“Hopefully hanging out with the hot girl I work with.”
“Really? I’ll have to drop by and see this girl.”
“Sure. Anytime.”
“Maybe I’ll have to ask her out.”
We both know this is a joke. Devon doesn’t ask girls out. He hasn’t had the best sort of luck with the ladies.
“Maybe,” I say.
“I’m going to find out more about who they interrogated,” Devon says.
“You’ve watched too many detective shows.”
“It’s better to be on the lookout than to have someone looking out to kidnap you.”
I laugh. “Nobody would kidnap you. You’d talk them to death.”
“That’s not nice.”
“It’s true.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“See ya later.”
Before I have a chance to figure out how to get around to asking Marvel out today, she asks if she can talk to me for a moment. Outside the building.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She’s wearing a cream-colored beret that once again looks like nothing I’ve seen. The girls at Appleton High aren’t going to know what to do with Marvel.
“I’ll tell you outside. I don’t want to talk here.”
Harry is around, so I tell her sure and open the door for her. We go around the side of the record store to the narrow parking lot. My bike is locked up next to the brick building.
“Brandon, I’ve already told you this, but I think you’re a nice guy.”
Oh, no. Not this line. Not this conversation.
“I just can’t get involved with anybody right now.”
“Wow,” I say.
“What?”
“I just got dumped and we weren’t even dating.”
She laughs. “I’m not ‘dumping’ you. I’m just being honest.”
“Okay.”
“Look, I’m not sure how often you work, but I do find it sorta interesting that you’re always working the exact same hours I am.”
I smile. “What a weird coincidence.”
“Yeah. Crazy. Especially since we’re so busy.”
I nod and look at a car passing by on the street slightly above us. Cool graffiti art lines the wall of the building next to us.
“So let me ask this, hypothetically speaking,” I say. “Let’s say I asked you to go out sometime.”
“No. See, that’s what I’m talking about. I told you. I can’t get involved right now.”
“Involved is such a technical word.”
“What word would you like me to use?” she asks.
“I don’t want you to use any word.”
“And I don’t want you to ask me out.”
The sun feels warm on my face. I squint as I look at her. “How come?” I ask.
We’re no longer speaking in hypothetical terms.
“Because I just can’t.”
“You couldn’t, for instance, have pizza with me down the street one evening after work? What’s the difference between talking there and talking here?”
“This is my job. I’m paid to work here.”
I’m not.
“You don’t seem to mind talking to me,” I tell her.
She moves a lock of hair that is floating in front of her eyes. “I can explain someday, but not now.”
“There’s someone else,” I say.
“No.”
“You just broke up and you’re not wanting to date for a while.”
“No.”
“You’re engaged to some rich Saudi Arabian guy you’ll marry after you graduate high school.”
She laughs. “Yes, how did you know? I can’t believe my secret’s out.”
“It’s pizza. That’s all.”
“It’s not just pizza. It’s complicated. I am complicated, Brandon.”
I smile and nod. “I know. That’s why it’s such a good idea.”
And why I haven’t given up, even though the signs all point to my needing to give up. I’m not usually like this. In fact, I’ve never been like this.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I will explain more. It’s just—I don’t want you to think I’m crazy just yet.”
“I already think you’re a little crazy.”
“A little?”
I nod. “That’s a compliment.”
“Okay, then. Thank you. You’re a nice guy.”
“Stop right there. Enough with this nice guy stuff. That’s why things are complicated. If I was a bad-boy rebel hunk dude it wouldn’t be that complicated, now would it?”
“Well, no, of course not. If you put it like that. A bad-boy rebel what again?”
“Hunk dude.”
“That is exactly the sort of person I’m looking for in my life now. And I’m sure that’s why God wanted me to start working here.”
“Oh, God brought you to Fascination Street, huh?”
Her look is suddenly different. Still smiling, but this time not as playful. “Yes, he did. That’s why things are complicated. And that’s why . . . We should go back in, okay?”
I notice a couple of shoppers have gone inside the store. I nod and follow her back in.
My interest has suddenly just quadrupled.
I say a very casual and a bit distant good-bye to Marvel as she leaves. Then when the door shuts, I realize how it sounded. I realize that even though there’s no way I want to act like that, I’m starting to give her some attitude. Because she said no before I could ask and hope she’d say yes.
I wait for a moment, then I sprint up the steps and toward the door, ready to open it and catch her before she leaves. But I can’t open the door. I’ve never had a problem opening it before. I jerk it several times to see if it’s locked. I keep trying until through the window I see an SUV driving away with a figure I assume is Marvel in the passenger seat. The man driving must be her uncle.
I keep yanking, and finally the door opens. Just like that.
I shut it and open the door again. Then try again, wanting it to get stuck to show me what happened. But it never does. The door opens fine every time I try.
Maybe some signs don’t take a lot of figuring out. Maybe a sign like this happens and it’s clear as day.
A closed door. Leave it closed.
But I yank the door open and head back into the store. I don’t want this door to close, and I’m going to do everything I can to open it. Because I know—I know without a doubt—that’s it’s already opened just a crack.
