by Jason Parent
He has taken only a few steps when Nancy Pettigrew shimmies by, offering him a smile. Nancy is “chubby” in the eyes of most boys. In Michael’s eyes, she is perfect. With hair as fine as silk, tan capris, and a fuzzy blue sweater that accentuates her curves, Nancy’s mere presence is enough to quicken the beat of his heart. Her unexpected attention makes him blush. He turns up the collar of his black polo shirt to hide his face, knowing his goofy smile must make him look just that. Better to look shy than stupid.
When he wipes off his smirk and summons the courage to raise his head, he sees Jimmy Rafferty coming his way. He waves at Jimmy and calls out to him, but Jimmy shoves forward through the herd, seemingly without noticing him.
Jimmy’s face is pale, sickly even. Dark purple circles his eyes, thick as a raccoon’s mask. His auburn hair is a tangled, greasy mess; his clothes are disheveled, a frumpy and oversized hooded sweatshirt hanging halfway to his knees over wrinkled jeans. Michael wonders if he’s been sleeping in those clothes or if he’s even been sleeping at all. It doesn’t take significant powers of observation to see that Jimmy is distressed.
Michael can’t blame him. Glenn and Robbie are back from their suspensions today. Unwritten social policy dictates that they will have to seek revenge for Jimmy’s going to the principal’s office after the bathroom incident. At Carnegie High School, people earn many labels and are unjustly awarded several others on a daily basis. Few are worse than being branded a rat. As if they are preparing for prison life, the juvenile delinquents of Fall River always make examples of those who spill the beans on their criminal exploits. In their fractured minds, the weak are supposed to accept their abuse.
Jimmy must have known this cardinal rule when he decided to break it, and in doing so, he possibly saved Michael’s life. The act, whether selfless or vengeful, had gained Jimmy a mountain of student scorn… and Michael’s friendship. They spent a lot of time together the past week, in and out of school. By the week’s end, however, Jimmy had become increasingly distant.
Jimmy’s actions have made him a target, not just of Glenn and Robbie but of every bully in the school. Their contempt for Jimmy is seen in their scowls and heard in their scoffs as Jimmy walks by them. Still, like attack dogs held at bay, they leave Jimmy alone. Michael can only assume they’re saving him for Glenn.
Revenge would come. It didn’t need to be said, but that didn’t stop Ryan from saying it. Occasionally, Michael had been present when Ryan purposely bumped into Jimmy or made threats, toothless without Glenn’s backing. Ryan’s suspension had been for only one day, since he technically didn’t physically participate in Michael’s dunking. Glenn and Robbie got three days to think about their actions and their futures at Carnegie, which Michael doubts are pressing concerns to them. And now, the week is over.
“Jimmy?” Michael calls.
Jimmy keeps on walking, his hands buried inside the front pocket of his sweatshirt. The pocket hangs low over his crotch, looking as heavy as the burden on his shoulders.
Concerned, Michael follows him, even though he knows doing so will make him late for class. “Jimmy?” he calls again, this time more loudly.
Jimmy either doesn’t hear him or refuses to acknowledge him. Instead, he continues down the hallway, his every step forming a march with purpose. His path leads him directly to Glenn Rodrigues.
“Well, well,” Glenn says as Jimmy stops a foot or two in front of him. “Look who we have here.” Glenn is rummaging in his locker. No henchmen are nearby to offer support, but his solitude seems to have little impact on his bravado.
Michael lingers a few steps away, not knowing what he should do, afraid for Jimmy and for himself. A moment passes before he considers that maybe Glenn is the one who should be afraid.
Jimmy doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t even blink as he stares into Glenn’s eyes with only an arm’s length between them. Michael admires his guts, but those guts are going to get him killed. To survive high school, Jimmy needs more cunning. He wonders if his new friend is masochistic. He wonders what else he doesn’t know about Jimmy.
The hallway is crowded, so the threat of danger is minimal. Surely, Glenn will not openly defy school policies with so many witnesses and so soon after his suspension. Even Glenn has to be concerned by the possibility of expulsion.
