Come As You Are

by Steven Ramirez

  “You know what sucks?” he says. “Bad luck. And bad luck is what I’ve had since you two showed up here.”

  “It’s not our fault you lost your eye, Franklin. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to drink and drive?”

  I should’ve kept my mouth shut. He’s marching toward us now. Me and Ollie split up, so at least he won’t be able to hurt us both. Maybe one of us can make it to the gate and call 911.

  Ollie was always a terrible runner. I reach the gate in no time, but when I turn around, I see Franklin coming at my friend with the knife. Ollie is just standing there, waving his hands in front of him and ordering Franklin to leave him alone.

  “Ollie, get out of there!”

  Without thinking, I raise my left hand. But I’m not quick enough, and Franklin swipes the knife across Ollie’s throat. I watch as my best friend in the whole world grabs his neck and falls to the ground, bright blood squirting through his fingers.

  “No!”

  A kind of blinding hate takes over as I aim my throbbing hand at Franklin. He glares at me, still holding the bloody knife. With his other hand, he tears at his throat like he’s having trouble breathing. In another second, he drops the knife and sinks to his knees, his head whipping back and forth like it no longer wants to be attached to his body. I keep my hand steady, though, and, feeling a surge of power leaving me, I watch as Franklin’s screams turn into tiny chirping noises.

  Scared now, I try and lower my hand, but I can’t—something won’t let me. This time, there isn’t any electricity. I hear a loud crack, and Franklin’s head pops off his body like some invisible force tore it free. His arms are windmilling and, as his head hits the ground and rolls, a geyser of black blood shoots straight up out his neck. His headless body falls sideways on the ground, right next to Ollie.

  When it’s over, nothing is moving. Someone must’ve called 911 because I can hear sirens. I run across the hilly concrete to check on my friend. His eyes are staring straight up at nothing, and he isn’t breathing. I really want to stay with him, but something is telling me to get out of there.

  I’m crying like a little girl when Mom opens the front door—I can’t help it. She asks me what happened, and I tell her some low-life killed Ollie, and the cops came and everything. She tries to comfort me, but it’s no good. I can’t stop thinking about my friend.

  When Dad walks into the kitchen, she says, “Ed, we have to call the police.”

  “We will. Let’s let him calm down.”

  They continue talking, but I don’t hear them anymore. Then I remember something and crawl off to my room. I take out the notebook and flip to the last page I looked at. Instead of the drawing of the bald kid cutting off his finger, I now see an image of a boy who looks a lot like Ollie lying on a black altar, dead.

  Once I realize what I’ve done—I mean, really think about it—I spend the next few minutes in the bathroom, puking up my guts. My best friend is dead. And that one-eyed freak show killed him. Then the truth hits me—I killed Ollie. Not on purpose, but as a sacrifice to whatever evil power Craig had unleashed through his list. I have to get rid of the book.

  My parents said I could stay home from school today. The sound of strange voices wakes me up. Curious, I get dressed and walk downstairs. Two men in blue suits are sitting with my parents in the living room, asking all kinds of questions about what happened at the skate park. I wish I could sneak out the back, but Dad has already seen me and waves me over.

  “This is my son, Ivan,” he says. “Ivan, these detectives are here to ask about what happened yesterday.”

  “Why don’t you sit down?” Mom says.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “We’ll try to be brief,” the larger of the two detectives says, smiling at me through brown teeth. “Did you know the deceased, Franklin Rogers?”

  “I…I’ve seen him at the skate park.”

  “And did you see him yesterday afternoon, around four p.m.?”

  “Yes.”

  As the cop questions me, his partner writes down everything I say. I know they’re going to ask me about how Franklin died. There’s no way I’m telling them the truth.

  “Ivan, can you describe what happened yesterday afternoon?”

  I look at my parents and start crying again, which turns out to be a good thing because it makes them nervous. Mom gets up and takes my hand.

  “He killed my friend.”

  “You mean, Franklin?” the cop says.

  “Yeah. Franklin killed my friend Ollie.”

  “And you witnessed this?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did he kill him?”

  I didn’t want to think about what I saw—Ollie lying on the concrete, bleeding out. But I owed it to him.

  “Franklin cut his throat with, with a butterfly knife.”

  “Okay. And had he ever threatened you or your friend before?”

  “All the time. He and his friends hated us coming into the skate park.”

  “His friends. Were they there, too?”

  “No, just Franklin.”

  “I see. And what happened after he attacked your friend?”

  “I ran.”

  “So you didn’t see what happened to Franklin Rogers?”

  “No. Did something happen?”

  Both detectives look at my parents, and the room goes quiet. I’m worried they know what I did.

  “Ivan,” Dad says. “Franklin is dead.”

  “What?”

  “We can’t explain how it happened,” the big detective says, “but he was decapitated. Do you know what that means, son?”

  This goes on for, like, another half-hour. The cop asks whether I think Franklin might have had enemies. Franklin. Why are they so interested in him? Just because his head came off like the cork on a champagne bottle, that’s no reason to give a flying crap about some loser who was better off dead. Ollie was the one who had suffered. Why can’t they see that?

