“And what’s that?”
“You.”
Dad is waiting when I open the door to our house.
“Where’s my money?”
“What money?”
I look around for my brothers, but they must be upstairs or in the basement.
“The money you owe me for your trashed car.”
“I’m earning it back.”
My father isn’t that big, barely taller than I am, but he’s all mean muscle. He’s always worked out and still does. Which is why it really hurts when he moves across the room and slaps the back of my head.
“Empty your pockets,” he says.
I show him that they’re empty.
“Your wallet.”
I slip it out and open it up. There’s maybe ten bucks in there.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Dad asks. He’s drunk but not totally blasted. Something else is going on.
“I’m working every chance I get.”
“So what are you spending it on? Huh? You think I’m an idiot? I know you’re into something no good.”
He hits me again, this time against the side of my head, almost knocking me off my feet. “Don’t give me that smug look,” he says.
“I’m not giving you any look.”
He grits his teeth and stares at me, but there’s something missing in his eyes. Something totally gone.
“You need to give me money every time you walk into this house, you got that? Every single time you use something that’s mine. You understand?”
I’d love to talk back, to hit back, but I know better.
“Yes, sir,” I say.
There’s no sarcasm or irony or even a hint of rebellion in my voice.
I think back to my conversation with Marvel about how God told her to come into my life. That’s nice, because maybe she can ask God to help me out a bit. In some small or big way. Maybe lightning can strike down Dad. Maybe a car can run him over. Or maybe the killer who did that to Artie could also do it to Dad.
I wouldn’t care. I wouldn’t care a bit.
When I go upstairs a moment later, I see the light on in my parents’ bedroom. Mom works long hours and takes pills for sleep. Sometimes I think she takes too many, but I’d swallow a whole box of them if I had to sleep next to that monster. I wonder for the millionth time if she knows what Dad does to me. Alex and Carter have some idea. I tell them to just stay as far away from him as they can. As long as I can protect them from his craziness, I will. One day I’ll stand up to him. One day I’ll force things to go down. But for now I’ll just continue to take it.
In my room, I lock the door and turn on my computer. Sometimes I wish I could not just friend people on Facebook, but also get magically transported to their world. Maybe I could end up in Devon’s room or Frankie’s apartment, or maybe I could find Marvel and somehow show up in her favorite place in the world. Anywhere but here. Anywhere but this house that will never feel like home.
I try to find Marvel again, but no luck. I should ask her if she has an e-mail address and whether or not she’s on any social networks. I just want to connect. Even if I have nothing to say, I want to reach out and know she’s there. To hear from her and crack a joke. To try to forget that I’m basically a prisoner in this house and that maybe she is a prisoner too. I want to hear a simple hello. But once again, I can’t find her. It’s like she’s a ghost. Or maybe an angel.
There’s a link from someone that shows a page that’s supposed to be “Hilarious!” I click it and see a meme on a page someone from our high school has set up. I might have seen it before, because some of the pictures and quotes look familiar. But tonight I see a picture of someone I recognize. It’s Seth Belcher, and he looks like he’s either laughing or coughing by his locker. The caption says it all: This is what happens when you read comics and take drugs.
Nothing I’ve ever seen about Seth suggests he’s taken drugs. I try to find out who posted the photo, but I can’t.
I stay on Facebook for a while until I’ve had enough. I see some pictures of Taryn by a lake (wearing a tiny bikini). I see posts by Devon talking about Artie’s death. Everybody has a different opinion, and they all share it. They share way too much. Some joke and some are freaked out. Oh, and there’s another picture of Taryn wearing nothing and flaunting it.
I turn off my computer and wish I could do the same for my life. Just reboot it and suddenly find all the memory and viruses gone. Hear the “bong” sound on my MacBook and find that Dad and Mom and my brothers and my life are all running fast and smoothly without any problems or hitting or meanness. That would be pretty cool. But that’s impossible.
As impossible as bringing Artie Duncan back to life again. Or finding Marvel online and talking to her.
On my way to work a few days later, I spot a couple of guys in a silver Camaro. They’re wearing sunglasses and blasting their music, and at first I don’t pay them any attention. Until I realize the driver is Greg Packard, the big football player I hit with a baseball bat.
We look at each other for a second. Then I start pedaling down the road as fast as I can.
It’s lunchtime, but hardly anyone is around. I hear the squeal of tires and know that this race is going to be short and silly. I ride up onto the sidewalk so they won’t run me over (at least not without jumping the curb). The car honks several times and I hear howling.
You’re gonna get your face beat in.
Suddenly I’m the fastest cyclist in the world. I race down the sidewalk. I’m halfway down the street, the Camaro shadowing me on the road, when a garage door opens and a minivan begins backing up. I swerve back into the street and nearly hit Greg’s car as I slam on my brakes, then start riding toward the sidewalk on the other side.