Glenn’s thin, wry smile spreads across his face, the same smile Michael saw before he was plunged headfirst into a toilet. Michael looks around for teachers but sees none. Students crowd around the two, their number growing as if a giant magnet is drawing them.
“Don’t you students have classes to attend?” Mr. Wilfork asks, parting the crowd like the Red Sea.
Michael breathes a sigh of relief. Michael doesn’t know the history teacher that well, but he is immensely glad to see him. He and Jimmy would live to see another day.
“Come on, Jimmy,” Michael says, tugging on his arm.
The crowd begins to disperse, and Mr. Wilfork returns to his classroom, obviously thinking he has resolved the tension. If Michael can just lead Jimmy out of here, he’s sure everything will go back to normal, at least until the next break.
Still pulling Jimmy along, Michael can feel his friend’s triceps flex with tension. Jimmy’s hands are balled into fists. His whole body seems to stand at attention, ready to act. Glancing over his shoulder, Michael sees Glenn leaning against his locker with arms crossed and a smug, sideways grin.
“Run away, little rat,” Glenn says. “It won’t be long before you’re exterminated.”
Jimmy stops dead in his tracks, his face redder than a candy apple. His eyes are wide, practically bulging from their sockets. Like a shaken champagne bottle, Jimmy is ready to pop.
Michael can sense an explosion coming. He tries to shuffle Jimmy along more quickly, but his friend will not budge. The pressure is doing its damage internally. One look at Jimmy, and Michael knows it’s too late. Jimmy has broken. And now, he’ll surely burst.
Growling like an animal, the sound low at first but quickly mounting to a lion’s ferocity, Jimmy jerks his arm from Michael’s grip. He whips around to face Glenn, who is still smiling, not the least bit intimidated. But Glenn’s smile fades quickly when Jimmy pulls a gun from his pocket.
“What the fuck?” Glenn shrieks, staggering back into the row of lockers.
Even in a hallway full of students, he has nowhere to hide. Mixed within the chaotic confusion welling inside him, Michael can’t help but feel a modicum of joy at the terror on the bully’s face. He wears the same look he has inspired in so many others.
But frightening Glenn is one thing. Michael doubts Jimmy will stop there. Jimmy has gone too far. Once the gun has been drawn, there’s no turning back.
Two shots are fired, both hitting their mark. Glenn falls. A girl screams. Some students run, but whether in fear or in search of help, Michael doesn’t know. Everything has happened so fast, he can’t fully process it. His mouth hangs open in disbelief.
Jimmy stares into space, his eyes fixed on the spot where Glenn once stood. His hand, still clutching the gun, lowers robotically to his side. The gun slides from his hand. It hits the floor a second before Jimmy is tackled by Mr. Wilfork.
The fingernails on Michael’s right hand were chewed down to the quicks, some trickling blood. His stomach turned over and over. His foot wouldn’t stop tapping. He squirmed in his seat, unable to get comfortable. He hadn’t slept more than an hour or two the last few nights. Tomorrow was the day. Tomorrow, it would happen. No one would stop it. No one believed him.
Michael had seen it all as clearly as if he’d lived it. With the blood rushing into his head, shit and piss circling him as he drowned in shallow water, he remembered begging for an escape. As if playing some cruel joke, his mind had transported him from one horror to another.
Nearly a week had passed since his dunking. As he relayed what he’d seen to Sam over an iced coffee, his v
oice hushed so the other patrons wouldn’t hear him and think him crazy, Michael knew she wouldn’t believe him, either. He had called her out to that diner for nothing. Knowing all the crap he’d gotten into better than anyone else, Sam probably already thought he was bat-shit crazy.
For as long as he could remember, Sam had been the one constant in his life. A sort of surrogate mother who kept an eye on him mostly from a distance, she came to his rescue whenever he needed it—but not without a lecture in morality. She’d been there for him through it all, bailing him out each time he got into trouble while living with so many different foster parents that Michael had lost count.