  “Ivan,” the detective says. “Is there anything else you want to tell us?”

  “What? No.”

  “We realize your friend’s death has upset you, but I would advise you against withholding information.”

  “I don’t know anything!”

  “Detective,” Mom says, “can’t you see how upset Ivan is about the whole incident?”

  “Yes, ma’am. But this a murder investigation, and I’m afraid we’re obliged to ask these questions.”

  He’s looking directly at me now, and I suddenly want to tell these two bozos everything—about the locker and Craig’s list, and about that crazy old coot of a janitor, Hershey. But all I can do is stare at the cops and say nothing.

  “Thanks for everything,” the detective in charge says to Mom. Then he and his partner take off.

  I know nothing will come of this. Look, I don’t watch a lot of television because it bores me, but there’s one thing I do know. People get killed every day, and no one ever figures out what happened to them. They’re here one day and gone the next. That’s life. Especially in the town where I live. And if these two detectives have to run around investigating every damn thing that happens around here, what are the chances they’ll find out who did it? Zero.

  And another thing. Why shouldn’t people like Franklin get what’s coming to them? What happened to him was his own fault. My friend is dead, and I’m no longer sorry for what I did.

  “Are you hungry?” Mom says as she closes the front door.

  “I want to go back to my room.”

  “It’s going to be okay, Ivan,” Dad says. Then to Mom, “Right, Raylene?”

  “Of course it is. You go ahead and get some rest now.”

  I would never tell anyone else this because they might think I’m a fairy, but when I’m upset, I like to take a hot bath. It always calms me down. After dinner, I can’t wait to climb into the tub upstairs. I run the water, making it as hot as I can stand it, climb in, sit back, and spread a wet washcloth across my face. Then I take a deep
breath and shut out the world.

  One time, Beth needed to get ready for a date and was banging on the door. That was the day Kirk had thrown my backpack down the muddy hill behind our school after it had rained for like a year. When I tried taking a swing at him, he picked me up and heaved me like a sack of manure. I went sliding all the way down on my stomach. When I got home, Mom had a fit.

  Anyways, I was so upset I had forgotten to lock the bathroom door. My stupid sister barged in, and when she saw me naked, she laughed like some kind of idiot. After she’d left, I lay there in the tub for, like, hours and bawled my eyes out.

  I don’t have to worry about Beth tonight. I made sure to lock the bathroom door. Also, she isn’t even home. The hot bath is not working, though. As hard as I try shutting everything out, I keep seeing Ollie in my mind—his eyes staring at nothing. Then I hear a noise. I rip the washcloth off my face, and when I open my eyes, Ollie is standing there next to the bathtub, in the bloody clothes he was wearing at the skate park! His neck is all dark and ragged with dried blood, and he’s smiling. I don’t get it. Why would you smile if you’re dead?

  “No, no… Go away, Ollie.”

  His voice sounds odd like he’s talking through the cardboard tube from a roll of paper towels.

  “Ivan, I know why you did it, and I don’t blame you. I hated Franklin, too. But I needa tell you something important about the notebook.”

  I stare at him for the longest time, telling myself he isn’t real—that it’s all in my head—but seeing he’s still here, I give in.

  No one should ever have to see a dead person talking to them. That’s for crazies. The thing is, I’m not even surprised it’s happening. And I’m not all that scared. Maybe it’s because it’s Ollie and not some horrible monster. And I miss him. So I sit up and pretend he’s still alive, and we’re just having a conversation.

  “I appreciate you caring about me and all,” I say, “what with you being a ghost. But I have everything under control.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yes, I do. I’ve decided to finish the list. Then Kirk and his stupid friends are going to get what’s coming to them. And if I have time, I’m going to take care of the rest of those shitlickers at the skate park.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Ivan,” he says. “You can’t finish the list.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it doesn’t end until you’re dead.”

  “What? How would you know?”

  “Look, I’m not a kid anymore. I’m a soul—I don’t have an age. And I can see things now.”

  “Dead people?”

  “Grown-up things.”

  I’m starting to feel nervous. “Like what?”

  “Bad things, Ivan. Didn’t you ever wonder where that notebook came from?”

  “Yeah, it belonged to some kid named Craig.”

  “And weren’t you ever curious to know what happened to him?”

  “I guess.”

  “He died, Ivan.”

  “What? No way—it’s just a lot of stupid words.”

  “He died and went to hell.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Because I can see him. He’s far away, but I know it’s him.”

  “But how?”

  “I’m not really sure. It’s like, I can see a whole bunch of people down there. Millions, maybe even billions.”

  Now I’m mad and scared at the same time. I can feel tears rolling down my cheeks. I’m not embarrassed, though, because Ollie is my best friend and has seen me cry lots of times. He never told anyone either, which is what best friends do.

  “Well, so what?”

  “You needa destroy the notebook,” he says.

  “How? I tried getting rid of it once, but it came back.”

  “I don’t know. Don’t do the last step. After that, it’ll be too late.”

  “What happens if I do?”

  “They come for you.”

  “Who? Ollie, who comes for me?”

  “Demons,” he says.

  “What? I didn’t think those things were real.”

