When my best doesn’t work and my hope fades, I can fight back.
Harry is cool about me keeping my own hours. He tells me the days he’d like me to be here and asks that I put in at least six hours or so. Today I’m earlier than usual because I have something to tell him.
He’s leaning over the counter sipping his coffee as usual. Some new alternative band is playing in the background, and I remind myself to see what he’s playing. He might be in the mood for some of his favorites from the eighties, then he’ll suddenly spring something on me like the latest album by a hot band. Harry’s not a music snob. He just loves music.
After stalling for ten minutes I get up my courage and go over to him. “Hey, can I talk to you?”
He looks up. Today he’s wearing his thin, rectangular glasses. He has three different pairs that he changes up just like he does his music. “What’s up?”
“I wanted to ask about maybe hiring someone.”
For a second he just looks at me. “What do you mean?”
“Like hiring someone new.”
“Are you quitting?”
“No.”
“Good. I need you.”
“Maybe you need someone else, too.”
“We’ve already got Phil. ’Course you know him.”
Phil is our resident hippie. I’m not even sure if he gets paid to work. He mainly chats it up with townsfolk and hangs out when there are live music events in the store. Most of his comments sound like quotes.
“But what about maybe thinking about hiring someone else?”
Harry shakes his head and takes another sip from his coffee mug. “We’re all good here.”
The phone on the wall behind him interrupts us. It’s an old-school phone with a really loud, obnoxious ring. He picks up the receiver, the cord dangling all the way to the floor. He got the longest phone cord he could find so he can roam around the store holding the receiver. I asked him once why he didn’t just get a cordless, and he said he liked phones attached to something.
I sigh and am about to wander off when I hear him say a loud “What?” and then follow it up with a “Yeah, I’ll come now.” I think there must be a crisis at home.
He’s already around the counter when I turn to ask what’s going on.
“Stay here, okay?”
“Everything okay?”
“No. It’s—there’s an emergency by the river.”
“Your family?”
“No,” he says. “Thank God. Louis Kramer said they found a body in the river. He knows I used to be an EMT and I’m just down the street.”
His whole demeanor has changed. This is superhero Harry. Maybe he has a secret identity like Batman. Businessman record-store owner by day; dark, slightly overweight knight after sunset.
“I’ll be back in a short while. Man the fort.”
The last time he left me in charge I hired the first pretty girl to come in. Who knows what might happen today.
She walks in wearing flared jeans with a funky brown belt and a short-sleeved rainbow top and matching knit hat. Her dark brown hair covers her face on both sides as if she’s peering out from behind blinds.
“Hello, Brandon,” she says. “Isn’t it a beautiful day outside?”
“It’s hot.” Just like I’ve suddenly become.
“So is the owner in?”
“He just ran out for some reason. An emergency.”
“Really? Does he have curly hair, glasses?”
“That’s him.”
“He was running down the sidewalk and bumped into me. I could tell he felt awful.”
“Yeah.”
“I love when things like that happen. Meeting people before you’re officially introduced. Or running into people at odd times. It’s cool when God orchestrates stuff like that.” She says this in a perfectly natural way as she picks up an album on the counter. “This looks like a fun album.”
Marvel stands and waits for me to tell her what to do. I almost tell her the truth. About her not really having a job and all that. But I can’t. I don’t know why. Girls don’t make me stammer. I can tell anybody anything. I can do it in front of everyone, too, just like I did with Taryn. But something about Marvel makes me pause.
“What made you want to work here?” I ask. “Besides seeing the job listing.”
Her face lights up. Like there’s a spotlight suddenly shining on it. “That is a long story. Well, not exactly long, but I would need to put it into context. So . . . let’s just say I’m meant to be here.”
I nod.
Maybe you are.
“Okay. Let’s get to work.”
As in “let us,” both of us. And even though the “us” might be incredibly short-lived, I’m glad to be able to say it now. Before Harry comes back and ruins everything.
Thirty minutes later, the phone annoys me again. I pick it up and hear Harry, sounding out of breath.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“They found a kid in the river.”
“Is he okay?”
“No. He’s dead. Cops and firemen and paramedics were out here. It was a mob scene.”
“Where?”
“Right under the bridge. It was—” He lets out a deep breath. “It wasn’t pretty.”
“Who is it?”
“They don’t know yet. He couldn’t be identified. Just—seriously, it was bad. We just know he’s some teen. It was awful.”
“Are you still there?” I ask.
“Yeah. Just give me a little while.”
“Okay.” No rush.
“Man, some parents are about to receive like the worst news ever. And I don’t even want to know how he died.”
“You think he drowned?”
“No. No way. He was dead long before he hit the river.”
“How do you know?”
There’s a pause. “Look—just stay there. I’ll be back in a while. Thanks.”
I get off the phone and see Marvel looking at me.
“Someone drowned?”
For a second I don’t respond. I’m not sure how to.
“What happened?” she asks.
For the first time since I met her, I see a different look come over Marvel’s face. It’s fear. And it’s not just mild, curious fear.
