by Mark Tufo
“Sure-sure,” she said, taking one long glance back at Mike as she was willingly escorted from the room.
***
Mike actually looked forward to resuming the school year. He hoped it could restore some normalcy in his life. And partly it did, but he could not shake the echoes of his two best friends. Their memories reverberated at every turn. Home room was one of the worst as Mike continually found himself turning to the empty seat behind him waiting for Dennis to ask him what they were going to do for lunch or if he thought Beckie Windenthal’s tits were bigger today. And they did seem so, he wanted to tell his departed friend.
“Mike. Mike, honey,” his homeroom teacher, Mrs. Jenkins, said. “The bell has rung. It’s first period.”
It took Mike more than a few moments longer to respond, Mrs. Jenkins got up to see if he was alright. She was within arm’s distance when Mike’s gaze refocused from the thousand yards out it had been.
“Where is everyone?” he asked, confused, looking up at his concerned teacher’s face.
“The bell has rung—do you need me to write you a note?” she asked.
“For what?” he asked just as the second bell rang.
“I’ve got to go, Michael, I have study hall in the cafeteria. Hold on and I’ll write you a pass.”
Mike absently grabbed it and headed out of the classroom and straight out the nearest exit. He found himself at the frozen, snow-covered football field where he, Paul, and Dennis had led the Walpole Rebels to a near perfect season. He stood there on what he assumed was the fifty yard line, oblivious to the snow he was almost knee deep in. The quiet was soothing as a light snow began to fall and a northeasterly breeze began to stir.
Mike could hear the approaching footfalls but kept his gaze heavenward.
“You come here often?” Yvette Nickerson asked. She had been Paul’s girlfriend for six months up until the accident. And in adjusted high school time, that was damned near an eternity.
Mike knew on some level Yvette was hoping for some levity in her choice of words but he answered dryly. “I used to,” Mike said, never moving his gaze. He finally looked at her. “But I won’t, not ever again.”
“Did he say anything about me…when…when he died?” Yvette asked.
Mike wanted to shout and swear at her. Yeah bitch it’s all about you! While he was roasting like a fucking duck in a deep fryer he was yelling his undying love, you stupid fuck! He shook his head. “I was unconscious, Yvette. I’m sure he did, though.”
“I miss him, Mike.”
“Me too,” he told her.
“Heather tried to kill herself,” Yvette said. Heather and Dennis had only been going out for a month or so and even in adjusted high school time that wasn’t a ton, but she was kind of a drama queen. “Her mom found her in the bathroom with cuts on her wrists.”
“Cross or length wise?” Mike asked.
“What?”
“Were the cuts across the veins or up slicing them in two?”
“What’s the difference? And it was cross wise.” She motioned on her own wrist which direction the cuts had gone.
“Cross wise is someone just seeking attention. If she really wanted to do herself in she would have split the vein open lengthwise like a pea pod. The blood drains out a lot quicker that way and it’s much more difficult to repair.”
“What is wrong with you? Don’t you care?”
“Not really,” Mike told her honestly.
“I thought we could mourn together,” Yvette said angrily.
“Why? It won’t bring them back.”
“You’re an asshole!” She stormed away.
“Well, at least that’s something,” Mike said, again returning his gaze skyward. He stayed there long enough for snow to start gathering on his eyelashes, when the niggling in the back of his head let him know he wasn’t alone.
“I know you’re there.”
“Impressive,” a voice said from underneath the bleachers.
Mike looked hard but could not see from where the voice issued.
Jandilyn Hollow came out from behind and approached. She was pretty in the ‘I am going to get you in so much trouble’ kind of way. She was type-cast as the school slut, but Mike had always assumed that was the talk of jealous girls who were mad at how easily beauty came to her.
“Are you sure your reputation can stand being seen with me?” she asked, taunting him as she approached.
“At this point, I think it might be the other way around.”
“What?” she mocked. “The great and mighty Talbot has fallen from his perch—what in heaven’s name shall we do?” She placed her hands theatrically against the side of her face.
“That’s pretty good,” Mike said, lifting one corner of his mouth in a wry smile.
“Sorry about your friends. I didn’t really know them, but they seemed nice enough.”
Mike ignored her entreaty. “Is it true what they say about you?” he asked her.
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s a bunch of horseshit perpetuated by a bunch of small-minded, bitchy girls.”
She laughed. “That’s much closer to the truth than they would have you believe,” she said, still approaching. “Is what they say about you true?”
“I wouldn’t know. Not many people are talking to me, lately. And whatever it is, I’m sure there’s some truth to it.”
“Are you still dating Tara Big-titties?”
“Bigelow?” he snorted. “No, when she found out I was most likely never going to play football again she dumped me.
“She’s a bitch.”
“I agree,” Mike told her.
“Are you going to ask me out?” Jandilyn asked.
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
“Do you drive?”
“I doubt I ever will.” He pointed to his patch.
“Oh, right. Alright, I’ll pick you up at seven on Friday.”
“What?” Mike asked. “I didn’t even ask you out.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll have fun.” She began to walk away, stopped, then turned. “But not that much fun.” She smiled and left.