I have an idea.
The Camaro slows down, and I hear my name called out. The minivan drives off the other way, so any thought of help from the soccer mom is gone. Greg is hurling curses my way and shouting something about payback.
There’s a small trail leading to the steps that head down to the quarry. I ride my bike all the way to the edge of them, then slip off the bike, pick it up, and start down the stairs. If I trip I’ll be in trouble because the bike’s weight will carry me down. But I make it all the way down before I hear some shouting above me.
“Brandon! You can’t hide forever!”
Greg is standing at the top of the stairs. I suck in air and look at him. I know he’s not going to bother heading down the hundreds of wooden steps. He’ll just wait for another time.
“I’ll find you!” he shouts.
I know he will. Who knows what will happen when he does.
I’m pedaling up a small incline on the road that leads back to town. As I do, I see a black Lincoln driving toward me at a pace similar to mine. The car looks new and freshly washed and polished. As it passes, I glance at the driver, who has his window down. An old, bald guy who looks as though he was born with a frown on his face looks at me with a what-are-you-doing-around-here expression, then rolls up his window and drives on.
I try to memorize the image. I wonder if this is Otis Sykes.
If it is, no wonder he lives alone by a quarry. He’s like Shrek hiding his ugliness in the forest.
By the time I show up at Fascination Street I look like summer soccer practice has already started. Marvel gives me a funny look.
“Forget to take a bath?”
“I didn’t realize my bike didn’t have air conditioning,” I say.
I’m not going to get into it about the guys following me. I want this girl to date me, not counsel me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, to change the subject.
“I’m organizing T-shirts.”
“The excitement never stops. Can I help?”
“After you towel off.”
I look at her and smile. Even though I won’t earn a penny being here today, I’m glad to be here.
“So are you going to tell me no again?” I ask Marvel.
/> The store is closing and it’s Friday evening. We’ve talked and laughed all day long, and there’s no reason why that should stop.
“I don’t think I heard a question anywhere,” she tells me.
“Do you want to hang out? Especially since God keeps telling you that you should?”
I see a serious look on her face. “Don’t mock. I only told you that because I can trust you.”
“I’m not mocking you—I want to hang out with you.”
“Six hours isn’t enough?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“Don’t you have friends to hang out with?”
“I’d rather hang out with you.”
She’s wearing another bright, flowery top and white pants. She’s a bit more dressed up than usual, making me think that maybe and possibly she did that with the thought of our going on a date.
“Have you seen the zombie movie with Brad Pitt?”
“No, and I don’t plan to,” Marvel says. “I have enough of those in my life already.”
I laugh, then think about what she said. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you calling me a zombie?”
“Hardly.”
She walks out of the store, and I follow. It’s been clear all day, but for some reason there’s a dark cloud right above us. It’s one of those lone clouds that looks like an orphan.
“Are you being picked up?” I ask her.
She shakes her head. “I’m walking home.”
“You live that close?”
“It’ll be a long walk, but that’s okay.”
“I’d drive you home, but . . . well, you know.”
Marvel only smiles.
“How about we get some Chinese food? It’s right across the street.”
“I don’t know.”
“Weren’t you just talking about how good an egg roll would be?”
It’s funny, because everything about her gives off the impression that she actually wants to hang out. She’s dressed up and has no ride, and she really was just talking about wanting to eat Chinese.
“Just think of it as you’re still working,” I say. “If the thought of being around me is so awful.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine. Let’s go. And I never said that being around you is so awful. You know what I said.”
“Something about your being destined to be with me?”
“No, I didn’t say that either.”
I follow her, and as I cross the street I feel the sprinkle of raindrops coming down. Everywhere I look there are clear skies, but I’m getting rained on.
“Are you coming?” Marvel asks, already across the street.
“Do you see this?” I say, pointing upward.
“Someone’s trying to get your attention.”
“Yeah, but why?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
I run toward Marvel, who is already walking down the sidewalk toward the Chinese restaurant. Maybe she really is just wanting an egg roll and doing me a favor. But I don’t care. It’s Friday night, and I finally have the date I’ve wanted the last couple of weeks.
I spend a bunch of time talking about Appleton High and about my family. By the time our meal comes, I wonder if Marvel is getting tired of me talking. “Sorry to keep rambling.”
I realize I’ve actually been quite nervous for the last fifteen minutes.
“You know what I like about you?” she asks.
“There’s something you like?”
“You never ask me about my family.”
“So tell me about your family.”
She shakes her head and takes a bite of her Szechuan chicken.
“The thing about this school year is that nobody here knows me. Nobody knows my family or my history or my story.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“It’s marvelous.”
I laugh. “Was that a pun?”
“No. It’s an adjective.”