It’s just a tiny crack, but that’s enough. That’s not hypothetical. That’s real. That’s real and that’s enough.
How are you?
I look at the late-night text and roll my eyes. For a while I just stare at it like it’s a lost puppy looking at me through a glass window.
Fine. Busy trying to pay off my car. What’s up?
I can’t resist. I never could, to be honest. Until, of course, I’d had enough of Taryn’s mind games and selfish, childish behavior.
I’m bored.
She’s bored. That’s why she’s texting me. She’s bored with summer already.
Must be nice to not have to worry about anything.
Be nice, she texts back. A few minutes later she adds, Want to do something tomorrow?
The timing of this is interesting. Part of me wants to say Absolutely and put Marvel’s rejection behind me. But this is only because I’m angry about Marvel ending things before they started, not because I actually want to hang out with Taryn.
I can’t.
Why not?
I don’t want to be mean to her. I’m busy.
That’s all I say. I wait to see if Taryn will push like she always does.
Okay. Good night.
It’s left at that, which is good. The last thing I need now is Taryn. Any bit of Taryn. The school year ended, and so did Taryn and Brandon.
It’s a new day, and Taryn is not a part of it.
I lie awake thinking about Taryn. I’m feeling guilty, which
is crazy. I’m actually worried about Taryn Ellsworth, even though I know deep down she doesn’t have feelings. Yet I still feel guilt because everything she said would happen actually sorta did. The only difference is she didn’t mention the fact she’d turn out to be a nightmarish witch.
Taryn is the hot blonde every class seems to have. There’s not an ounce of fat on her body and her skin never seems to sunburn and her hair never needs to be lightened because it’s just that perfect. Her parents have a big place over in Glenforest Estates where a lot of the best high school parties are held. Taryn isn’t a dumb blonde though. No, she’s smart. A little too smart.
Sophomore year, I started chasing after her as if my life depended on it. I’m a soccer player, not a football stud. My family isn’t wealthy, and it’s not like I’m that much of anything (good-looking, funny, athletic). But somehow I wore her down. I told her I loved her. I told her I’d do anything for her. And for a while, I really thought I did love her. For a while, I really did do anything.
Two things happened our junior year. The first was that we had sex. It wasn’t the first time for Taryn, and I lied and told her it wasn’t the first time for me. Somehow everything changed a bit after that. Not because suddenly I had no interest in her. It was more because of how normal Taryn acted afterward, as if it was the same as going out for ice cream. Nothing changed with her, and this made me a bit nervous. And confused.
The other thing was that Taryn became more and more mean. She was an upperclassman now, and she acted like it. She only hung out with juniors and seniors, or the occasional person of elite status in the lower grades. She made fun of others, many times with me at her side. I’d overlooked her snotty attitude because of my conquest. But suddenly I began to feel that this girl was cruel and vicious.
Then she went from being mean to also being racist. And it happened to be aimed at one of my guys.
All the football players were at a party after a big win. Taryn had too much to drink and started talking about Frankie being lucky to be on a team with so many great players. Frankie was the main reason the team was winning, but not according to Taryn. I actually began debating her about this, something I’d never done before. You just don’t argue with Taryn in public unless you want to feel the brunt of her ridicule. Maybe it was because she was furious at me for talking back, or maybe because she was drunk, but she ended up using the N-word when talking about Frankie. Actually, she used it several times.
That was my wake-up call. Shortly after that, I broke up with her. At first she apologized and blamed a whole bunch of things for her rant: the alcohol, then a prescription she was on, then her mother, then other things. When that didn’t work, she began to tell me that all I’d wanted was one thing, and when I got that I moved on. I told her she was a terrible person. It got more and more ugly. Then she finally decided to ignore me the rest of the year.
I think about all of it again and tell myself she’s just not a nice person. That’s putting it mildly. She’s pretty much a terrible person who’s been allowed to stay terrible because of her looks. I’ve often thought about this since, how we can’t help what we’re born with, whether it’s an ability to throw a football or an attractive face or a set of rich parents. Or maybe it’s none of those things, but instead it’s a father who hits you. We can’t help that. But we can help who we become.
It took you a long time before you wised up.
Maybe Taryn is a little right. Maybe I did get what I wanted and moved on. But I don’t believe that. I think I finally was able to see who she was and didn’t like it.
I think about Marvel and the conversation we had today. I wonder who she really is and why she doesn’t want to get involved. A part of me knows I’m not going to pay any attention to this. Maybe I’ll do what I did with Taryn. Maybe I’ll just keep trying.
Maybe, hopefully, it’ll end better than it did with Taryn.
A few days later, Devon sends me a link to an article about Artie Duncan’s death. I just scan it because it’s long and detailed, but several phrases stick out.
His body was found naked with his throat slashed from ear to ear and his chest stabbed over a dozen times.
Police have yet to identify a motive in the killing.
“It’s an unspeakable tragedy. His parents are completely grief-stricken,” says a neighbor.
