15
Unfortunately, the day wasn't over. A few minutes later, Rhoda called down to announce lunch was ready.
The three guys ran upstairs ahead of me, pushing and shoving each other to see who'd get to the top first, laughing and joking in a mindless jock way.
Rhoda and Mom had set up lunch on the upper deck. A platter of roast beef sandwiches and turkey wraps sat in the middle of the table. A tin tub full of ice held enough sodas for twenty or thirty people. On the side were bowls of tossed salad, potato salad, and strawberries, as well as a plate of brownies.
If Arthur had seen all the food, he would have thought he'd died and gone to heaven. But he wasn't here. It was just me and three guys who had already decided I was a total loser.
We all sat down. Mom smiled happily at me. I knew she was thinking, "Isn't this more fun than hanging out with Arthur?" She saw what she wanted to see—me, Logan, making friends with popular guys—instead of the truth—me, Logan, having a miserable time with popular guys.
While the other boys laughed and joked, I ate my turkey wrap silently. It didn't taste nearly as good as it looked. Or maybe it was just me.
Every now and then I glanced at Mom, hoping she'd notice things weren't going as well as she'd hoped. But she was too busy yakking with Rhoda to notice I was miserable.
Suddenly, Rhoda turned to me with a big smile. "So, Logan," she said in her cheerful voice. "What sports do you play? Anthony, Robert, and Mackenzie have been playing soccer since they were born, practically. They're great in track, too. Anthony broke a record for the fifty-yard dash last year. And Mackenzie's a fantastic pole vaulter. Oh, and Robert—Robert, how could I leave you out? Wait till you see him throw that shot put thing. Unbelievable."
She raised her soda can to toast the boys. They bowed and grinned and jostled each other. As a result, Robert spilled his soda on my leg.
"Sorry, Lo," he said.
"So what sport, Logan? What position?" Rhoda persisted. "With those long legs, I bet you're a runner, too. Or maybe basketball's your thing? Mackenzie's really great on the court. Poetry in motion. High scorer almost every game."
"I don't do anything special," I admitted. "In fact, I, well, I—"
"In other words, your position is spectator," Anthony said.
Except for Mom and me, everyone laughed.
Rhoda turned to Mom. "My son has a fantastic sense of humor, doesn't he? So quick on the uptake. His grandfather thinks he's funny enough to be on TV."
Mom nodded, but she had her eye on me, as if she was finally beginning to realize lunch was not a big success.
Somehow I finished my wrap, ate some salad, and choked down a brownie. When Anthony led his friends downstairs to resume their game, no one invited me to go with them. Not that I wanted to.
Luckily, Mom and Rhoda were too busy cleaning up to notice me sitting alone in a corner of the living room, reading the only printed material I could find: this week's TV Guide.
Out in the kitchen, I heard Rhoda say, "You should encourage him to play a sport. It's the only way to survive middle school."
"Logan's not a natural athlete," Mom said. "Frankly, he'd rather read."
"A loner," Rhoda said as if she were pronouncing my death sentence.
"No, not a loner," Mom said quickly. "Just not a team player."
"Same thing," Rhoda said.
They moved out of hearing range, leaving me to imagine myself growing up to be a miserable failure, alone, friendless, unwanted.
At last, Mom came out of the kitchen, purse in hand, and I followed her and Rhoda to the car. The boys stayed downstairs. I could hear muffled explosions as the heroes fought the bad guys.
As I opened the car door, Rhoda gave me a pat on the back. "Anthony and his friends just can't get enough of that silly game. Maybe you should take it up yourself." She paused. "That or basketball. You'll be amazed at the difference sports make in your life."
"Yeah." I eased into the car.
Before I could close the door, Rhoda added, "Don't keep your nose in a book. You won't make friends that way."
This time I didn't say anything, but I did try to smile—a poor effort, I'm sure.
Mom thanked Rhoda for a lovely lunch and promised to call her soon. At last we were backing down the long driveway, waving to Rhoda, saying goodbye.
We hadn't gone more than a block when Mom said, "You didn't even try, did you?"
"Mom, I don't have anything in common with guys like that."
She frowned at the big houses we were passing. "I simply don't understand you, Logan."
I didn't answer.
