by Leah Thomas
John scowls from his post on the sectional, watching our entrance with arms folded over his rotund stomach. He greets Gus with a smile and “Hey, man” before pushing Gus toward the downstairs shower, passing him a Star Trek towel, and shutting the door behind him.
John rounds on me. “Come on, Phil. Don’t you think Dad heard the van pull in? What’s the point of the dramatic entrance?”
“Gus isn’t supposed to be here.” I’m less concerned about the point, and more concerned about dramatics.
“You could have sent Gus through here and gone in through the front door yourself!” We listen to the pipes groan overhead as water starts spitting in the bathroom. “Or you could have come up with a scheme that didn’t force Gus to do acrobatics!”
“Gus is capable.”
“It’s not about that.” John tugs on his beard. “I wouldn’t ask any guest to come in through the window!”
“You never have any guests. You don’t have friends.”
“You’re grinning like an absolute jackass, and Gus looks like he’s just been run over. I’m not the one who should be worried about losing friends tonight.”
Before Gus came into my life, it was John who tried to raise me human. Before he had a beard, it was his hair that he tugged whenever he caught me drowning chipmunks or setting furniture aflame. John introduced me to D&D thusly: “Phil, you’ll be playing a cleric who cares about everyone, okay? Can you try that?”
“The whole town’s going nuts over the retrial thing. If Gus is caught in the middle of that, Phil, you’ve got to step up for a change.”
“How do you know the town’s ‘going nuts’? You never leave the cellar.”
John pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Do whatever you want. As you wish.”
“Aaaaas, youuuu, wissssh!” I echo, paying homage to a mutual favorite film.
“Philip. Look at my face. Try, for once, to read what my expression is saying. Listen to what my mouth is saying: If you can’t care about Gus? Gus Peake, of all people? A kid who loses to you on purpose no matter how many games of Betrayal at House on the Hill we play? Who else is going to care about you?”
This expends whatever energy John can spare toward my betterment. He settles behind his figurine-cluttered desk, downs a swig of Vault, pulls headphones over his ears, and immerses himself in a computer game.
I do not appreciate the atmosphere in this basement.
I climb the stairs. Alas, this is no time for a soliloquy: an audience awaits me at the kitchen table, huddled over another screen.
Dad launches to his feet. He’s still wearing his work lanyard. There are marks on the bridge of his nose. Like John, he habitually pinches that place.
“Phil! When did you get home?”
“I’ve been home for a while.” What constitutes “a while”?
“Must’ve dozed off before Matt left for work.” Dad leans forward. “Dark happenings in Samsboro today, huh?”
“Dark happenings indeed.”
“So . . . dare I ask? How was Gus today?”
“He didn’t come to school.” This is a truth.
Dad is no imbecile. “But did you speak to him on the phone?”
“No, in fact.” Another truth.
“Maybe Beth’s got the house on lockdown. I wouldn’t blame her . . .” He doesn’t end that thought with “this time,” because he does not want to be seen judging another parent. The implication remains.
I retrieve a SunnyD from the refrigerator.
“I spoke to his SLP. She says Gus hasn’t gone to his speech appointments.”
“Should she have told you that? You aren’t Gus’s parent.”
“Anything you’d care to tell me, Phil?”
I slam the fridge door. “I’d care to tell you he wasn’t with me, Dad.”
Dad’s face creases. “Have you two had a falling out?”
More a falling off rooftops.
“I have homework.”
“You have tried to check on him, haven’t you, Phil? To see if he’s okay? You’re his best friend. Good to show a little empathy.”
I pause, hand on the basement doorknob. How could I fail to develop a conscience in this household? Can I not belong to a story as what I am, holes and all?
“I’ll do that, Dad. I’ll ask Gus whether he’s okay.”
Dad stares, all-knowing. “Good, Phil. Be sure that you do.”
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, Gus has emerged from his steam chamber. He’s wedged on the sectional sofa, coiled up with his head resting against the cushions. He opens his eyes when I sit down across from him.