Mike had to admit, he appreciated the view from this angle. By the time he went back into the school the sixth and final period was beginning. He hung out in the locker room, staring at Paul’s locker, number sixty-nine. Paul had paid Freddy Griffith two packs of smokes to change with him.
“Gotta love the sixty-nine, Mike,” Paul had bragged as they sat on this very bench.
Mike wasn’t sure. He was no virgin, he just hadn’t had an opportunity yet to try this particular position. Anything more than a hand job, or a blowjob was kind of tough in the front seat of a Buick Skylark. And the couple of times he and Tara had actually found a spare bedroom at a party it was more the thrusting of the inexperienced than anything exploratory.
“I miss you, Paul,” Mike said, staring at the lock now protecting belongings that would never be claimed by their rightful owner. More than likely they would be put in a box and given to Barb who would probably donate them to the local Salvation Army. But would even they want a used jock strap; and who would buy it? Mike did not want to dwell long on that thought.
He couldn’t help but fixate on that latch. His heart began to stutter in his chest. Mike’s vision started to tunnel, he didn’t want to pass out here. The students inside the gymnasium playing dodge ball would be done in another fifteen minutes and if they found him sprawled out on the floor it would just sprout a bunch of questions he wasn’t willing or able to answer.
“Just open it,” he said aloud. Mike knew the combination, the locker room was a lot closer to most of Mike’s classes and Paul had given him the combo so he didn’t have to lug his books all over the place.
The lock was warm to the touch when Mike grabbed it. It felt as if it had been in the firm grasp of someone moments ago. “I figured it would be ice cold, or maybe that’s just me. Twenty-nine right, seven twice to the left, back up to two.”
Mike was sure the lock wouldn’t open, as he pulled down gently, the clasp let go like it had a hundred times before, now he wasn’t so sure there was anything in there he wanted to see. “It’s smelly fucking gym shorts, Talbot—what are you doing?” he asked himself as he lifted the handle, the door squealed open, sounding like a crypt door in much need of some oil.
The smell of a long forgotten lunch assailed Mike’s nose. That or Paul had taken a shit in there, which was entirely possible knowing his friend. “No, he would have done it in somebody else’s.” Mike picked up the baggie of whatever type of food had liquefied and hastily tossed it in the trash.
“Books and dirty clothes. What was I expecting?” Mike asked. But his roiling gut said there was more to look at. He pulled the books out carelessly, under the Chemistry book was the familiar bright orange yellow envelope that housed developed pictures. Mike had to force himself to grab the sleeve of pictures, he had no idea what to hope for when he began to thumb through the photos, but it certainly wasn’t anything he had been expecting. “These are pictures from Nina McInerney’s party last summer. I took some of them. Why didn’t he ever show them to me?” Mike asked as he got a pang of sorrow every time the frame was centered on either Paul or Dennis. “These are just normal pictures, not even incriminating. None of us are holding beers or bongs—that would be way worse.”
But something was wrong with them, he just couldn’t put his finger on it until the third go round through the stack. By then the first bell had rung signifying the end of the last class of the day. Sweaty freshmen resplendent with red ball welts flooded into the locker room. No one questioned his presence or why he was going through the ‘dead kid’s’ stuff. They walked around him as if he were merely another physical object they needed to navigate.
Mike was still standing there when every last kid had vacated the school grounds except for those unlucky few that were spending some quality time with the principal. He had sat back down on the bench looking for something in the photos that would release him from the visual nightmare he now grasped in his hand.
It was the portraits of Paul that had first caught his attention. The first one he was going to catch a Frisbee. The sun was over his right shoulder and was so bright it almost washed out the entire image, the rays licking his body in a hundred fiery kisses. In the next Paul was standing by the grill. When Mike had stopped to take the picture, Paul saw him and started to ham it up. Mike thought he may have been yelling something about his sister wanting to date him. But the snap of the shot had coincided with a flare up from the grill and from the angle Mike had taken the picture it appeared that Paul’s left side was ablaze and his taunting yell now looked like a scream for help.
Mike was feeling anxious. Every picture of Paul at the party in some way showed him with fire. Mike finally thought he had broken the trend at the last one. Paul had his arm draped around his girlfriend, and then Mike’s heart dropped when he saw Larry Sullivan in the background laughing as he was trying to light his cigarette. As a joke, someone had turned up the butane so it looked more like a small flame thrower than a coffin nail igniter.
“It’s just a coincidence,” Mike told himself to steady his nerves. “But did Paul see something in these pictures and that’s why he didn’t want me to see them?”
There were four pictures of Dennis, the first showed him right after taking a bong hit (the bong was not present in the photo). But Mike knew it was in his hands out of frame because he had just handed it to him. Dennis was struggling to hold the hit in, tendrils of smoke leaked from his nose and mouth. In the second photo, Dennis had been manning the grill, a large plume of smoke had almost completely obscured him in the image. The other two revealed anomalies just as significant.