She looks terrified.
The bell rings as the door opens, and Harry walks in. He shuffles down the short flight of stairs into the cavernous store. I’ve been waiting on him for a while, having set Marvel to work unpacking boxes in the back. I get to Harry quickly.
“Look, I don’t know anything more than what I already told you,” he says.
“Harry—I need to tell you something.”
“What? You know something about the kid in the river?”
“No. No, nothing about that. I hired someone.”
He stops and looks at me. The new album by the National is playing through the speakers surrounding us.
“I can’t hire anybody. I told you.”
I’ve come up with a plan. “Look, she’s already working. I’m training her.”
“Are you crazy?”
I nod. “Give her the job.”
“And fire you?”
“No, don’t fire me.” I look back for a minute to make sure Marvel’s still in the back. “Just don’t pay me.”
“Why would I do that? Are you high or something?”
Then I see his expression change, and I turn to see Marvel entering the room. It takes Harry about a millisecond to figure out the deal.
“Hi, are you Harry?” she says as she walks up to him and shakes his hand.
“No, I’m the guy who plows over girls on sidewalks.”
“I’m Marvel.”
Harry thinks this scene is funny. “Brandon’s told me all about you.”
I nod and raise my eyebrows. I know Harry could ruin this in a single moment.
“I love your store. It’s very hip.”
“Well, you look pretty hip yourself, so I take that as a c
ompliment. We need all the help we can get, don’t we, Brandon?”
I nod and wait for him to say more. But Marvel asks him a question.
“I probably need to fill out some forms, don’t I?”
“Let me show you in the back,” Harry says. “The IRS really likes to have their info, so yeah, you’ll need to fill out some stuff. I’ll go over everything, since—well, sometimes I don’t trust Brandon.”
I give him a thank you smile and he just shakes his head in a way that says Boys. I’m not sure how this is going to play out exactly, working for someone and not getting paid. But maybe Harry will have compassion and maybe I’ll win the lottery and maybe it’ll all pay off when Marvel falls crazy in love with me.
For now I’ll be happy to go on a date. Not that I’d be able to pay for anything, but I’ll figure that out later.
About half an hour later, after Harry has gone over some things with his new employee, he finds me in the S section of vinyl.
“Do you know a kid named Artie Duncan?” he asks.
I nod. He graduated from Appleton High last spring.
“I just got a text—that’s the kid they found by the river.”
“Artie?”
I can see him walking down the hallway laughing with his buddies. He’s the kind of guy everybody likes, friends with the jocks and the party crowd and all the other crowds.
“He’s dead?”
“Yeah. Don’t say anything. His family’s been contacted, but it’s not public just yet. They go to our church. His mom’s gonna have a rough time.”
I don’t know what to say or how to act.
“Look—you good about showing Marvel everything?”
“Yeah.”
Harry looks at me. “We’ll talk about that later. For now, I gotta get home and tell my wife. She’s friends with Nancy Duncan. I won’t be long.”
He’s been gone about ten minutes when Marvel comes out from the back office. “What’s going on?”
“They found a guy I went to school with down at the river. Dead.”
“What do you think happened?” Marvel asks.
“I don’t know. Harry doesn’t think he just drowned. It’s kinda creepy.”
“Do you know—did he believe in God?”
I shrug at the odd question. “Harry says the family goes to his church. So that’s a good sign.”
That doesn’t seem to make Marvel look less anxious.
“Nice day to start work, huh?”
“Harry didn’t seem to have any idea I was coming.” Her eyes are wide and bright underneath the knit cap perfectly positioned on her head.
“He’s just disorganized like that. So, you said your family moved.”
“Yeah. From Chicago.”
“Why’d you move to the suburbs?”
“I actually moved in with my aunt and uncle.”
“Oh, really? How come?”
“Because I had to.”
This is the sort of answer my father might give me when I ask him something. Dad, why do I need to pay you guys the full amount of the car by the end of the summer? He’d say because he told me so. Or “Just because.”
I decide not to press Marvel about the reason she’s living here. “So what year are you?” I ask.
Nobody has come into the store and probably nobody will, at least not until later this afternoon.
“I’ll be a senior,” Marvel says. “Attending Appleton.”
“That’s where I go.”
“That’s what I sorta guessed.” She says this in a playful way, not a sarcastic make-me-feel-like-an-idiot sort of way. “Do you like it?”
“Yeah. Except for some of the guys on the football team. And some of the girls.”
“You don’t play sports?”
“I play soccer. Of course, nobody really cares about that.” Especially my father.
“You lived here your whole life?” she asks me.
“Yeah. Nothing’s ever happened like a guy getting killed. This town is quiet. Quiet and boring.”
“Quiet and boring can be good sometimes.”
“Says who?” I ask.
“Someone coming from a loud, crazy, out-of-control world.”
There’s a lot more to this statement, just like there’s a lot more to Marvel. But I don’t ask. Maybe in time I’ll understand what she’s talking about, and where she’s from, and why quiet and boring is a good thing.
