Wild and Crooked

by Leah Thomas

  I bristle. “No, but his mom treats him like one.”

  “I imagine she isn’t up for it today. Considering the horror of it all, et cetera.”

  “Well, maybe the guy’s innocent.”

  “Spence, innocent?” Phil scowls. “Are you familiar with the case?”

  “Safe to say so.” I try not to spit on him.

  “Spence confessed. His innocence is unlikely. I imagine . . . ​ Gus feels panicked. His flight makes sense. ‘Why, what an ass am I . . .’ ”

  “Yeah,” I grumble, “you’re pigeon-livered, and you lack gall.”

  Phil freezes.

  “Shocker! I like Shakespeare. You and me might have some mutual interests, and if you’d avoided the bullshit and talked to me yourself instead of forcing Gus to do it, imagine the drama you could have spared us all.”

  “Noted.”

  “Whatever. Where would Gus ‘flee’ to?”

  “My house, on occasion. That’s doubtful, after yesterday.” Phil shakes his head, then freezes midway. “Ah. I know where he could be.”

  “Great. Let’s go. Before the bell rings. You drive.”

  Phil cocks his head. “I’ll take you to Gus. But only if you—”

  “Oh, you’d better not!”

  “—attend homecoming with me.”

  “You’re blackmailing me? Jesus, Gus deserves better. You know what? I’ll find him on my own. Fuck your dance.”

  “Wait—stop.” I’m about to yank the fire alarm and unlock that emergency door. “I’ll drive. Fine.”

  I pull my arm down anyhow. The alarms start wailing. “Hamlet is a self-absorbed prick, if you wanna know my opinion.”

  “I don’t,” Phil says, holding the door for me.

  “Figures. You just wanna dance with me, right?”

  Whatever. I can’t control how Phil chooses to think about yours truly, but I can use it to my advantage like the monster I am.

  I don’t know if I’m a monster to Gus. I don’t know who I’ll be when we find him. But I want to find him. That’s a tiny chunk of goodness in me. I’m holding tight to it.

  GUS

  EVERYTHING FEELS TOO fast on the freeway. I stick to the slow lane. After an hour, I creep down an exit and escape the traffic, ignoring angry honks as I pull into the half-empty parking lot of Carson Shopping Mall.

  Phil and I once made weekend sojourns here. The mall was home to the Card Vault, the only gaming store we knew. When we used to play Magic: The Gathering, we’d spend hours digging through boxes of cards while Phil’s brothers perused Warhammer figures or discussed strategy with the shopkeeper. Phil cherry-picked cards that gave him tactical advantages. I collected cards featuring elaborate costume designs.

  The Card Vault closed years ago.

  Because Tamara begged me, and because I’m tired, and because there’s no way I can avoid attention here, I slide my cane out of the truck bed. Soon I’m leaning on it indoors, window shopping stores I’ll never buy from. Most clothes are made for people who have matching arms and legs. I see everything and nothing I want.

  I visit the seasonal Halloween store, even though the air inside smells like toxic markers. The “clothes” are constructed from fabric as strong as sandwich baggies, tulle so flimsy you could filter coffee through it. I don’t buy anything, but some of the masks are interesting. Things might be easier if you could tell a monster by looking at one.

  I walk by the windows of an indoor gym. I wouldn’t like working out in front of strangers, sweating behind glass like a hamster.

  I spend twenty minutes in a faux-leather massage chair. I don’t bother feeding it quarters. This early in the afternoon, the trickling crowd is made up of parents with tiny children in tow, a parade of strollers and cries. A mom talking on a cell phone pauses in front of me. Her kid cranes his neck out of his stroller. He’s waving around a plush giraffe, but he drops it when he sees me. His mother doesn’t notice when I pick it up for him, but an older woman gives me a nod as she passes. She’s got a cane, too. I nod back.

  I make my way to a little black shop that seems determined to chase well-adjusted people away. There are studded belts in the window. Screeching metal music blares from speakers within. The back wall is lined with black T-shirts. It’s intentionally offbeat, catering to teens by capitalizing on things we like, using our angst against our allowances. It’s dumb, but it still feels like validation, even if it’s manufactured.

