I sat down and opened my little carton of milk. I ate slowly, stared sadly, and waited for her to notice me.
Within thirty seconds—I kid you not—she had picked up her lunch and walked over to my table, one big sweet smile under bright red hair. Clearly bent on cheering me up, she pretended not to notice my melodramatic play at misery. “Hey, stranger. I was wondering when I was going to run into you again.”
I took a slow, conscious breath before looking up from my sandwich. I was trying hard not to show even a little of my excitement. “Oh,” I said. “Hi.”
“Mind if I sit down?”
“No. Of course not. Have a seat.”
As she took her seat, I forced myself, once again, into a visage of the sincerest sadness I could muster. I chewed my sandwich at a glacial pace. I let my eyes hang on my milk carton and sighed after every bite. She watched my play at melancholy just long enough for me to get bored with it. Finally, she said, perky as can be: “So, how are your classes going?”
I had to stop myself from laughing. I don’t think I’d heard, read, or written one word of schoolwork since the year began. “Honestly, I have no idea.”
My amusement must have been obvious, despite my efforts at hiding it. Cassie let a smile slide onto her face. “Well that sounds hopeful.”
“Yeah, I guess I’m a bit preoccupied.”
“Understandably.” She placed her hand on my forearm. I could feel each crease of her palm; I almost closed my eyes, but thought better of it. “No one’s going to expect you to be paying much attention to school right now.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Have you spoken with your guidance counselor? They’re not good for much, but they can usually help you get out of schoolwork for personal problems.”
“Not really,” I said. “I’ve kind of been avoiding him. I just don’t want to talk about it.”
“Well then you don’t have to. You can always just get some extra help and make up the work later. Your teachers will understand.”
This was it: my opportunity. “Hmm. I wonder if you would…oh, never mind.”
She cocked her head. “If I would what?”
“Nothing,” I said. I was trying to appear shy (not, of course, that this was any great challenge), in an attempt to gain her sympathy.
“Really, what? If you need anything…” She gave my forearm a little squeeze. “…anything at all, just ask.”
She was so sweet, so damn good. I could feel the guilt crawling up my back, like ants under my clothes. But then she said, “You know, Alistair and Ryan were such good friends, I feel like you and me already know each other. Like there’s already a closeness there, you know?”
That was all I needed to strengthen my resolve. I gave her my most pitifully sad eyes. “Actually, I could use a little help with something. You know, if it wouldn’t be too much to ask.”
Well, with that she cracked right open: all grins and jitters and suppressed little giggles. “Of course. Of course. Anything. Of course.”
That twinge of guilt struggled to resurface, to come up and punch me in the face. But I swallowed it down. “I know it’s only the second week of school, and my teachers are all being really great about everything, but I haven’t gotten one piece of work done yet, and the make-up assignments keep on piling and piling and I was just wondering if—”
She gave my hand and squeeze. “Of course I’ll help you with your work. I think I still have some of my notes from last year, and I can totally bring them over to your house later…”
“Oh,” I interrupted. “My house isn’t such a great place these days. What with my mom, still so upset, and everything.”
“Right, right. What was I thinking? You come over to my house. Bring all of your assignments and we’ll work through them piece by piece, okay?”
I smiled, though for far different reasons than Cassie could have ever imagined. She smiled back, our eyes meeting in a false complicity as we finished our turkey sandwiches and our tiny cartons of milk.
***
Here’s my theory about Henry:
When I met him, the kid had barely been out of his bedroom since birth. He was way too close with his parents, he did everything he was ever told, and the thought of punishment—of any kind, from anybody—scared him the way that most people are scared of mass murderers or cancer. But here’s the thing: unlike most shut-in, smothered, slavishly obedient kids, Henry dreamed. He dreamed big and he dreamed dark. He read his seedy old noir novels about sex, violence, and the underworld, and he dreamed that somehow, someday, if he could just cross over into that universe, he could be a real hero. He could be exactly the opposite of what he was. And when I came along, I gave him an opportunity to do that…albeit, in a pretty small-town, amateur sort of way.
But the second I told him about my plans for that evening, and how he’d have to sneak into Alistair’s room to search his computer for evidence…well, I think it all just got a little too real for him.
“No way,” he said. “No.”
“It’ll be simple,” I assured him. “Every Wednesday, there’s a scrimmage at the end of practice, so there’s no way Alistair will be home before seven. We’ll be long gone by then.”
This did not seem to comfort him much. “But what about his parents?”
“Well, that could get a bit tricky. It’s just their mom—I think their dad lives a few towns over, or something—but we have to assume that she’ll be home.”
Henry sat on the ground, pressing his forehead into his knees. “I don’t know, Jonathan….”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Really, I have a good feeling about this.”
“Sure, you have a good feeling. You’re going to be ‘studying’ with the pretty girl while I’m risking my life.”
“Come on now, Henry, it’s—” I paused. “You really think she’s pretty?”
“Uh, yeah. You don’t?”