During one of those hard times, Michael had asked her why she came to clean up his messes. Most of the time, he hadn’t been living anywhere near Fall River, which was her jurisdiction, yet no matter the distance, there she would be. Sam said it had something to do with his parents—not Helen and Greg, his foster parents at that time—but his biological parents, whom he didn’t remember. Samantha would never explain it further no matter how much he nagged. He always assumed she had been a friend to them.
Still, Michael appreciated everything Sam did for him, though he would never admit it out loud. Having a detective old enough to be his mother as his only real friend was kind of embarrassing, particularly when she always seemed to catch him at his worst. Even when he could bullshit his way out of trouble with others, Michael couldn’t bullshit Samantha. She had eyes that could see right through him. He’d learned long ago that he couldn’t lie to her, so he never bothered to try.
But turning to her for help for someone else’s mess, one that might or might not have been a product of his imagination? Michael couldn’t guess how she would respond. He hadn’t lied to her in years. He wondered if she thought he was lying about what he had seen. She had to help him. There was no one else who would listen. Michael needed to convince her—and he knew it sounded crazy—to stop something that hadn’t happened yet, the only evidence of its inevitability being a dream he’d had while his head was submerged in crap.
Michael saw nothing but pity in her eyes, the same look she had given him after he’d let off a stink bomb at his last school or when he’d painted a neighbor’s poodle fluorescent green. She didn’t believe him. Pity’s a start, though. What did I expect? Maybe I can guilt her into action.
“At least frisk him and check his locker,” he said. He twisted a straw wrapper around his pinkie and stared at the coffee rings staining the table. He raised his eyes, letting her detect whatever lies she could find in them. “I’m not making this up. I swear it. I know what I saw, and it was as real as the conversation we’re having right now, and it’s sure as shit gonna happen.”
Sam rapped her fingernails against the table then tucked her hair behind her ears. “I know you’re not making it up, Michael. That’s what makes this all the more upsetting. What that Rodrigues boy did to you was terrible. You were probably in shock or having some sort of hallucination. I’ve heard that some people can imagine alternate realities, even create fictional second lives, as a means to escape the real world. It usually happens to those who need to cope with painful or traumatic experiences like what you went through. And sometimes, when they escape to these fictional constructs, they don’t come back.”
Her coolheaded way of thinking made Michael regret coming to her for help. Yep, she thinks I’m insane. He became certain he was wasting his time. Frowning, he watched Sam without responding until her own gravity seemed to lighten.
“Or,” she said, “you were probably unconscious and had a nightmare.”
“It wasn’t a dream. Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“Who else have you told about your… incident?”
“Principal Alves, Greg, and Helen. They all said the same thing. ‘It was just a dream. It was just a dream.’ You’re all freakin’ clones of one another,” Michael scoffed. “Helen even laughed at me. She said, ‘Only God knows our fates.’ I don’t know my fate, and I sure as hell don’t know Helen’s, but I know Glenn’s. He’s gonna be dead real soon if people don’t start taking me a little more seriously.”
Sam sighed. “Have you told Jimmy?”
Michael shrugged. “No. I was afraid to tell him in case—”
“In case you were dreaming?”
His plastic coffee cup crinkled in his fist. He felt the heat of his anger burning beneath his collar. “It was not a dream.”
Sam offered no reaction to his tantrum. “You didn’t want to accuse him of plotting an awful crime that he might never have been plotting in the first place?”
“Something like that.” Michael hung his head, briefly succumbing to her logic, all based on science and medicine. Science and medicine couldn’t explain everything. No, he knew what he saw was going to happen. He couldn’t explain why or how he knew. He just did. “I’ve had so many dreams. This wasn’t anything like them. This was different. I lived it, I felt it, and I experienced it just like any other day in my life. It was real.”
“How could it have been real if it hasn’t happened yet?”
Sam’s skepticism was becoming infuriating. He sat on his hands to keep them still. “I didn’t say any of this made sense. But if I had knowledge of a crime before it was going to happen, you would want me to tell you so you could stop it, right?”
“Of course. Why?” Sam leaned toward him, her stare piercing. “Did Jimmy tell you he was going to do this?”