“Thanks,” he says, seeing the SunnyD in my grip, “but I’m not thirsty.”
“It wasn’t for you.” I peel the tab and empty the vessel in three swallows. My father’s words, John’s, Kalyn’s: they infest my skull. I cannot help but wonder whether my “empathy” has any merit when others force it upon me.
Gus’s large eyes are glazing. He may as well be another murder victim.
“What fate will tomorrow bring us, Gus Peake?”
He shudders. “I don’t know. I just want to sleep.”
“Ah, but will you?”
Gus shakes his head. It frustrates me immensely.
“Gus, this is the juncture in the story where you must rally and—”
“Phil.”
I do not know how to proceed. So I ask what’s expected. “Gus. Are you okay?”
“I’m tired.” He holds his bad arm tight against his chest, fingers curled.
“Yes. But are you, ah, okay?”
“No. But I’m going to school tomorrow.” Gus speaks as clear as a bell. He is wont to do that when he is tired. Often it is his own awareness of speech that makes Gus falter.
“I’ll go to school tomorrow, too.” Gus may misinterpret this as loyalty.
Gus snorts. “We both know your dad won’t, um. Let you go. Let you skip.”
Perhaps Gus hasn’t misinterpreted me. Perhaps he sees the hole where my heart should be. Perhaps he always has. If so, why has Gus tolerated me?
I consider Kalyn’s words: “Aren’t you grateful?”
Gus squeezes my shoulder. How? If you take the fiction from me, what is there left to hold? I never touch Gus if it can be avoided. I don’t touch anyone.
“You really hit Garth hard yesterday,” Gus ponders, pointing out the exception.
“My knuckles still twinge most profoundly.”
“Do you really think it might have been a drifter who killed him?”
I answer the question he isn’t asking. “Not really, but I doubt it was your mother.”
His voice grows faint. Anxiety is no match for true exhaustion. “Yeah . . .”
He doesn’t finish the thought. He doesn’t have to, for I know Gus, or at least what he shows himself to be. As my father says, he’s my best friend.
At what point does mimicking goodness make it so?
I know something Gus will never know, a great and tiny nothing: I did not grab the SunnyD for myself. I grabbed it for him, with nothing to gain from the effort.
When his breathing becomes slow and deep and even, the sure signs of slumber, I tug the duffel bag from his grip and replace it with a cushion. No phone is within.
A change of clothes, a bizarre pair of socks. The yearbook, old and worn.
“You’re digging through his stuff?” John glares from afar.
“I’m digging for clues.” It isn’t a lie.
I open the yearbook and flip through its pages, absorbing the faces of strangers, looking for bruises on knuckles, seeking expressions inhuman and familiar.
ACT SIX
Happy Homecoming, Jefferson High
KALYN
WHAT AM I expecting, a picket line? The citizens of Samsboro, huddled outside Jefferson High, waving pitchforks and preaching the best ways to burn redneck witches?
All that greets us is the usual line of cars dropping kids off, the usual bodies kicking dust in the st
udent parking lot. Mom parks our van in a spot marked VICE PRINCIPAL. Then the actual VP pulls up behind us. He thinks there’s been a mistake, but Mom hollers about having a wheelchair user in the van. The VP starts off kind, telling her there are handicapped parking spots closer to the building. Mom tells him to go park there, since he’s handicapped himself if he thinks it’s in any way appropriate to call someone else handicapped (the hypocrisy here’s a delicate work of Mom Art).
I’m on the defensive, and Mom isn’t helping. I duck down, trying to hustle Grandma out as quick as possible while fifty-odd stares burn the back of my neck. I fight the itch to pivot and burn all rubberneckers with my laser eyes.
I get Grandma’s chair unhooked and feel a hand brush my back. I whip round, ready to smack the bungee hook into my attacker’s face—
Sarah looks at me like I’ve just shot her puppy. “Whoa, Rose!”
“What do you want?” There’s no sugar left in me.
“I came to see if you needed help.”
“So you haven’t heard the news.” Kalyn’s been pulled too far back for too long. She’s a branch snapping back into place with a whip crack.