Then again, if she prefers quiet and boring, maybe I have a chance.
Where are you guys?
Barton. I read the text and roll my eyes. It’s eight o’clock, and Frankie and I are at Devon’s house, watching TV in the basement. Barton would’ve probably been here too if he hadn’t wrecked my car like an idiot.
I just checked out the quarry but nobody’s there, he texts again.
Some of us are working for a living, I text back.
You’re not working I already checked at the record store!
I don’t text him back, so I get another buzz on my smartphone.
I already have $500 to give you.
Then you’ll only owe me $3,500. I’m not being nice, because I know Barton. He’ll put it off and eventually forget to pay me.
What do you guys think about Artie???!!! This is why he’s texting. It’s all we’ve been talking about for the last hour, though nobody knows anything more than we did when the news first broke. My dad talked to Mike Harden about it.
Harden is one of the only Appleton cops I know by name, besides Greg Packard’s father. He’s spoken at our school before and is a good enough guy.
Come on where are you guys??
I know he’s trying to get an invite to hang out with us again. We’re at Devon’s, I type back.
Cool. I’ll be there shortly. I gotta ride my bike everywhere.
Thank God, I type.
“I heard his face was all cut up like paper strips.”
Barton’s only been here for five minutes and I’m already regretting it.
“Sick,” Frankie says.
Frankie’s one of my best friends, the quarterback at our school and the greatest guy I’ve ever known. He’s a far better athlete than he gives himself credit for, which is why I, along with the rest of Appleton High, love him. In my dreams I’m catching the winning pass from him in the final seconds of the final game of our final year of high school. But soccer players don’t touch the ball, and in my case I probably couldn’t even if I tried.
“How would you know this?” Devon asks him.
“Sergeant Harden said so.”
“Oh, what, he personally called you and told you this?”
Devon and Barton look funny side by side—the tall, lanky guy and the short, chubby guy. Add the good-looking black football star to the mix, and my friends are quite the odd bunch.
“He told my father,” Barton says, a little defensively.
“And what? Were you in the pantry spying on your parents?” I joke.
“I overheard enough. And then I asked my dad later. Are your parents freaked out about it? Mine sure are.”
“My mom is paranoid,” Devon says.
“I haven’t been home yet to ask them about it,” I say.
“No doubt about it, he was murdered,” Barton says.
“You don’t know this,” I say.
Barton shakes his head. “Man, just wait.”
“Just wait for what?”
“The end of the world as we know it.” Barton says this in a mocking, muwahaha voice. The other guys tell him to shut up.
This is the gang of four, the same group since freshmen year. Barton latched onto us that year even though he was a sophomore. I think a lot of the guys in his class were tired of his jokes and humor (and lately I can see why). We’re a mix of jock, nerd, crazy guy, and me. I’m not sure what category I belong in. In some ways I’m sorta like an Artie Duncan. A kid who gets along with most everybody. Except his father and the two morons beating up a poor kid in the park.
I tell F
rankie and Barton about the bullying I saw and how I hit Greg Packard in the leg with a baseball bat.
“Greg? And Sergio? Are you crazy?” Frankie says.
“They were totally beating some kid’s butt.”
“Who?”
“A skinny kid named Seth.”
“Seth Belcher?” Barton says. “What a turd.”
“You know him?” I ask.
“He’s a weirdo. He’s always got his headphones on.”
“You don’t want to mess with those guys,” Frankie tells me.
“They already cut the tires on my bike.”
“Did they have a beef with Artie?” Barton says.
We all groan. He says so many inappropriate things that he’s gonna be the one beat up one day.
“I’m just saying. You don’t know.”
“Greg and Sergio are thugs, but they’re not murderers,” Frankie says.
“How do you know who’s a murderer until they actually get caught?” Barton says. “I mean, everybody thought that man who had the girls locked up in his house was a pretty nice guy too. Some guy used to have cookouts with him. Then they find girls chained up in his house.”
“Are you trying to tell us something?” I ask, trying to lighten the conversation.
“I’m trying to tell you that something bad’s coming. People are scared. A guy our age just got killed. Who knows who’s next.”
We’re all quiet and suddenly very bummed.
“It’s nice to have you come hang out,” I joke.
Barton just nods.
I hope he’s wrong. Very, very wrong.
The first thing I do when I get home is check on my brothers. Usually I’m hoping they’re not around to annoy me, but tonight is different. I find them upstairs in the spare bedroom we’ve converted to a game room, with a couch we got from our uncle and an entertainment center with a flat-screen television and several gaming systems.
“Where’re Mom and Dad?” I ask. I sit on the chair in the corner facing the two of them on the couch.
“Mom went to bed and Dad’s passed out in the basement,” Alex says.
Alex is fifteen, and in spite of being three years older than Carter, he’s the smallest of all of us. He seems so easily breakable—one of the many reasons I feel a need to stand up to Dad.
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