  My eyes are immediately drawn to the shoe section. There are rows of heeled boots and spiked platforms. There are canvas tennis shoes that travel halfway up calves, slip-on ballet flats decoupaged in skulls. I’m wearing my sad orthopedic slippers. None of these shoes would meet Dr. Petani’s approval.

  Here are socks in striping patterns, shoelaces bedecked in pentagrams. Again, it’s tacky, but again, I’m kind of taken with it. In my head, I put together an outfit someone else could wear, a parallel me or some version of Kalyn I haven’t met yet:

  I’d pair the ballet flats with those translucent tights with the veining pattern up the leg, but I’d exchange the ribbons on the flats for black ones. I’d layer two batwing skirts around the model’s hips, cape-like, and above that, any one of those black T-shirts could do for casual wear, but a corset blouse might be great for a concert. Or one of those sharp-shouldered eighties blazers could elevate the look to edgy professional. And oh, those silver floral wrist cuffs could be repurposed as hair accessories around buns. A pop of color at the neck—yellow, maybe—­

  “Let me know if you wanna try anything on.” The shopkeeper’s got more piercings than teeth, but her smile is kind.

  There’s one garish set of socks I can’t help inspecting. They’re knee-highs or maybe OTKs (over-the-knees). One is black with a pattern of white feathers strewn about it, topped by a sturdy cuff complete with jutting black wings. Its partner in crime is a white sock speckled with black bats and topped by tiny white wings. The socks are harlequin nonsense. They are good and evil and mostly they are silly.

  I love them beyond reason.

  Before I know it, I’ve placed them on the counter.

  “I think these’ll be big sellers for Halloween.” The shopkeeper squints at them through white contact lenses. “Huh. These shouldn’t be mismatched; we sell the Valkyrie ones and the Demon ones separately. Let me see if we have a complete set in the back.”

  I shake my head. “Um, I like them like this.”

  “You can buy two pairs and mismatch them yourself.”

  I push the socks toward her. “Um. I mean. Never mind.”

  “Nah, it’s cool. Just don’t tell on me, okay?”

  The shopkeeper gives me a 30 percent discount. I don’t know if it has anything to do with my slurred speech or my cane. She hands me a black bag. “I can cut the zip ties if you want to wear them out.”

  “No, I, that’s—”

  “You should wear them,” says someone behind me.

  I turn, and there’s Garth of the Gaggle, perusing the selection of gauged earrings. He’s not wearing a kilt, just black jeans and a mustard V-neck with a flannel shirt tied around his waist, and four watches on one arm. He should look ridiculous, but he looks cool, if slightly cartoonish, with his hair combed back like that. Garth’s clutching a bottle of turquoise Manic Panic in one hand and a box of marbled guitar picks in the other.

  “You’re skipping, too, huh?”

  The shopkeeper rolls her eyes. “Take that talk outside, seriously. I’m supposed to report this stuff.”

  “Man, can I at least buy my goods first?”

  She’s not smiling now. “If you must, man.”

  I fight the impulse to flee as Garth collects his own little black bag. He rolls it up, tucks it into his waistband. He’s not as tall as Phil, but he’s still taller than me. Garth’s dark eyes probe me from head to toe.

  “Come on, man.”

  Garth looks both ways before stepping out of the store. That’s something I do, to make sure I don’t get T-boned
, but I don’t know why Garth needs to. He doesn’t wait for me, but he isn’t in a hurry. Garth wears the Docs I’m not supposed to wear, but his are yellow-tartan patterned. He should look hideous. He doesn’t.

  He’s a bee that’s stung me.

  On this undead day, running into my idol miles from Samsboro is another surreality. I’m beyond trying to process this week. I stare at Garth’s even gait, the effortless way his feet move like graceful pistons, and try to keep up.

  “Hey, Gus?” he says. “It’d be cool if you didn’t mention I was in that store.”

  “O-okay.” It’s a weird request, but I can’t decide why.

  When we reach the food court, I’m panting. Garth doesn’t notice. He offers to go get some fries. The next thing I know, I’m sitting across from the King of Carefreedom, watching him lick salt from his calloused fingertips.

  “Not a talker, are you?” Garth’s elbows form perfectly symmetrical angles when he folds his fingers behind his head. “It’s Gus Peake, right?”