"I thought you'd have fun, I thought you'd make friends, I thought—"
"Well, you thought wrong."
And that was that, as far as conversation was concerned. We rode home in silence. Not the comfortable kind, either. Mom was mad, and I was mad. Worse yet, she was disappointed, which made me feel guilty for letting her down.
When we pulled into the driveway, Mom said, "I'm sorry today wasn't more fun for you, Logan." She hesitated a moment. "But you have to make an effort. We've been invited to Rhoda's for a party on Saturday. Maybe this time you and Anthony—"
"Mom," I interrupted, "it won't matter how hard I try. Kids like Anthony hate kids like me."
"Just try—please?" Mom looked at me with worried eyes. "Try, Logan. That's all I ask."
My eyes strayed to Arthur's house. The grass was a foot taller than ours, and a shutter hung crookedly at an upstairs window. For the first time I realized how sad his house looked, especially now that Johnny and Dad had almost finished painting ours and whipping the lawn into shape.
Mom sighed. "If you don't like Anthony, find someone you do like. A nice boy from a good home. Not..."
She didn't need to finish the sentence. We both knew what she meant. Someone who's popular, plays sports, gets good grades, fits in. Someone whose father makes big bucks. Someone who lives in a fancy house.
Disconsolately, I followed Mom inside, achingly aware of Arthur's eyes watching me from somewhere.
I spent the rest of the day moping around the house and getting in everyone's way. Now and then I glanced out a window and saw Arthur reading on his front porch or tinkering with the Raleigh in his back yard. Mrs. Jenkins puttered around in her flower garden, weeding and pruning, singing old songs in a low monotone. May tagged along behind her, trying to help. I guessed Violet was at work, and Danny was with his friends.
Neither Mrs. Jenkins nor Arthur looked at our house. Mom had most likely offended both of them. That made me even sadder.
I put food out for Bear the way I always did, but he seemed to be avoiding us, too. Mom didn't miss him, but Dad mentioned him several times. Even asked if I'd filled his bowl. Wordlessly, I pointed to the untouched kibble.
The next morning, neither Arthur nor Bear showed up at breakfast time. I spent a long, boring day tagging along with Mom to a big shopping outlet about twenty miles away. She insisted on buying me shirts and shorts like the ones Anthony and his friends wore. She made me get a haircut like theirs. And shoes like theirs. At last, she let my buy some science fiction paperbacks at a huge place called Book Warehouse. That was the only good part of the day. Except lunch.
The next day, I put on my Anthony clothes, and Mom and I drove all the way to Washington, D.C. It was the hottest day of the entire summer—ninety-nine degrees, with humidity so thick you could hardly breathe. And here Mom and I were, dragging ourselves from one air-conditioned museum to the next. Air and Space, Natural History, American History, American Indian, National Gallery of Art. After a while, we were so exhausted, we collapsed on a black leather sofa and stared at a seascape by Winslow Homer. The cool green water looked real enough to jump into—except for the sharks swimming around the boat. They reminded me of Silas and Billy.
I sat there in the museum, dressed like a fake friend of Anthony, and wondered if Silas had found the evidence that revealed the killer's name. His own, probably.
> 16
The day of Rhoda's party was sunny and warm but not hot. Mom made sure I had on one of my Anthony outfits—white polo shirt, khaki pants, new running shoes, tan socks, brown belt. I was surprised she didn't insist on checking my underwear as well.
When she was satisfied with my clothes, she combed my hair as if I were six years old. It felt like the first day of school—only worse.
Done with me, Mom started on Dad. Why hadn't he gotten a haircut like she'd told him to? Surely he wasn't wearing his faded SAVE THE WHALES T-shirt? "And those jeans," she said. "They have paint spattered all over them."
Dad said, "I'm an art teacher—why shouldn't I wear these jeans? And what s wrong with my shirt?"
"The party s dressy-casual." She smoothed the skirt of a black and white print sundress she'd bought on our outlet shopping trip. "At the very least, that means a nice polo shirt and khaki pants."
"You know I don't want to go to this party," Dad said. "What am I supposed to say to a bunch of businessmen and lawyers? They're probably all Republicans or Libertarians or—"
"Forget politics for once!" Mom's voice rose. "If you can't think of me, think of your son. Logan needs to make a good impression on people. I want people to see he comes from a good family."