This makes me feel a bit woozy. Hearing Artie got murdered is one thing. Hearing exactly how makes me feel kinda sick.
I think again about what Devon told me. It makes me wonder if the death did indeed have something to do with drugs. For someone to do a thing like this, maybe Artie was involved with something more than pot. Maybe things went bad. Like really, really bad.
When I get to Fascination Street I hear that Marvel called in sick. It also turns out that Harry is out for the day, and in his place is the all-things-cool-man Phil, the guy with the gray ponytail who seems to think it’s still the seventies.
“So what did Marvel say?” I ask him.
“She’s out. Can’t make it.”
Phil has never been one for long sentences.
“Did she say why?”
“She’s sick, brother. That’s all I need to know.”
I wonder what Phil looks like behind his thick beard and sunglasses. I also wonder about his past and how he ended up here.
“Did she say what’s wrong?”
“You don’t ask a woman what’s wrong. You never ask a woman what’s wrong.”
I laugh, but can’t tell if he’s making a joke or not. I’m thinking maybe he’s not. Some old seventies tunes are playing, a little louder than normal. It’s going to be a long day.
“Did you hear about Artie Duncan?” I ask Phil.
He nods and doesn’t even look at me.
“What do you think happened?”
“I think the world is full of sickos. I think the world is different from when I was your age. I would think there’s no hope. But I know there is.”
I wait for more, but nothing comes. Phil has a cross tattooed on one forearm, five strange symbols on the other. Maybe the guy believes in God, though I’m thinking he only believes in the god of reefer and other happy drugs. Maybe his hope is in a big, fat joint he can smoke.
“Scary stuff,” I say to him.
“Don’t be scared. Be smart.”
I manage to leave the record store before it’s dark outside. I remember what Phil said, but I don’t think “smartness” has anything to do with it. Was Artie stupid? Is that why he ended up getting his throat slashed? A car passes me, and the driver waves. I recognize him as a neighbor from down the street. His son is in my class. I wave back, but suddenly I feel a bit nervous. Who knows, he might be Artie’s killer. Or maybe Phil did it. Or maybe it was Harry, or Devon’s mother, or my father, or maybe it was Devon himself.
None of those make any sort of sense.
But I know the world doesn’t make sense. It’s nice to have teachers say Here are the facts and it’s great to have preachers say This is what you should believe, but nothing really makes much sense these days. Facts and faith are really not that useful when you suddenly get nabbed from behind and taken somewhere and raped and killed. They didn’t say Artie was raped, but I’m wondering why he didn’t have clothes on.
Before I’m able to get coasting down the hill toward my house, I see a figure standing beside a brick building, watching me.
It’s Marvel. And as I get closer to her, I see she’s been crying.
“Are you okay?”
Marvel’s standing in a doorway of the old brick building, but no cars are parked out front. I get off my bike and lean it against the building.
“No,” she says.
“What happened?”
“It’s just stuff at home,” she says.
I know about stuff at home, I think.
I study her face, then her arms and anything else I can see. I’m looking for bruises.
“What’s going on at home?”
She’s wearing a Cubs hat and a sweatshirt with jeans. Nothing really matches, so it appears that she just grabbed something and dressed quickly before leaving the house.
“I was told I could trust you.”
“By who?”
A car passes, and she leans back in the small doorway as though she’s afraid to be seen.
She answers my question with another question. “You won’t say anything to anybody, will you?”
I feel a strange dizziness, and I’m not sure why. It’s the same feeling I’ve gotten around Marvel from the very beginning. It’s not just being attracted to her. It’s totally different from any sort of feeling I ever had for Taryn.
“No, I won’t say anything,” I assure her. “What do you need to tell me?”
Her look says enough. Those dark eyes and round cheeks seem so heavy, so weighted down.
“What is it?” I ask.
“It’s my uncle. It’s just—it’s the way he looks at me.”
I nod. “Has he . . . ?”
“No. He’s never touched me. My aunt caught him snooping on me and they argued, but I feel like I’m the one who got in trouble. She acts like she doesn’t trust me. I can feel the oppression in that house.”
“Oppression? What do you mean?”
“Do you believe in demons, Brandon?”
I shrug. “Yeah, sure.” I think of my father.
“I mean real, true demonic activity.”
I think of the last horror movie I saw. “Yeah, I guess.”
Marvel’s eyes study me.
“What is it?” I ask, suddenly feeling like I said something wrong.
“I don’t know what it is, why every single thing seems to be leading me this way.”
“Every single what? Leading you where?”
“I was told to go to Fascination Records. I thought it was for some other reason. Now I believe it was to meet you.”
The mystery—no, not just the mystery, but the vagueness of what she’s saying—is a bit too much. So I make a joke. “You were destined to meet me,” I say with a smile. “Maybe you were destined to be with me.”
“Or maybe I was destined to save you.”
“Save me? Save me from what?”
She shakes her head and sighs. “I don’t know. I ask. Every day, Brandon, I ask God why. I ask him to show me. I ask him to reveal his will. And every time, he shows me the same thing.”
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