“Oh, I do. Completely. Totally… I was wondering if it was just me, though, you know? She’s sort of unique…quirky, but beautiful…like in a way that you wouldn’t necessarily think of right away.”
“Hold on.” Henry jumped to his feet. “Do you like this girl?”
“Whoa there. What do you mean? This is about Ryan…this is about getting Alistair.”
“Just answer the question, Jon. Do you like her?”
I honestly didn’t know. Or at least, I hadn’t let myself think about it in such black and white terms. I mean, really: I was fourteen years old and I met a pretty, older girl at a party who actually paid attention to me. Did that constitute liking her? Could it possibly have constituted anything else?
At any rate, I didn’t want to admit it if I did like her. “I can’t…I just can’t answer that question,” I said. “Not yet, anyway.”
“But you might like her.”
“I might, sure. But this is about Ryan. You know that.”
Henry paused, shook his head. He looked like he wanted to punch me in the face…which I admit, was a bit comical. “Just make sure it doesn’t start being about Cassie while I’m stealing Alistair’s computer files, okay?”
“Okay.”
Nineteen
Before I could put the plan into action, I first had to deal with my mother. For obvious reasons, her moods had become a bit unpredictable, and I just couldn’t risk the chance that she’d say no (or worse, decide that she wanted to help me with my schoolwork herself). And besides, if I told her that I was going to a girl’s house, she would have a whole bunch more questions that I really didn’t want to get in to.
The point is that I needed a suitable reason for leaving that night that would not arouse suspicion, and would be impossible for her to turn down. This was not an easy task. And by the time I got home I still hadn’t come up with anything. I decided to head straight to my room, avoiding my mother, so I cou
ld work out my plan in private.
As I headed down the second-floor hallway, I noticed a light on in Ryan’s room. I stopped before walking past the open door: What should I do? If my mom was in there, and I turned around, she’d wonder why I didn’t pass. She’d yell after me, make me come back, talk, eat, stay; if I walked past, she’d probably just strike up a conversation…but then again, maybe not. I listened for a second. I thought I heard some quiet crying, and I decided to try for a clean pass across the doorway.
I tiptoed right up to the edge of the door. I readied myself, held my breath, and began my quietest quick-step past the opening. But then, glancing just slightly out of the corner of my eye, I saw that it wasn’t my mother in there at all. It was Tristan, lying curled on Ryan’s bed. Sobbing into her knees.
I couldn’t just pass; it was too heartbreaking. I’d never seen such display of grief—so sincere, so all-encompassing, so real. I stood there for a moment watching her, when the strangest feeling came over me—a kind of angry discomfort, making me want to yell at her, or run away, or both. It was so out of place, so wrong for the moment, that it took me a second to figure out what it was. And it was jealousy. I was actually jealous of Tristan’s grief.
But I had to ask myself: Why? Why did I want to feel that way? Why did I want to be so overwhelmed with angst and pain that I couldn’t even move? I’d been sad, of course; constantly sad. And I’d been angry and confused and everything else you’re supposed to feel when someone dies. So why did I want—why did I need—to feel it all more?
I thought about this for a while, as I stood watching her from the hallway, but I never came up with any answers. So I tried to just detach myself from this strange emotional state. I wrote it off as some “stage of grief” the school counselor would try to tell me about—some brief pain to grit my teeth through—and I walked over to sit down beside Tristan on the bed.
Her sobs shuddered to a halt and she peeked one bloodshot eye out from behind her knee.
“It’s pretty bad, huh?” I said.
“It just doesn’t make any sense.” She was clearly holding back hysteria by a thread. “I mean, he could have gone on with his life…even if I had nothing to do with him, he would have had a good life…I know that.” Then she started sobbing, miserably, again.
I would’ve tried to console her, but I just didn’t know how. Not then. Not in the state I was in. All I came up with was this: “That’s just not how life works out, I think.” And as soon as that sentence left my mouth, it sounded like the coldest thing in the world.
“Yeah, I know,” she spat back at me. “I get it. God has a bigger plan. God has a purpose. Ryan is with God now, so we should all be so fucking happy for him and God and the wonderful time they’re having together.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She didn’t say anything, not for a while. She just stared at me. And I couldn’t tell whether she was mad at me, mad at God, mad at Ryan, or mad at herself, but she was damn sure mad at someone. I started to think about how stuck we all are—every one of us—no matter what we believe about God. If you think that he really is up there in the sky somewhere, controlling you, controlling everyone, controlling everything, then you have to deal with him killing your boyfriend, or your brother, or your son. You have to deal with him letting babies get addicted to drugs, allowing child abuse and murder, permitting genocide and war. And if you don’t believe it…well, then you have to deal with there not being a reason for anything at all. You could have never been born, and it wouldn’t matter. If someone hurts you, it doesn’t matter. If someone dies, it doesn’t matter. If they could’ve not died, or if you could have saved them, then it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference to the universe at all, except that you wouldn’t have to feel this way.
So, knowing that there were no words that could make her feel better, I just sat there, letting Tristan glare at me, soaking up her anger until she softened, and softened, and softened, and again began to cry.