Dad shot me a look, and I rolled my eyes, signaling I was just as unhappy as he was.
"Just go upstairs and put on a nice shirt," Mom begged him, "and a pair of slacks. And take those sandals off!"
"You mean I can go barefoot?"
"You know what I mean!" Mom was getting close to the explosion point. Next, she'd start on Dad's hippie past and his low salary and the dumpy house we lived in. Before I knew it, they'd be divorced and I'd have to pick which one to live with. Dad, probably. I had more in common with him. My belly twisted.
"Sorry. They'll have to take me as I am." Dad walked outside and opened the car door. "Are you coming?"
Red-faced, Mom flounced across the yard. "Come on, Logan," she said in an I'm-not-taking-anymore-of-this voice.
Out of habit, I glanced at Arthur's house. He was sitting on the front steps reading a picture book to May. Mrs. Jenkins was watering her flowers. Bear dozed in a patch of dirt beside the porch. There was no sign of Violet or Danny.
Not one of them looked at me. Not even Bear. My belly cramped harder.
The ride to Fair Oaks was very quiet. Which was better than an argument. Or maybe not. Dad stuck a CD of an old blues singer into the car's player. "I'm a good man, but I'm a poor man," he sang along with Skip James. "You can understand."
Mom huffed a loud sigh and stared out her window at the green lawns of Fair Oaks. "You and Skip James," she muttered.
Thanks to the wardrobe argument, the party was in full swing when we arrived. People spilled over the decks and patios and onto the lawn. As Mom had predicted, the men were wearing polo shirts in shades of red and blue and green and yellow neatly tucked into the Dockers pants Dad hated.
Obviously, he didn't blend in, but Mom did. Rhoda DiSilvio was wearing a sundress just like hers, which for some reason seemed to upset both of them.
"Go and mingle." Mom gave me a little push toward a group of kids my age.
"Look who's here." Anthony laughed. "Arthur's buddy, Logan."
They all stared at me as if I had the plague—the Arthur plague, I guessed.
The girls started to giggle. The prettiest one shoved another girl toward me. "Sandy has a crush on Arthur," she said. "She wants you to tell him he's the cutest boy in Bealesville."
"I do not!" Sandy glared at me as if it was all my fault that everyone was laughing. "I hate Arthur! He's a total weirdo!"
Suddenly, a hand touched my shoulder, and I turned to see Nina. Looking more beautiful than ever, she was wearing a strapless blue and white dress, and her hair hung down in perfect shiny waves.
"Logan," she said with a smile. "I haven't seen you for a while."
Before I knew it, she was leading me away, rescuing me from Anthony and his friends. Instead of being grateful, I shrugged her hand off my shoulder. Beautiful or not, she wasn't the person I'd thought she was. She'd talked to Silas, she'd believed his lies, she'd blabbed to my mother, she'd messed up my friendship with Arthur.
"Is something wrong?" Nina asked. She stood so close I could smell her perfume, fresh and sweet, like summer itself.
I stepped away from her. "Why did you tell Mom those lies about the library? Arthur's the only friend I have in this stupid town. Now, thanks to you, I can't hang out with him anymore. What's with you and Silas and Billy, anyway? Why would you—"
Nina put her hand on my shoulder again to calm me down. "I didn't realize your mother would feel that strongly about what I said." She hesitated. "But I honestly think you'd be better off without Arthur. He's not really your type, Logan."
I shrugged her hand away as it were an annoying bug or something. She obviously didn't know any more about my type than Mom did.
But before I could say anything, a tall, adult version of Anthony joined us. He was neatly dressed in an expensive green polo shirt and pressed khaki trousers. Blown-dry hair, too, and a fancy watch on a big silver band.
A smile lit Nina's face. "Oh, Richard," she said, "have you met Logan Forbes? His family bought the Donaldson house."
The man smiled a tooth-baring grin and shook my hand so firmly it hurt. "I'm Anthony's dad," he said. "I was just talking to your father. Interesting fellow. Knows a lot about art."
"Yeah," I said, "he teaches art."
