare room. I didn’t look up. I didn’t know anyone. I didn’t want to know anyone.
Beep. From the other computer.
I kept typing.
Beeeeeep!
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! The aggravated sound of someone repeatedly pressing keys when the computer refuses to obey.
A voice. “Shit!”
I looked up, surprised. It was Charlie Good.
“Little help here?” he said.
He’d abandoned his efforts. The room was silent, except the buzz of fluorescent lights.
“I hear you’re something of a computer aficionado.”
“Aficionado?” Strange word. Charlie didn’t even talk like other people.
“It means someone who’s a devotee of something. And devotee means—”
“I’m okay at it.”
Charlie leaned his chair back, swung first one leg, then the other onto the table, rocking at a ninety-degree angle to the floor. “Care to assist a friend?”
“With what?”
With his head, he indicated I should sit beside him. A high-and-mighty junior talking to a sophomore. His face said this was a privilege he was granting me. Then, a raised eyebrow. Charlie’s patience was wearing thin. After all, he’d invited me into his world. I should accept gratefully.
I did. I stood, wearing my enthusiasm like a slogan on a sweatshirt. “What are you doing?”
“Research paper. Guess I’m not enough of a computer geek to work this program.”
For the next hour, I, Paul Richmond, sat beside Charlie Good and taught him to do computer research. A skeptic would say I did the research for him. But I wasn’t a skeptic that day. If Charlie Good, for all his brilliance, couldn’t formulate a query, pull up a search result, or print it out, I should help. Maybe Charlie would do something for me someday.
For the moment, I’d settle for a compliment. “Go, Einstein,” he said when I—we—finished.
“Thanks.” Trying not to look too pleased. I wanted to ask why he wasn’t at the pep rally. But I didn’t. It would be too strange.
He read my thoughts. “I sent St. John and Meat to some juvenile tribal rite. This place has too many pep rallies.” He leaned forward, smiling. “Besides, I want to talk to you.”
Me? But I said, “About what?”
“How do you like Gate?”
I almost laughed. “Fine.”
“Liar.” Charlie smiled. “You think we’re all the same, Neanderthal jocks or rich brats. Probably think I’m both. Don’t deny I’m right.”
I said nothing.
“But things aren’t always as they seem. Someone smart as you should know that.”
“I didn’t say—”
“You didn’t have to. I don’t blame you.” Charlie slammed his chair legs to the floor, his own feet following. “But you’re wrong.”
A roar from outside. The pep rally must have been ending. “Wrong about—”
“You think I don’t know you.” Charlie said. “There are things about you I couldn’t possibly understand. Secret things.” The outside noise had stopped, and there was just Charlie’s voice and my breathing. “You think I don’t know you jack off at night and wonder if you’ll always be alone.”
I tried not to start, tried not to let him know he was right.
He continued. “You think I don’t know that your parents split up last year and, since then, you’ve tried to be a good son. But really, when your mother talks to you, it makes your skin crawl and you feel like, next time she touches you, pulls a hair out of her head, cries … you might beat her brains in.”
Part of me wanted to leave. It was weird, him knowing this stuff. Creepy. Like he’d been watching me. But my eyes felt frozen to him. “How do you—?”
“Am I wrong?”
I shook my head. He gestured toward the racket at his feet. “Know why I play tennis?”
Stupid question. He was a star at tennis.
“I play because Charles Senior—my father—because Big Chuck never made the pros, so I have to. He’s been teaching me since before I could walk.”
“That’s nice.”
“Is it?” Like it was the first he’d considered it. “Guess so. Guess it’s nice when someone gives you responsibility for his hopes and dreams without your permission. And it’s wonderful to get out each afternoon, whether blazing sun or driving rain, and have him hit balls at me like I’m some demented golden retriever. Is it father-son bonding or indentured servitude?” He sucked his lip. “I know what Big Chuck would say. What would you say?”
I stared at the comet on the screen saver. I’d screwed up, but I didn’t know how. “Why are you asking me this?”
He looked away. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have. Just thought maybe you’d understand.” He closed his notebook, reaching for the racket. “Guess I was wrong.”
“No.” I restrained myself from physically stopping him. “No. I do understand.” And I did. I knew everything there was to know about trying to meet parents’ impossible expectations. “But…”
He smiled, whirling the racket’s grip between his knees. “Hmm?”
“Why are you talking to me?” I fidgeted. “I mean, people aren’t knocking themselves over to be my friends.”
“I just told you why.”
“Oh.” I guessed I hadn’t heard him.
“We’re going to be friends, Paul. That’s my point. That’s what I wanted to talk about.” He met my eyes. “We’re too much alike not to be friends.”
I stared at him, and he nodded. He stood, gathered his books, the racket, and started for the door. “Go on, Paul. Your mom’s waiting.”
Had I offended him? I wasn’t sure.
“She always leaves at four fifteen, doesn’t she? It’s about that now.” He gestured toward the clock. Twenty after. “See you tomorrow, Paul. Before, maybe. Maybe I’ll stop by.”
“You know where I live?”
“I told you. I know everything.”
And without saying good-bye, he left. By the t
ime I reached the exit, there was only Mom, staring at me, all worried.
But today, for once, I didn’t care.
CHAPTER NINE
That night, I thought I saw Dad. His tires skidded through the rush of dead leaves and asphalt. He was driving crazy, like Mom used to yell about. Running footsteps. Then, he was at my window.
Knock, knock, knock.
My pillow was over my head. I smelled Downy, its waves of softness lulling my brain to sleep. Sleep.
Knock, knock, knock. Louder.
“What?”
“Come here.”
I rose, cracked open the blinds, then recoiled at his face. One side was missing, blown away. One eye stared. The other wasn’t there.
“Let me in, Paul.”
“But you’re dead.”
Through the window, streetlights glowed like cigarette butts through taller oaks. I glanced around. I was back in my own room at our house in North Carolina. Mom was on the stairs. Had she killed him? I opened the window. A rush of silvery air. Moonlight flooded through, and Dad stepped inside. His body was unscathed. His face shone, red with blood, white with bone in the dimness.
He started to speak. It seemed a struggle, his lips barely hanging from his skull. Then, Mom was there.
“Leave us alone, Glenn. We’ve made a fresh start.” She carried a shotgun. She clutched at me, cooing, “Sorry, sweetheart. It was him or you.”
Dad shoved her aside. “He’s my son too, Laura.”
“I need him more. He’s mine.” I heard the click of the trigger.
Knock, knock, knock…
I opened my eyes. The room was dark. I was alone. In Miami.
Knock, knock, knock… “Richmond!”
“Someone left garbage out here.”
“Nice neighborhood.”
“Tell Charlie he ain’t here.”
The digital clock shone 1:56. I fumbled for the light, hit the lampshade. It crashed to the floor, and I stumbled across the dark room.