  “They’re real, Ivan.”

  “Jeez, Ollie, I’m really scared.”

  “I know. I was scared when you went over to that locker. Remember? It was like I felt something was going to happen. It’s the reason I ran away.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I tried to, but you wouldn’t listen. I have to go. There’s this thing that happens to you when you’re dead. It’s like a wind. And it blows you places you don’t want to go. I can’t control it. I hope it takes me to heaven eventually.”

  “Ollie, I am so sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Ivan,” he says. “I forgive you.”

  Then like nothing, he vanishes. My heart is ready to come out of my chest; it’s pumping so hard. I sit up and lean over the rim of the tub. And what I see on the floor makes me want to scream like the old lady down the street when she learned the cops had shot her son dead in a botched convenience store robbery. I sit there, staring at the only thing on the tile floor that isn’t white.

  It’s Ollie’s bloody footprints, redder than anything in the whole world.

  Before going to bed, I force myself not to open the notebook—but it’s hard. It’s like the thing is calling to me. My head is hurting now. Bad. I can hear voices coming from under my bed and out of the walls. At first, they talk nice, telling me about the power and how I will be able to destroy my enemies. When I don’t give in, they screech at me, threatening to destroy everyone I care about. I can’t make them stop.

  I lie on my bed, holding my head in my hands, and try not to scream. No matter what the voices say, though, I ignore them and concentrate on what Ollie told me. I can’t do the last step, no matter what. I don’t want to go to hell. I just want everyone to leave me alone. I don’t remember falling asleep, but when I wake up, it’s morning, and the voices have stopped.

  After showering and dressing, I shove the notebook into my backpack and run downstairs. Beth is studying at the table. My parents seem surprised to see me.

  “Ivan, are you sure you want to go to school today?” Mom says.

  “I’m fine.”

  “I don’t want you walking,” Dad says.

  “What? Why?”

  “Beth, can you give your brother a ride?”

  “Sure,” she says, not looking up.

  Mom tries to make me eat breakfast, but I’m not hungry. She keeps asking how I feel, and I tell her I’m okay. Then I head out the door with Beth.

  My sister drives an ancient VW bug that still runs, thanks to Dad. The inside always smells like her perfume, but I don’t mind.

  “So, are you doing okay?” she says.

  “I guess.”

  “Mom and Dad are really worried about you.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe because they think it could’ve been you instead of Ollie.”

  “Beth? What would you do if you could get back at the people that hurt you?”

  “You mean, like revenge?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I remember my ninth-grade English teacher had this quote up on her wall. I thought it was pretty cool. ‘Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.’”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It means one of the graves is for you, Ivan.”

  “Shit.”

  I don’t say anything else the rest of the way.

  When I get to school, I can see Kirk and his buddies waiting for me. I’m tempted to use the power, but instead, I pretend to ignore them as the warning bell rings.

  “Heard your girlfriend got killed,” he says.

  “Leave me alone, Kirk.”

  “So were you two queer for each other?”

  I can feel the notebook in my backpack pressing down on me like a pile of bricks. I want so much to complete the last step on the list and take care of these bitches once and for all, but I remember Ollie’s warning
. Kirk isn’t worth it. Then something pops into my head, and I smile to myself.

  “How’s your mom, by the way? Must’ve upset her, finding out the old man’s been sticking it to that Asian stripper over at the motel by the truck stop.”

  Before Kirk can answer me, I bolt, making it to my classroom just as the final bell rings. Most likely, he’ll be waiting for me after school. But I have other plans. As soon as I can sneak out, I’m going over to the weed lot behind the Valero station and burning the damned notebook. I have it all figured out. I’ll dig a shallow grave in the dirt and, using the kitchen matches I stole, I’ll destroy Craig’s list once and for all. That’s the plan, anyways.

  I hate it when teachers act all sympathetic and stuff. They get this “concerned” look and talk to you in a soft voice. And they smile a lot. They think they’re helping, but this does nothing but call attention to the whole situation. I just want everyone to leave me alone. Halfway through second period, the voices start up again. I can’t hear what the teacher is saying, so I keep my eyes down and doodle. My head feels like someone is smashing it with a hammer. And now the other kids are starting to stare like they can hear the voices, too. Then everything goes dark.

  When I open my eyes, the school nurse is staring down at me, and I realize I’m lying on a cot in her office.

  “Feeling better?” she says.

  I sit up and look around. The room is empty except for the two of us. A steady ticking is coming from an old Felix the Cat pendulum clock hanging on the wall, which she must’ve gotten off eBay. The eyes and tail move with every click.

  “What happened?”

  She smiles and pats my hand, which I don’t mind. She’s old—maybe fifty—and wears glasses with pink frames. Her hair is gray and pulled back. Her breath smells like spearmint gum. I don’t know why, but she reminds me of my grandma. She’s dead.

  “You passed out, Ivan. What’s the last thing you remember?”

  “I was in history class. Wait, I heard something.”

  “A noise?”

  I refuse to tell her it was the voices from the notebook. “It’s probably nothing. My head hurts so much. Where’s my backpack?”

  “It’s right here. Listen, I’m concerned about something.”