by Susan Vaught
And Mr. Watson moves.
Sudden.
Fast.
He shoves me hard against Dad and we bang forward into Mom and Agent Mercer and Captain Evans. I’m falling. I can’t stop myself. Hitting mopped tile with my knees and palms and jarring so hard my teeth seem to crack and my vision shivers but I can still see him.
I can see Mr. Watson charging toward the VFW’s front door.
TEN HOURS
My mouth hurts. My wrists burn and my knees throb and I’m somebody else as I shoot off the floor and charge forward, running faster than I think I can, than I ever have, and I slam into Mr. Watson before he can burst into the night and get away because if he’s running then he’s bad and he’s done something and maybe he hurt Sunshine and—
And I taste copper and salt and fingers dig into my ankles and of course it’s not me taking Mr. Watson to the ground.
It’s agents in suits and three police officers and Dad’s got hold of me. “Don’t, Jason. Be still, Jason.”
I wriggle for a second, wanting to get up and somehow jump on Mr. Watson and make a difference. Why is it never me who makes a difference? I pull out of Dad’s grip because I want to do something—and I don’t want him touching me.
“Why did the teacher run?” Mom’s asking nobody, because nobody’s listening to her and everybody’s staring at Mr. Watson, who’s howling and kicking and about to get himself Tasered or shot or at least punched in the face by the men trying to get him under control.
Somebody else mutters, “A room full of officers and agents and he’s dumb enough to try a stunt like that?”
“I didn’t do anything!” Mr. Watson shrieks. “It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me!”
My alphabet voices echo him like satanic parrots and for a few seconds I can’t hear anything but that and for another few seconds I almost feel sorry for Mr. Watson but then Dad’s pulling me up and we’re standing and I’m shaking and there really is blood in my mouth and my tongue hurts.
Mom sees me wiping red trickles on the back of my hand and produces a handkerchief from her fatigue pocket. “Got all your teeth?” she asks in a low voice, and when I nod, she doesn’t make a big deal out of it. She does have her good points, like not going ape over little stuff… and not thinking I’m a homicidal maniac like Dad maybe does.
That hurts too much. Can’t think about that. I’m running out of space to store stuff I don’t want to think about.
“Mr. Watson’s weird,” I tell Mom. “I’ve told you that before, lots of times.”
“You have, but I thought—” And she stops, and she sounds guilty. I know why. Because nobody ever listens—not even our moms. All our opinions and instincts get ignored because everybody figures it’s just a taste of our crazy.
“He’s the kind of guy who’d think he could make it,” I add, because he is. Mr. Watson definitely preaches beating the odds and staying optimistic and it doesn’t surprise me that he thought he could run out of a room packed with law enforcement guys and actually make it. What surprises me is that he ran in the first place.
I mean, weird’s weird, but running from the police? That barrels out of weird and does a boar’s rush toward seriously creepy. And stupid. Why did he run?
For once, even my alphabet voices don’t have an opinion.
Drip and his mom seem to materialize beside Dad, and Drip’s mom asks, “What in God’s name is this all about?”
“Got me,” Dad says as the officers wrestle Mr. Watson to his feet and shove him away from the front entrance, toward some of the little rooms on the other side of the VFW hall.
That’s when the door nearest me opens, and I see Eli Patton pop to the center of the doorway and grab the frame long enough for PAIN and HOPE to flash the room from his fingers. His mug-shot face twists as he watches what’s going on with Mr. Watson, and his bristle hair seems to stick up double. I wait for his big ears to turn the color of bad apples like they always do when he’s seriously pissed, but they don’t, which strikes me as wrong, but it doesn’t matter, and it doesn’t matter what’s really happening with Mr. Watson, it only matters what Eli thinks is happening.
He’s gonna kill you. He’s gonna kill all of you if you don’t kill him first. PAIN and HOPE. PAIN and HOPE. Run run RUN run Freak RUN and don’t ever stop.
The agent in the room with Eli is trying to talk to him. He’s reaching for Eli—bad idea, don’t do it, don’t—
Too late.
