Someone else might ask why or offer some kind of helpful tip or advice or apology. Marvel just walks over and hugs me. She holds on to me for a while and I almost—almost—feel like I’m going to cry. I’m not going to because I swear I’m incapable of doing it anymore, but I still feel something inside shift. Something that hasn’t moved for a very long time.
Marvel doesn’t mind hugging me on the corner of Sky Avenue and Second Street. When she finally moves away, I see tears in her eyes.
“Hey, it’s okay,” I tell her.
She wipes her eyes, then shakes her head as if to say no it’s not. Or maybe she’s thinking about her own father and her family.
“This still doesn’t compare to what happened to you,” I tell her.
“People aren’t supposed to compare nightmares. They’re always equal.” She’s still examining my bump.
“I look pretty tough, don’t I?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For telling me.”
I nod. I feel lighter.
“Do you want to walk me home?” she asks me.
“Wow. I get to walk you home?”
“Yeah. But before that, can we just—maybe go by the river? Just to sit for a while?”
“Of course.”
Minutes later we’ve crossed one of the bike bridges and we’re sitting on a bench in a gazebo on a small patch of island in the middle of the river. Sometimes people come here to fish. Other times homeless people come to sit in the shade. On this evening, thankfully, we’re alone.
For a while Marvel watches the water pass. I think she’s going to say something, but she remains quiet.
“I don’t want this to change anything,” I tell her.
“Change? How so?”
“Well, you know, I don’t want you to suddenly feel sorry for me and feel a need to go out with me again.”
She shakes her head. “Don’t worry.”
“Ouch. Maybe you can at least think about it.”
“Can I just—do you mind if I tell you what I’m thinking?”
I look at Marvel. “When do you not tell me what you’re thinking?”
“You just shared this thing, and I want to help. That’s all.”
“Okay,” I say.
“The one thing I know—that I believe—is that Jesus sees us for who we are when we go to him. That’s what gives me so much strength. Because I come before him with all this stuff. Fears and questions and anger and failure and confusion. He knows.”
“Considering what you’ve gone through, you have a right to ask some questions.”
“I have to give him everything because if I don’t, it just takes me under. Like someone drowning, you know? That’s all I know to do.”
“And it works for you, right?”
Marvel nods, then looks at me. “It’s the only thing I know that works. It’s all.”
I glance at the water and see its never-ending motion. “I prefer denial myself. And humor. And deep-dish pizza.”
Marvel takes my hand. “I’m sorry, Brandon.”
“Yeah, me too. We’re both sorry. So what?”
“It matters. I know it does.”
I squeeze her hand and look at her. “So okay, I’ve told you my big secret. Can we agree to tell each other everything?”
“I don’t know,” she says.
“What? There’s more to tell me?”
“I’m not ready,” Marvel says. Her voice and face make it seem like she’s going to cry again.
“No, don’t—come on,” I say. “It’s fine. Just—whenever you’re ready.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. Not for what’s to come.”
“And what’s that?”
She shakes her head and squeezes my hand back. Then she looks out toward the fading horizon. She doesn’t want to say anymore. That’s okay. I’ll sit here and just be here with her.
She knows and she doesn’t care. No, I take that back. She knows and she cares very deeply.
It’s a pretty awesome thing.
Walking her home feels like it takes forever and then again feels like only a few minutes. We take sidewalks through the center of downtown Appleton and keep walking. We pass the statue of the owl that’s the high school mascot. We talk about school next year. I mention how I’m excited about soccer and how much I dislike the football team even though one of my best friends is the quarterback. We talk about cheerleaders, about the fact that I liked one for a while. We shift to music, then on to fireflies. We talk about everything except the heavy stuff.
The conversation seems endless, yet I know that no matter how long it takes, we’ll eventually get to her home. Our talk will be over, yet I’ll want more.
“Here we are,” she says as we arrive at the apartment buildings I’ve passed a hundred times in my life yet never really noticed.
“Cool.”
“I’m in the middle building.”
“Okay.”
I walk alongside her, guiding my bike beside me as I have the entire way.
“I didn’t want you to see where I live,” Marvel says.
“Really? Why?”
“Because I thought you might judge me for some reason. Because—because I didn’t know you.”
“Doesn’t matter where you live.”