She takes another bite and smiles. I have a hard time knowing if she’s teasing with me or not.
“So where do you see yourself after high school?”
“I don’t,” Marvel says.
“You don’t what?”
“I don’t see myself after high school.”
“Don’t you want to go to college?”
“I’d love to,” she says. “But I don’t think it’s in the plans.”
“Too expensive?”
For a minute she thinks about my question. “Yes. Yes, I think I can say that it’s too expensive.”
My sweet-and-sour pork doesn’t interest me as much as this conversation. “Talking with you is always confusing.”
“It’s only confusing when you ask questions.”
“Good point.”
“I know how you can fix that.”
I smile. “I’m just curious.”
Marvel looks out the window next to our table. For a moment she seems deep in thought. “Want to know what I’m curious about?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
When she looks back at me she still seems far away.
“I’m curious about what will happen when we take that last breath.”
I didn’t expect that. “That’s kinda morbid.”
“No it’s not. Don’t you wonder? I wonder, will I suddenly be up there in the heavens? Will I see God’s face the moment it happens, or will I have to wait? And if I do wait, will I be impatient, or will I be content to simply soak in everything?”
“I don’t really like thinking about death.”
Especially when guys in Camaros are chasing after me.
“It’s not death I’m thinking about,” Marvel says. “It’s what happens next. I just wonder—I wonder what sort of memories I’ll have. What kinds of thoughts and feelings I’ll take with me. I think I’ll remember everything, but I’ll remember in a different way.”
“Remember what?”
She looks back outside. “The awful stuff. The dark stuff. The stuff we don’t want to think about but are forced to.”
For a second I picture my father’s face, then try to do everything possible not to think about him.
“Wouldn’t it be nice?” she asks.
I nod. “Yeah, to blink and forget about all the crap.”
“No, not to forget. But to make peace with it. Or more like to have peace about it.”
“I spend my time thinking about how to get my car paid off.”
Marvel nods. “I know. I think about what it’s going to be like next year. I think about all that stuff. All the temporary things. But you know—what happens when you suddenly don’t have time anymore? When the clock isn’t ticking?”
“I just hope I’m not stuck fishing like my grandfather used to say. ’Cause if so, heaven’s gonna be pretty boring.”
She puts her fork on her half-eaten food. “It might be a lot of things, but boring isn’t one of them.”
“Singing choir songs could get old.”
“Singing about being rescued will never get old. Never.”
When we eventually get the bill, Marvel forces me to split it. I follow her outside and tell her I wish I had a car to drive her home.
“I’m happy to walk.”
“Can I at least ride my bike along?”
It’s just after eight, and the sun hasn’t completely faded away, so it’s not like it’s totally dark.
“I’ll be okay.”
“You say that in a pretty confident way,” I say.
“Because I mean it.”
“Not to be dark, but you’re the one talking about death.”
“I’m talking about freedom,” Marvel says.
“You know a kid our age was found in the river a couple of weeks ago?”
She nods.
“I want you to be safe.”
“It was a male who was found,” she says.
“That’s comforting.”
“I’m just saying.”
We’re standing
on the sidewalk near Main Street that will take her over the river and back home. I’d love to kiss her, though I know this isn’t the time or place. We’re not even at the “I kinda like you” stage, at least as far as Marvel is concerned. I stare at her for a moment, not sure what to say.
“I can read your mind,” she says.
I raise my eyebrows. “I don’t think so.”
She nods. “Boys. You’re all the same.”
“You’re nothing like the girls at our school.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“’Cause I know,” Marvel says. “There’s a reason I’m different. That’s why I’m still here.”
I’m confused. “Still here . . . you mean still hanging out with me?”
“Sure,” she says in a way that makes it sound like I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Good night, Brandon.”
“Be careful, okay? I’d tell you to text me when you’re home, but you don’t have a cell phone.”
“Says who?”
“You do?”
“I just don’t like giving out my number,” she says.
Then she walks away.
I’m sitting on the curb drinking an energy drink that Ms. Middleton gave me, feeling like I’ve mowed a dozen lawns. Ms. Middleton has a massive lawn, but I cut her grass for free. Her husband died a couple of years ago in a really bad car accident, so when she called one day and asked what I charge, I told her I’d do it for free. At least she gives me something to sip on afterward.
I don’t notice the car slowing down and parking across the street until I hear a car door open and close and see a guy walking toward me. He’s maybe in his thirties and looks like some kind of salesman.
“Are you Brandon Jeffrey?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
For a second I wonder if I’m in trouble. Or if Dad has done something really, really bad.
“Can I ask you some questions about the death of Arthur Duncan?”
It’s weird to hear Artie called Arthur. Is the guy a reporter?
“I’m Detective Passini,” he says.
Don’t they only talk to suspects?
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