My breath hitches when Eli surprises the agent with an elbow to the gut, and the agent goes flying backward, then Eli’s running out into the room and straight at Mr. Watson.
“What did you do?” Eli bellows. “What did you do to my sister, you creepy bastard?”
Mr. Watson screams like a kindergarten kid and the agents and officers not fighting with him try to block Eli’s path and blood hammers in my ears and all I can think is no no no no she doesn’t want this she would cry and cry and cry and he has to stop and we have to stop him but—
Eli stops himself like he heard my thoughts or maybe he heard Sunshine wailing from somewhere very, very far away. His fists are still doubled, nostrils still flared, and he’s got KILL and DEATH and MURDER written on his face sure as any of the real tattooes on his skin.
Drip and I both move at the same time, breaking away from our parents and lunging to Eli’s side before any of the people in suits or uniforms can grab him. On impulse, I reach out and take Eli’s PAIN hand. He starts to jerk away from me, then seems to process who I am. The wild-animal expression on his face flickers, and for two seconds, I see the boy version of Sunshine I’ve caught glimpses of now and then since he’s been back from juvenile.
Something in him cranks down a notch or two, and I know he doesn’t want to hurt me or be a jerk to me. She wouldn’t like that. Sunshine would tell him to be good to me just like she’d tell me and Drip to keep Eli from having to go back to little jail or big jail, either one.
Drip follows my lead and takes the wrist of Eli’s HOPE hand. Eli doesn’t fight him at all. He’s breathing like a bull sighting a matador, but he’s not moving and he’s letting us hold him back and—
My brother’s not bad Jason he never was bad he’s just had a hard time and he’s got a bad temper and he gets lost in his anger but he doesn’t if I help him so I have to help him we all have to help him and I know you will you and Derrick both because I love him and we can make a difference for him so he doesn’t have to go away again because I want him home I need him home with me and
—The officers hustle Mr. Watson away, into a room, and get a door shut, and for a couple of beats, no one moves. My brain’s spinning. My heart’s beating so hard I’m surprised the sound’s not coming through the ancient speakers wedged against the ceiling in the corners of the VFW. Everyone in the room lets us stand there in the center of a big staring circle, and Drip mutters to Eli, “Don’t get in trouble. She doesn’t want you to have to go away again.”
Eli’s palm is sweaty against mine and his muscles are iron tense as he glares after Mr. Watson. “She never liked that pig—and she knows people. Sunshine can read people easy, you know?”
I do know, even though I’m pretty sure she’s been wrong about me, that I’m not the good guy she thought I was.
You know you’re not. You know you’re scum. The sooner you tell them the better. Truth is telling. Telling is truth. Why don’t you tell the truth?
I risk letting go of Eli’s hand. Nothing bad happens. Drip turns loose of the other hand, and we stand very, very still for three very long heartbeats.
“Son,” a nearby officer begins, walking toward Eli with the agent Eli punched. The guy’s not standing all the way straight, and he’s holding his ribs as he hobbles. I see them from the corner of my eye, and I shake my head even though I know they won’t listen to me but to my great big huge surprise, I hear Mom’s colonel voice crack through the room.
“Wait.”
Not a suggestion.
The men stop
moving. Probably reflex from all their own military training.
Eli’s gaze twitches off the door closing Mr. Watson away from him, and he focuses on Roland Harks and Linden Green, who have all four legs of their chairs on the floor. They’re about fifteen feet from him, but it seems way too close as he lets out a rumbling growl.
“She doesn’t like you, either,” Eli says to Roland.
Roland’s face does the bad-apple thing I was expecting from Eli’s ears, but he doesn’t say anything and neither does his big-mouthed mother.
Linden catches the next five seconds of the wrath of Eli. “You—you’re just stupid, always doing what your boss boy Roland says. When he tells you to rob a bank or grab some chick off the street, you just gonna say yeah sure whatever and follow him to prison?”