  I almost spit out my soda. “Yeah. It is. I’m Gus.”

  Piercings lift with his lips. “Cool. Nice to hang with you at last. I’m—”

  “Garth Holden. Yeah. I—I know.”

  His grin widens. “Gotta say, never expected to catch you playing hooky. Any particular reason for skipping today?”

  Just the earth shattering.

  I offer half a shrug.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you go anywhere without Phil.”

  “You know Phil?”

  “Yeah, I know Phil.” Garth drums his fingers along the edge of the table. “Known him for forever. His brother John used to date my big sister. He’d bring Phil over to kick my ass on Mario Kart. Man oh man. Does he still pick Toad every time? It’s humiliating, losing to a sidekick.”

  Phil’s never mentioned being friends with Garth, and Phil knows I’m obsessed with the Gaggle. I acted as Phil’s wingman. Couldn’t Phil do the same for me?

  “He still picks Toad.” Garth isn’t listening. I follow his gaze.

  He’s watching a group of black-clad strangers pass through the main entrance. They aren’t wearing coats. There’s a price to being cool, and today it’s runny noses.

  “You, um, know them?”

  “Nah.” Garth tries for nonchalance, but he bunches up his shoulders.

  It clicks. “You’re worried about being seen with me.”

  “You think I care about stuff like that?”

  Based on his behavior, against everything I thought I knew, clearly Garth cares a lot. Maybe there’s no such thing as care-freedom.

  “Timber.” There’s a collapse in my head: Could Garth of the Gaggle be one of the most insecure people I’ve ever talked to?

  A laugh escapes me. Garth flinches and then grins, putting the mask right back on. “So, where is Phil today? You two break up?”

  I’m stammering now. “No, we aren’t—I don’t—he isn’t—”

  “I was kidding.” Without warning, Garth’s fingers drum across the table to touch mine. “You ever think about wearing contacts, Gus?”

  “I like my glasses.”

  Garth’s posture relaxes; the smog of black-clad bodies has drifted elsewhere. “Wanna head outside? It’s stuffy in here.”

  It’s stuffy with people Garth doesn’t want to be seen by. Suddenly, I’m feeling sorry for him. Then, just as suddenly, like a knife in the sternum, I miss Kalyn to pieces.

  “Let me get that for you.” Garth pulls my tray from under my fingers.

  It’s too soon in the year for it to be this dark outside at two o’clock, so maybe a thunderstorm is rolling in. The smallest icy pinpricks of mist strike my cheek. I’ve never driven in the rain before. It’s occurring to me, as I follow Garth across the parking lot, that I’ve never been anywhere without someone else knowing where I am.

  I should be afraid. When your father is the star of true-crime stories, you develop a taste for the macabre. You learn it’s not strangers you have to worry about so much as people you know. You learn not to follow people to their cars. You learn that being a guy doesn’t exclude you from potential victimhood. It didn’t exclude your father, after all.

  You also learn that you are paranoid to think and feel these things. Honestly, I’ve thought and felt so much in the span of the past twenty-four hours that all I want to do is stop.

  When Garth offers me a crumpled joint, I bite it between my teeth and breathe until I’m burning. Garth laughs and pounds me on the back as I hack up my heart.

  “Where are we going?” I think I say it aloud. I’m already hazy, fuggy, fogged. I nearly drop my cane.

  “I’m looking for something, Gus. Shouldn’t take long. Are you cold?”

  I’m not. I’m tingling and warm and confused and realizing that I left my new socks in the food court. I’m not keeping up at all now. Garth isn’t changing his pace.

  “There! Found one. You almost always do, when there are enough cars.”

  I lift woozy eyes from his boots and follow the line of his finger. “Oh.”

  Garth braces me against his body, his hand on my good elbow. He’s pointing at a red Ford Taurus. It’s a newer model than the one that swallowed Dad’s corpse, but it does the trick. The rain’s falling in earnest.

  “You can’t even get away from it if you try,” Garth tells me.

  KALYN

  QUILLPOWER IS TOO awful a driver for anything but straight and narrow, so it’s a good thing we’re on the freeway. This nerd’s pursuing light speed. I think our faces will be melded to the headrests by the time we get where we’re going.