“Claire caught fire,” Grandma informs Sarah.
I snort despite myself, clambering into the van. “Go away, Sarah.”
Sarah’s wiping her hands down her jeans. “Sorry; I’ve got lotion on. Now just tell me where to grab, please.” She stands there like a football player awaiting a pitch. I’d be laughin’ under other circumstances, but Sarah’s not seeing the whole picture. I’m a rabid cat and Sarah’s still calling me kitten.
Mom’s finally chased off the VP. She sizes Sarah up in one angry swoop. “Hey there, missy. You got cheerleading practice to get to, or what?”
“Mom—don’t.” Sarah’s still squatting like a stubborn thing. “Look, I’d say we’ll talk later, but you aren’t gonna want to, so if you could just go—”
Sarah shakes her head. “You can’t shoo me. I have six brothers.”
I can’t help but whistle. “Six?”
“Well, that’s nice, Goldilocks. Please move.” Mom puts herself between Sarah and the van. Grandma waves like royalty as we lift her. It’s plain that it bothers Sarah something fierce to stand there watching while Mom and I lower her down.
“Please, let me—”
I slam the van door to drown her out.
Sarah looks past me. There’s another bone-tired moment of suspense before I figure out she’s reading the Spence Salvage van decal. She doesn’t sound out the words, but the little flicker of understanding behind her eyes says plenty.
“See you, Sarah.” I fall in with Mom and Grandma.
Sarah grabs my hand. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I spin on her, all blades and spit. “Why the hell would I? If you could see your own stupid, perfect face right now, you wouldn’t ask me that.”
She flinches at the second adjective. Sarah does seem perfect to me, but I know she can’t be. I used to think it would be a compliment. Now the idea of anything as certain as perfection scares the living shit out of me.
“I’m not perfect. But I am your friend, Rose.” Sarah narrows cornflower eyes. “I want to understand why you lied.”
“Do me a favor? Be a doll and vote for me for homecoming court.”
“I can’t. I already voted for Rose Poplawski. Maybe you know her?”
I tear my hand away.
It’s only when we’re wheeling Grandma up the ramp to the school that I get another good look at Mom. Mom never finished high school. She never even started it. I put my hand on her back, just for a sec. She blinks four times, but the shine doesn’t go.
“Sorry you brought me?” she asks.
“Nah,” I say, and then we’re inside.
“I’m glad you came to see us today, Mrs. Spence.” One of the qualifications for being principal is that you’ve gotta loathe it a little, tiny bit.
“I’m not here for your sake,” Mom assures Principal Walton. “I’m here for Kalyn. I’m here to make sure y’all have some kind of plan for dealing with the situation.”
“The situation.”
Mom squints at her. “You’ve seen the news, right?”
“Yes. And let me assure you that WKZ did not have permission to interview students about the Ellis case. We’re considering legal action. In the meantime, they’ve pulled the interview.”
“Tell that to the internet,” I say.
Principal Walton frowns. “Kalyn, if you want to take a few days off, we can arrange for take-home work with waived absences. These are unique circumstances.”
Officer Newton, that familiar hulk of a truancy officer, must have squeezed silently into the doorway. He coughs at that.
Mom looks at me. “Kalyn?”
I’m thinking about photos in shoeboxes, about bloody shirts shoved into sheds and left to rot. I’m thinking of Gus, locked inside a box that looks like a mansion. The difference is, I’ve got a damn choice. And the easy one—staying out of the way—no matter who I am, I don’t have that in me.
I aim for wild and crooked.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Mom smirks. “You heard the lady.”
“Besides,” I add, “I’m on the freshman homecoming court honor guard ballot.”
Principal Walton’s eyes dart to Officer Newton. “About that. You taking part in the parade might not be the best idea.”
I present my pearliest smile. “Where’s your school spirit, ma’am?”
“I’m not originally from Kentucky. I can’t say I have any personal connection with the . . . events unfolding here. Yesterday was the first I heard of the trial.”