Linden’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Linden’s father glares at Eli, and his muscles bunch. He’s tense and ready, just like Eli, and that would probably be a fair fight. Mr. Green seems plain mean, like his son, but not as dumb. He’s taking in the uniforms and suits, the enormity of the number of people who would jump on him and Eli both if either of them move, so he backs down with a dismissive grunt.
When Linden starts to say something, his dad smacks him on the back of the head and all we hear is, “Ow, Pop!”
Dad never hits me like that. Drip’s mom smacks him sometimes. I don’t think Sunshine’s parents ever hit her but—
Karl will be here in a second to take me to the probation officer want us to give you a ride okay okay I’m just you know covering the bases and making sure everything looks okay don’t get stressed
—Eli’s words echo through my skull. Karl, Sunshine’s stepfather. I can see him sitting in a car, looking old and lost and tired—but is that a real memory? I can’t remember if Eli ever really said that, anytime, anywhere, but I think maybe he did and now I’m sure or at least I’m pretty sure that somebody was hurting Sunshine, that she told me that, that she wanted me to do something to help her with that, and I did, even though I couldn’t figure how what she wanted me to do would help anything, and then she wanted me to forget it so I did.
You hurt her. It was you. You suck. Everything sucks. Cluck and duck and duck and cluck. There aren’t any chickens here.
It wasn’t me. No matter what my head says, I didn’t hurt Sunshine. I know I didn’t. I never would. But when I argue the voices only get louder so I stop arguing and try to make my ears close but I can’t shut out sounds that come from my own head.
“She doesn’t want you back in jail, Eli.” Drip’s voice cuts through my confusion and brings me back to here, now, and right this second.
“Sunshine told me she needs you,” I say.
Eli flexes PAIN, then HOPE, then lets his arms hang loose by his sides. He doesn’t make any move to go after Linden or Roland or the door barring him from Mr. Watson.
“You giving your DNA to the Feds?” Eli asks, and I don’t know whether he’s asking me or Drip, but both of us answer together.
“Yes.”
Twenty feet away, Roland and Linden squirm in their chairs, but their parents look sort of defeated, so I’m betting they’ll be giving samples, too—unless they want to look guilty for refusing, or try the run-out-the-door routine that worked so well for Mr. Watson.
“I’m gonna do it,” Eli says, though his voice hardens with each word. “But I think it’s perverted, them thinking I could do anything to my sister.”
“It is perverted.” I point to the door hiding Mr. Watson. “But you never know about anybody, right? They’re just being thorough.”
Eli lets go a breath it sounds like he’s been holding for an hour or two. He turns away from Drip and me, and he walks over to the agent he elbowed and passes him with a quick, surly “Sorry.”
I watch his progress, feeling less than real, trying to make myself believe that the VFW and all the people in it are real, but everything’s seeming flat and off and weird. I don’t know if it’s my alphabet, or how anybody would feel in a jacked-up situation like this.
Why did my teacher run from the police? Why doesn’t Mr. Watson want to give his DNA? Who else is going to refuse?
“Do you feel real?” I whisper to Drip.
He gives me the stink-eye. “Freak, you sure you’re gonna last a few days without those pills?”
Okay.
Not real.
I breathe to make it all go away, to make everything straighten out and line back up again. Then I twist way down inside because Sunshine’s not here to tell me what’s right and what’s just my kooked-out brain. I wish I had her locket to hold.
I wish I had her.
How much time has gone by now? The clocks tick too loud. I hate them. I hate every second and every minute ticking away.
Did Mr. Watson do something to Sunshine? My gaze shifts across the room to Roland and Linden. Did Roland and his little gangster friend hurt Sunshine?
I’m just you know covering the bases and making sure everything looks okay… Did Eli really say that to Sunshine—and if he did, what was he really talking about?
Eli would never hurt Sunshine.
Would he?
You never know about anybody—and I’m the one who just said that.