  “Can I ask you something, Quillpower?”

  “You’ll ask notwithstanding.”

  “Why do you like me? I mean, really?”

  He doesn’t turn down the music. I do it for him.

  “Gus says you’ve got me on some goddamn pedestal. That’s as bad as being called white trash. I’m not your heroine. I didn’t show up to save you.”

  “Why concern yourself with where I put you within my head? You’re unattainable regardless.”

  “Fuck yes I’m unattainable. I’m a human being.”

  “Humans are categorical creatures. I’m only trying to adapt, Kalyn.”

  “You and everybody else. It’s no excuse for objectifyin’ people.”

  “Let’s use an analogy. Visualize social categories as stacked boxes. The rows at the bottom of a Tetris heap are locked in from the start. There’s no social mobility there. Gus and I? We occupy the bottom corners.”

  “You’re actually comparing society to a game of Tetris.”

  Phil’s not offended. “Exactly. I’m hopeless. Unless a block crashes in our vicinity, dismantling the infrastructure around us. Freeing us. A catalyst.”

  “How nice of me to be a catalyst, huh?”

  Phil flicks his hazy eyes to the road. “You remain in motion. You could land anywhere you wish to. You’re incapable of sympathizing.”

  “And you’re—Jesus, you’re incapable of using turn signals!” Phil swoops into the fast lane. “You don’t know jack about my sympathies.”

  Bet Phil wishes I had a screen where my face is. “I know that every human being doesn’t treat you despicably on principle.”

  Damn if he don’t sound churlish. I think Phil’s missed a pretty valuable point. He’s missed the reason we’re breaking speeding laws right now.

  “Gus doesn’t treat you despicably.”

  “Gus can’t,” Phil reasons, passing three cars in quick succession. “We only have each other for company.”

  “That’s grade-A bullshit. Gus has other friends. Sure, some of them are online, or he only sees them at camp. But he’s still got you featured front and center. Don’t you wonder why? Aren’t you grateful, for fuck’s sake?”

  Phil’s eyelids flutter.

  “You aren’t Gus’s last choice. You’re his first, even though you’re about as socially skilled as a stunted skunk.”

  It start
s raining. We’re both silent until we peel off down an exit ramp. Phil almost runs the red light at the bottom of the hill. I slap him on the arm.

  “Gus thinks you’re bad at understanding girls, but maybe you’re bad at human beings.” Saying more seems like betraying Gus. I don’t need more reasons for Gus Peake to hate me. “Liking people isn’t a game.”

  “Everything is a game,” Phil argues, putting his foot on the gas. “Sometimes humanity just clouds that reality for other people.”

  “But not for you.”

  His answer is quiet. “No. Not for me.”

  Maybe Phil’s got disabilities I can’t see, and that’s why he talks like a regurgitating computer. Gus talks about the branches that block his mind pathways, and maybe Phil’s on a different path entirely.

  If we could figure out how it feels to think like anybody else, there’d be fewer murders in the world.

  Phil’s wrong; I’m pretty sympathetic. Empathetic, even.

  And if I’m complicated, so is everyone in Samsboro, seems like.

  So much for the simple small town life. By the time we reach the mall, the sky’s pissing down. It’s the kind of rain I haven’t seen since summer, when thunderstorms beat the roofs of all the cars in the salvage yard like the worst percussion ensemble ever. We can barely see the lines in the lot. Soon we’re going the wrong way down a parking aisle.

  “Gus doesn’t strike me as the shopping type,” I say.

  “You don’t know him well.”

  “I know he’s got better taste than this.”

  “Once more, with feeling: you don’t know him as I do.”

  “Again with the competition.” I hate that it stings.

  The windows are fogging. I roll mine down, ignoring the drops. Phil glares, but water never hurt anyone and this vehicle could use a wash.

  “Stop the van!” I’ve spotted something familiar—the pine-green truck Tamara picked me and Gus up in. There’s a decal on its side: Peake Landscaping. “He’s here!”

  “Of course he is.”

  “If you’re looking to get kicked, you’re well on your way.”

  But Phil’s staring past me so intently that for two seconds I assume King Lear himself must be standing behind me. “What?”