“That damn news station,” Mom snarls.
Principal Walton shakes her head. “No. I was actually eating dinner at Maverick’s. The fifties soda shop downtown? Do you know it?”
“I’m not really up for six-dollar milkshakes,” Mom says, “but I know the place.”
“I was there with a friend last night. We overheard talk and saw—we got a good sense of the mood in Samsboro. Have you been downtown since yesterday?”
“Some of us have to work.”
“Yes. I’m working right now.” My respect for Principal Walton grows from nothing to a tiny beansprout. “That doesn’t answer the question.”
“No, we haven’t been downtown.”
I think about the signs in storefront windows.
“ ‘Spences Behind Fences,’ ” I recall. “That the gist of it?”
Principal Walton nods. “People are extremely upset. And if Rose—”
“—it’s Kalyn.” Mom and I correct her in unison.
“If Kalyn wins the nomination, she’ll be seated on a float during the parade. That doesn’t seem like a good idea to me, considering the climate downtown.”
“What, you expecting an assassination attempt?” I ask.
“That’s not funny,” Officer Newton scolds, but who cares what he says.
“Some citizens will recognize Kalyn. There’s no way we can guarantee her safety if she takes part in the festivities. It’s not a risk I’m comfortable taking.”
“But you can’t guarantee my safety here at school, either.”
Officer Newton clears his throat.
“Officer Newton will accompany you to your classes today.”
I’m torn between groaning and laughing. I lock eyes with Newton, who somehow scowls and winks at the same time.
“You’re that worried? Because of a couple posters?”
Principal Walton meets me in an even stare. “I saw worse. Outside the cinema. Someone strung up a dummy with your father’s face on it. People cheered.”
We sit on that, for a second or twenty.
“Happy Halloween,” I joke. No one laughs.
“People are emotional, which makes them irrational. They shouldn’t blame you, Kalyn, but that doesn’t mean they won’t. While I believe our student body is largely conscientious, I can’t say the same is nece
ssarily true for the adult citizens of Samsboro.”
“Preach.” Grandma hears Mom and shouts “Hallelujah!” through the open door; she’s been waiting outside under the watch of Ms. Patrick.
“Welp.” I slap my knees. “Odds are I won’t win anyhow.”
“You might, Kalyn. The ballot boxes have been open in the library for weeks. Most students have already voted.”
“Imagine a Spence winning a popularity contest.” Mom whistles. “Tell you one thing, Kalyn. If you win that title and you wanna be in that parade, you’re gonna be in it.”
Who the hell knows what I want.
“If that’s settled, I’m out of here. Grandma’s got a doctor’s appointment to get to, and I’ve gotta swing by the courthouse.” Mom stops at the door. “Kalyn?”
“Yeah?”
“I hope you get that vote, girl.” I hear Grandma trill goodbye to Ms. Patrick as she’s wheeled outside.
The bell rings. It’s just me, Principal Walton, and Officer Pits in here.
“You’re gonna rig the vote so I lose, aren’t you?”
Not even a blink. “I don’t plan to. But I do plan to have you in here again soon, once this blows over.”
“What, you like me that much?”
“You’ve got a truancy problem. That’s the next conversation we’ll be having.”
“Why not have it now? There’s a chance I’ll be assassinated today, you know.”
She shakes her head. “Get to class. And look after yourself, please.”
Officer Newton shadows me as I step into the main office. I wonder if this is how Dad feels when guards lead him in handcuffs to the visitation room. I’m not wearing shackles, but I feel their ghosts on my wrists.
The office walls muffle most of the noise outside. Students churn and swell past the windows like a babbling brook. Once I leave this room, that river will heckle and jeer.
“I told her not to rig the nomination. I want you to know that.”
I turn around. Ms. Patrick looks all teary. She’s standing behind her desk and wringing her manicured hands.
“I mean it.” She catches me eyeing her fingers and curls them into fists. “I’m the one who’ll count the votes. If you win, I’ll make sure you and everyone else know it, or there’s really no justice in this town.”