She had a few hard sobs—they looked deep; they looked like they shook her through her insides—but then she got herself under control. She sat up against the headboard. She drew her knees into her chest. “I’m sorry, Jonathan,” she squeaked. “I know this is probably harder on you than on anyone, even me, and that you just have your own way of showing it. I’m not mad at you. I’m just…I’m just…” Then she fell back into the tears, but this time even harder, like she had collapsed completely inside herself. Like she was choking.
So then I wasn’t quite sure what to do, what to say, how to handle the situation. I mean, do I comfort her? Do I just scoot right on over and put a hand on her back and tell her that it’s all right and say something wholesome or optimistic or whatever, just to get her to calm down, or at least to stop crying?
I waited for a pause, but she just kept going. And going. Finally, I patted her on the knee, cautiously, and said something lame, like, “I’m sure Ryan wouldn’t want you to be so upset.”
Her sobs slowed to a halt. She looked up at me, wiping her eyes. “What makes you so sure about that?”
“I don’t know. It’s just something to say, you know, to—”
“I know. I’m sorry. Never mind.” And then she seemed to drift off again, staring at the wall like if I wasn’t even there.
I looked at Ryan’s alarm clock, and saw that I had better get moving if I wanted to make it to Cassie’s house in time. “Well, I’ve got to, um…change. So…I’ll see you around.”
Tristan’s gaze wandered over to me. She blinked, shivered. “Bye, Jonathan.”
I took in the room, for the millionth time and for the first. It was all still there, like it always had been: Ryan’s trophies and posters, the pictures of him in his uniforms, and one with Tristan at a formal dance the year before. And it seemed foreign for those few seconds. In truth, I hadn’t spent much time in there over the previous years…I almost felt like I was trespassing.
“Okay, bye,” I said. And I was about to leave, when it occurred to me that Tristan just might be able to help me with my mission. I swung back around. “Hey Tris?”
“Yeah?”
I felt sheepish, shy, timid. “Before you leave, can you just happen to mention to my mom that there’s…I don’t know…like a student prayer service or something at the school later?”
“A prayer service? You want to go to a prayer service?”
“No. Of course not. I don’t even think there is one. I was just wondering if you could maybe mention to my mom that there is.”
It took her a second, but she got it. “Ooooh.” Then she chuckled. “Well, you are in high school now, I guess you have to start sneaking out sometime.”
“Right.”
“So what is it? A party? You better not be drinking on a school night.”
“No, of course not. No party, no drinking.”
“So?”
And here’s the problem: I couldn’t possibly tell her what it really was (how could I, I mean, really?), so I tried get close to the truth, as close as I could, anyway. I said, “It’s…it’s a girl.”
“Really? A girl?”
“Yup. A girl.”
“Who is she?” Tristan asked. “Do I know her?”
“Oh, I doubt it,” I mumbled. “She’s just some girl…anyway, I’ve got to go…finish up my homework. You won’t forget to tell my mom about the prayer service?”
“No,” she said, but she must have been distracted by some thought. “I won’t forget.”
I tried to look sincere. “Thanks, Tris.” Then I made a dash for my room before she could ask any more questions.
Twenty
As agreed, Henry was waiting behind a tree at the edge of my lawn at precisely five o’clock. Getting past my mom was easy (Tristan must have done her job well) so I was feeling pretty good as I walked up and patted Henry on the back. “So you ready, Detect
ive H-Bomb?”
Henry looked up at me, anxiety painted all over his face. “I don’t know about this, Jonathan.”
I reached down, helping him up. “What’s not to know? It’ll be fine.”
“But what about Alistair?”
“Alistair won’t be anywhere near that house.”
“But what if he is? What if he shows up unexpectedly?”
“Then we run away. He’s not going to do anything to us at his own house.”
“Fine,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Let’s get this over with.”
So we began the thirty-minute walk to the St. Claire house, and I filled Henry in on the details of the plan. It was really very simple: I go in, and start working with Cassie until I have the lay of the land, then excuse myself to use the bathroom. On the way to the bathroom I stop in Alistair’s room and open the window (making sure to close his door on my way back out). Then Henry climbs in, makes a copy of the hard drive on Alistair’s computer, and climbs back out when he’s done.
Also (as I assured Henry a hundred times during the walk) if for any reason things seemed too dangerous, we’d just abandon the whole thing, I’d finish my homework with Cassie and we’d come up with another idea for another day.
“Just remember,” I told Henry. “We need real, solid, irrefutable evidence this time, so make sure to get as much as you can from his computer. Videos, email, phone records, whatever. Did you bring something we can use to copy files from his computer?”
He nodded and pulled a tiny portable hard drive from his pocket. “It’s 512 gigabytes,” he said. “Should suffice.”
“Good,” I said. “Perfect. But don’t lose sight of the other evidence either. If you see a football jersey or a dirty pair of cleats, you grab those too.”
“He’s at football practice now, Jonathan. He will be wearing his jersey and cleats.”
“Right,” I said. “Good point. But still, you know, keep an eye out. ”
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