When Eli’s safely back in the room where he’s waiting for news on Sunshine, I turn back to my parents and Agent Mercer and Captain Evans and Drip’s mom. My mom looks kind of pleased, and she gives me a nod like, good work. Dad doesn’t look proud, but he seems relieved that all the fighting has stopped. Drip’s mom looks relieved, too. Then she scowls at Drip for running away from her, and he scuttles back to her side.
“What’s with Mr. Watson?” I ask Agent Mercer.
He gives me a single shake of his head. “Don’t know, but I’d guess he’s hiding something. People who have something to hide often try to run away, don’t they, Jason?”
I hold back a groan. I am so not playing this game with him again. Whatever he found on those clothes, it’s got nothing to do with me.
“When you find out what his deal is, will you tell us?” I ask.
“Maybe,” Agent Mercer says, and I know that’ll have to be good enough.
“How do I give you my DNA? Do you need to cut my fingernails?” I hold up my hand, aware I’m talking loud, but not really caring. “My toenails are longer.”
But what if it’s the shirt? What if it’s the jeans she was wearing that day?
You’re so dead. You’re totally dead. Give them a piece of you and they’ll track you forever and cut your throat. Float, float, float, float. I wish I could get on a boat.
“Ah, no.” Agent Mercer’s mouth twitches. “No nail clippings needed. Just—follow me, okay?”
ELEVEN HOURS
It’s so detached and unreal and clinical when the technician finally shows up and pulls on her gloves, then sets a small stainless steel tray in front of me. There’s a kit on the tray, and she opens the box, takes out two glass vials and two packages. She opens the first package and takes out a swab and gazes at me, waiting.
In the little VFW room with its wooden tables and wooden chairs and the single old light hanging from the ceiling on a slightly frayed cord, I feel like I’m in a television show. I wish I was, because then none of this would be happening—not for real, anyway. I open my mouth and the technician pushes the swab inside, missing my teeth but rubbing the rough material against the inside of my cheek. There’s pressure, a little stinging, and she stops, pulls out the swab without hitting my teeth, puts it in the first vial, labels it, then opens the second swab.
This time I close my eyes.
It’s somewhere around four in the morning, and I’m so tired and so sad I feel everything heavy in my blood, heavy on my heart, and stars dance in the darkness of my eyelids as she scrapes my cheek again. I drift almost instantly, to a blank, quiet place with nothing in it but soft yellow light, running water, Sunshine and her golden locket, and the peaceful scent of honeysuckle. It’s like a fairy kingdom and s
he’s the princess, and for once, I’m actually the prince.
It’s not real, she tells me, but for once I can’t believe her, because it is real. It’s too real, and there’s nothing even my alphabet can do to make it a dream.
Mom startles me awake when she rattles the table. I open my eyes, and she’s leaning toward Agent Mercer, who is standing on the other side of the table from me holding a folder.
Mom growls, “How can he be a sex offender?”
“Before Agent Mercer can answer, Dad, who’s sitting beside Mom, says, “Don’t they do background checks? How could they possibly miss something that huge?”
“He used a fairly well-crafted false identity,” Captain Evans says. She’s standing next to Agent Mercer, which seems bizarre. “The school’s background check would have been benign.”
“They don’t use fingerprints?” Mom’s tone is incredulous. “They don’t check photographs?”
Agent Mercer shakes his head. “Not in your district. Not enough funding.”
Mom sits back hard in her chair. “So anybody could plop down a set of fake credentials and get cleared to teach my child.”
Captain Evans says nothing.
Agent Mercer says more nothing, which I take for Well, yes, actually, that’s exactly the case.
From the look on Mom’s face, I can tell some serious base resources might be shifted to investigating every educator in the county. If she could photograph and fingerprint every school employee in the whole state, she’d set it up tomorrow.
“Mr. Watson’s real name is Burton Smith,” Agent Mercer says. “He was convicted fifteen years ago, served two for aggravated battery of a child, then dropped off the radar after he failed to reregister following a move. That’s when he assumed the James Watson identity. Probably paid a lot to get the documents of some dead infant—there are many ways to become someone else.”