Michael felt small beneath her penetrating gaze. Why am I the bad guy for trying to do the right thing? “Haven’t you been listening to me? No, Jimmy knows nothing about this beyond whatever is going on in his head right now. Let’s pretend he told me what he was going to do, though, and that he told me exactly when and where he was going to do it. What would you do?”
“Stake him out. If your tip led to proof, we’d arrest him. It’s rare we get an opportunity to stop a crime before it happens. Most of our police work by its very nature comes after the fact, when it’s too late for somebody.”
“So do that, Sam. Stake him out. Please.”
Sam smiled, a rare occurrence. She was a beautiful, athletic woman in her forties with stark features made cold and unapproachable by years of investigating the worst humanity had to offer. The detective had a way of scoping out secrets with her emerald-green eyes, a splash of color against her milky skin and dark hair and clothing. Her years and experiences had hardened her like cement, and not just on the inside. Michael was worried her smile would cause her normally stoic face to crack and crumble into ruin.
For certain, Sam did little smiling, but when she did, it was usually directed toward him. For some reason, he seemed to be her only soft spot. But her uncharacteristic smile wouldn’t make Michael soft. Rather, he found it off-putting. Right or wrong, he inferred condescension from it. Michael was fairly convinced a boy’s life was in danger, a circumstance he was unwilling to ignore. A large part of him understood why Sam doubted him. Still, he wasn’t just some random kid crying wolf. He was her friend, and his concerns were worthy of her attention.
He crossed his arms. “What’s so amusing?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry.” Her mouth returned to its usual flat line. “It’s just that, well, you’re the only one who calls me that.”
“What? Sam? That’s your name, isn’t it?”
“I suppose it is.”
“Can we get back to the kid who’s gonna get shot tomorrow?”
“There’s little I can do based solely on a dream… or a vision. If he said something to you, anything at all, say so, and I’ll be all over Rafferty like flies on… poop.”
Michael rolled his eyes. “Believe me, I’ve heard people say ‘shit’ before. Hell, I just said it a minute ago.” He shook his head. “Anyway, if I say now that he did tell me something, will that make a difference?”
“No, because I would know that you were lyin
g. I’m sorry, Michael. Believe it or not, even might-be killers have rights that can’t be circumvented. You can find comfort in the fact that every entrance to Carnegie High School has security posted and metal detectors in place to stop guns from getting in. Rafferty won’t be able to sneak a gun by them. Plus, if it will make you feel better, the school will conduct a random locker search tomorrow morning, just in case. I’ll make sure Rafferty’s locker makes the list.”
Michael huffed. “Those metal detectors aren’t worth a damn. Every kid knows a half-dozen ways to sneak into and out of Carnegie. How do you think kids play hooky so much? They can’t walk through walls.”
“It’s the best I can do and a heck of a lot more than I legally should. Your friend Jimmy has constitutional rights, you know? Next time you have to read the Bill of Rights for a class, check out the Fourth Amendment. It’s a real pain in the ass for law enforcement.”
Michael shrugged. He slumped back against the booth. “Well, I guess it’s better than nothing. But what if he has the gun on him? You won’t find it in his locker then.”
“Look for him tomorrow. If you see anything suspicious, anything that would lend credence to your vision, give me a call right away. You have my cell. I’ll have my phone with me all day. But if nothing happens, please promise me you’ll try to relax, be a normal teenager, and stay the hell away from Glenn Rodrigues.”
Michael nodded. The results weren’t ideal, but at least contacting Sam hadn’t been a complete waste. He was thinking of ways to provoke a more serious response from her when she stood to leave.
“I have to get back to work,” she said. “I’ll talk to you later.” She took out her wallet and dropped a ten on the table. She stepped from the booth and rested her hand on Michael’s shoulder in an awkward display of affection, even rarer than her smile. “Take care of yourself, Michael.”
The battle was over before he could take his last shot. Michael didn’t want anyone’s death on his conscience, not even that good-for-nothing toad, Glenn Rodrigues. He grumbled quietly, steaming in his frustration. He felt a lot like the Trojan princess, Cassandra, he had read about in school last year, with her disbelieved prophecies of doom. Michael had liked the story then, not so much at that moment.