As I extricated my hand from Mr. DiSilvio's bone-crunching grasp, I wondered what Dad thought of this guy, strutting around like the lord of the manor. I figured he and my father had no more in common than Anthony and I did—which would rile Mom, who seemed to hope that this party was the beginning of a round of socializing with people like the DiSilvios.
"So how do you like Bealesville?" he asked me.
"It's okay."
He studied me for a moment. His eyes were an odd shade of yellow green, speckled like a lizard's, and rimmed in black. Nina stood beside him, sipping her wine. Suddenly uncomfortable, I looked away from the two of them and searched for a friendly face. All I saw was Anthony and his gang.
"I hear you and the Jenkins boy have gotten interested in Mrs. Donaldson s death," Mr. DiSilvio said, and now his smile was patronizing.
I glanced at Nina, sure she was the one who'd told him, but she ignored the accusation in my eyes.
"A woman murdered in your house," he went on, still smiling. "Her killer never caught. It sounds like a crime for the Hardy Boys to solve."
The sarcasm in his voice was impossible to miss. Forcing myself to look him in the eye, I said, "I grew out of the Hardy Boys a long time ago."
"I'm glad to hear it." Mr. DiSilvio took a sip of wine and smiled at Nina, including her in his little joke. Then he turned back to me.
"Nina tells me she saw you and Arthur in the Magic Forest. You know that's my property, don't you? 'No trespassing' means no trespassing. Right?" He took another sip of wine. "I don't want you or the Jenkins kid on my property. You could fall or hurt yourself. You think I want your parents suing me?"
"Nina was trespassing, too," I said.
"Don't be such a smart mouth," he said. "I gave Nina permission to photograph the park for her newspaper story. She's a responsible adult with too much sense to fall in a hole and break her leg."
While we d been talking, the long summer day had slowly ended. Shadows from trees slanted darkly across the grass. The other guests, including Anthony and his friends, were strolling toward the patio, where the food waited.
Increasingly uneasy, I edged away from the two grownups. "I smell hamburgers."
"Steak," Mr. DiSilvio corrected. "U.S. Prime."
With her hand on my arm, Nina began walking up the sloping lawn. "If I know Rhoda," she said to Mr. DiSilvio, "it will be delicious."
"She's having the food catered by the Wandering Gourmets," Mr. DiSilvio said. "They're based in Rich
mond. Absolutely the best, unequaled—even in D.C."
He waved a hand at the lawn, the flowers, the big house, the guests. "Only the best," he boasted, "that's what I provide for my family and friends."
Nina smiled. "It's a lovely party. I appreciate your invitation."
He stroked her arm lightly and leaned closer. "I'm glad you're here."
"I wouldn't have missed it," Nina said.
At the edge of the patio, Mr. DiSilvio paused and gave me a long look, as if he was sizing me or up or something. I tried to meet his eyes, but he made me so nervous, I ended up scanning the crowd for Mom or Dad, the only people here I felt comfortable with.
"Rhoda told me you're not interested in sports," he said. "But being on the soccer team would help you fit in with other kids. You don't want to start middle school with no friends."
"I'm not good at sports." I shot an angry look at Nina. I used to have a friend, I thought, until you messed everything up with your lies.
"Anybody can be good if he tries," Mr. DiSilvio said. "You just have to have the right attitude."
Sneering mentally at his platitudes, I said, "I'm better at chess and stuff like that."
"A brain, huh?" Mr. DiSilvio laughed and gave me a playful cuff on the arm. "Well, don't get too smart for your own good."
Still smiling as if it was all a joke, Mr. DiSilvio excused himself. "It's time for me to be a good host and make sure my guests are enjoying themselves."
I watched him join a group of men clustered around the bar, drinking and talking loudly about baseball. To my surprise, Johnny was serving. He was so spiffed up, I almost didn't recognize him. I glanced around for Billy, but I didn't see him. Even if you dressed him in designer clothes, he'd still look like a bum.
Nina maneuvered me toward a table covered with food. She speared a jumbo shrimp with a toothpick and dipped it in some kind of pink sauce. "The tall man next to Richard is a state representative," she told me. "The man beside him is the county executive. Lawyers, planners, a few commissioners. the chief of police, and so on. All of them powers in the community."
Closed for the Season Page 9