“What do mine look like then?” Mike asked, his hands visibly shaking. The first one showed him sitting under an elm tree in Nina’s backyard. “Nothing weird about that, right?” he asked, scanning the entire image for fire, smoke, evil clowns or leprechauns. He felt somewhat better but the feelings of dread would not abate.
He flipped through until he found the next one of him, his grip so tight his fingers began to hurt. Sweat beaded up on his forehead and began to flow down his head. He was holding up his non-criminal red plastic cup as a toast to the picture taker, Paul. This time he was in the center of the yard, he knew this because he had taken a break from the Frisbee game of ‘tips’ to get a swallow of his beer, the sun had been blazing bright and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, yet he was bathed in shadows. Mike quickly stood up, tossed the pictures back into the locker and left the school. His mind was racing.
“It was just a plane flying overhead or a giant fucking bird,” Mike muttered, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets as he walked home.
Mike got home an hour later, still not able to give any rational explanation for what he had just seen. The house was quiet except for the sobs coming from down the hallway. He quickly walked toward his bedroom where his door was slightly ajar. He slowly pushed the door open, his mother was sitting on the bed, his pillow in her arms, tears free-flowing as she rocked back and forth, crying about her baby.
“Mom?” Mike asked with concern. If she heard him she did not respond. “Mom!” he said with more force.
Mary looked up, black streaks of mascara ran in runnels down her tired face. For the briefest of moments Mike saw the confusion in her eyes as she looked at him. “Mike?” she asked tremulously, then stood up. “I thought you were dead!” She sobbed anew. “I was taking a nap and I had a dream. It was all the same as the night I got the call from your sister. Everything! Even the damn nasty Swedish meatballs your Aunt Teresa brought to the card game. I rushed there, and when the doctor finally came out, he said the third time you had died on the operating table they were not able to resuscitate you! It…it was so real, I…I thought you were dead. I even dreamed about all the times since the day of the accident I had come in here and cried, holding your pillow to my face, hoping I could smell just a little bit of you. When I awoke, I thought it was the truth.” She hung her head.
Mike had a discordant thought go through him that perhaps it would have been better if he had died. At least that way the loved ones in his life could grieve and move on, and he could stop always walking in the shadows. An icy cold finger scratched up his spine.
“Maybe it is,” Mike said softly.
Instead of responding, Mary arose from the room and brushed past him without a backward glance, leaving a trail of tears in her wake.
***
Mike finished the rest of his school week, noticing all the teachers were willing without a second thought to give him a coveted hall pass. Sometimes he went to class and would venture out midway through; an act that would have brought severe penalties before the accident didn’t even garner a glance now. He mostly wandered around the school, but never once going back to the locker room. He hoped Gradity, the janitor, had thrown the damn pictures away.
He didn’t run into Jandilyn again that week and almost chalked her up to a hallucination right until she beeped her horn promptly at 8:15 pm.
“Nice car,” Mike said. “You’re late.”
“It’s my mom’s and looking this good takes time,” she said, waving her hand in a circular motion around her face.”
He had to admit she did look beautiful.
“Where we going?” Mike asked.
“You’re taking me out, remember?” When she saw the look of mild terror on his face she pressed on. “You mean I have to pick you up and pay for the date? You’d better put out.” She laughed.
Mike couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed, flattered, amused, or mortified. All of those emotions vied for his attention. They ended up at a mom-and-pop coffee house, Ye Old Stomping Grounds.
“I love coffee. You?” she asked as they got out of the car.
Mike didn’t think it mattered much what his response was, they were going in either way. And besides, she was paying. He shrugged his shoulders as she held th
e door open for him.
“This date is over if you ask me whether you look fat or not in those jeans,” Jandilyn said as she went up to the counter. “Double espresso latte, heavy on the whipped cream and whatever my silent friend back there orders,” she said, pulling out a pink Power Girls wallet.
“Nice,” Mike told her. “I’ll take a large iced coffee.”
“How uncouth,” Jandilyn said as she handed the ‘pop’ of the mom-and-pop a ten dollar bill.
Within five minutes, they were sitting at a booth on the far side of the small establishment. Mike suddenly felt self-conscious as Jandilyn was studying him intently.
“Why did you want to go out on this date?” he asked her, finally lifting his eye to meet hers.
“You really are a good-looking cat,” she said, almost ignoring Mike’s initial question.
“Jandilyn, stop looking at me like that. It’s uncomfortable.”
“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head as if awakening from a trance. “You were just standing in the middle of that field and I knew there was something different about you. You were no longer the jock, party animal asshole.”
Mike raised his eyebrows at the ‘asshole’ remark.
“It’s the truth,” she said, defending her words.
“Jerk, maybe, but asshole?” he questioned.
“One girl’s jerk is another girl’s asshole.” Jandilyn stopped. “Did I really just say that?”
Mike was grinning. “At least now I know how you got your reputation.”
She reached over and punched him in the shoulder. “You looked vulnerable out there, that was the Mike I wanted to get to know.” She seated herself back in her booth.
“Did you see anything else?” Mike probed, wondering just how deep her insight might go.
“There’s a sadness about you that’s more than just the deaths of your friends.”
Mike let go of his iced coffee as if that was what was chilling his heart.