“My uncle and aunt barely make it, so having me there has been a struggle. They don’t have any children. I think they tried and couldn’t. My aunt has always been like a second mother. Well—that was before I got older, before everything happened with my family. Sometimes she acts like it’s my fault. And Uncle Carlos, he definitely isn’t a father figure.”
I stop for a moment before we get to the parking lot. “Hey—can you promise me something?”
“Depends on what you want me to promise,” she says. “I take promises very seriously.”
“Will you tell me if your uncle does anything to you? Or even tries?”
She looks at me but says nothing. A car passes by, momentarily lighting us up in the dark night. Clouds have gathered above, shadowing everything, including the two of us.
“Marvel, I want to help.”
“What are you going to do? I mean, if something happened? You didn’t do anything to your father, did you?”
“He scares me,” I say.
“You haven’t been around Uncle Carlos.”
“I don’t know. It’s different.”
“Why?”
I shrug. I guess my rationale doesn’t make sense. I can’t even think of striking back at my father. I’d love to, but it just will never happen. At the same time, it doesn’t matter how big and bad Uncle Carlos is. I feel protective of Marvel. More protective than I am of myself.
“I’ll tell you on one condition,” Marvel says.
“What is it?”
“We make a pact. To tell each other if anything happens to either of us.”
“Is this going to be a blood pact?”
“Yeah, it’ll be a blood pact,” she says. “If either of us sheds blood, we tell each other.”
“Yeah, okay. Sheds blood or just something bad. You tell me.”
“And you tell me.”
I reach out and shake her hand. “It’s a deal. A pact. A promise.”
“I don’t want to ask too much of you, Brandon.”
“You haven’t asked anything.”
“Just being here is asking a lot. I know.”
There she goes again. “What do you know? Tell me.”
“Not tonight. Not now.”
“The way you talk, it’s like you know the world is going to come to an end or something.”
“Or something.”
I follow her down a slight hill to the parking lot and over to the middle apartment building.
“Thank you for riding out to see me,” Marvel says.
“Thank you for waiting.”
She smiles, seems to think about something, then turns around and heads into the building.
> I get the feeling she was wondering whether to hug me good night, or maybe give me a peck on my cheek, or maybe just say good night. But she does none of those things. She simply heads into the murky shadows of the place she calls home.
I sigh, knowing I have to go back to a similar place.
Home should never be dark or full of shadows and secrets. It should be bright and full of open doors. It should be full of stories wanting to be told.
I’m glad I’ve told somebody one of those stories I didn’t think I could ever tell. I just hope there won’t be any more of them. From either of us.
A few days later I get a Facebook message from Frankie. Hey man, check this out.
I go to the link he sent. A picture pops up on my laptop, and at first all I can see is the word LOSER written on something.
That’s not on something. That’s on someone.
I see the name Seth Belcher. Someone wrote in black ink on his forehead. In the picture it looks as though he’s been crying.
What happened? I message Frankie.
Looks like they were messing with him again. I don’t know how or when.
I can feel the anger building inside of me. I’m going to go to his father.
Sgt Packard?
Yeah, I type.
I wouldn’t.
This is gonna go on all summer.
Yeah.
Frankie’s indifference annoys me almost as much as the picture I’m seeing. You know it was Greg, don’t you?
Yeah, I’m sure.
I think about going to the police station, then realize I can’t. They’d ask me about my shiner and I’d have to lie. Nope. Can’t do anything about this for a while.
Maybe go find Seth. See if I can help him.
You remember where the guy lives? I ask Frankie.
Yeah, just came from his house a minute ago.
Shut up.
Have no idea. It was dark when he led us to that dead-end street.
Is that a pun?
A what? Frankie asks.
Never mind.
I head out, ready to cut some lawns and make some money. I might make it back to the record store. I realize that black eyes take a long time to go away. My bruise keeps evolving into a rainbow of strange colors. I’d rather not have to explain it to Harry, who will surely ask.
Maybe I can find Seth and he’ll realize I can sympathize with him.
The third time I see the car, I know someone is following me.
I don’t recognize it, and the first couple of times I saw it didn’t make me think twice. But the third time I see the black Jeep Cherokee with tinted windows, I know it’s following me. It has to be, since it’s just parked on the curb half a block down from where I’m cutting my third lawn of the day. No one gets out of the SUV. It just sits there and waits.
I wipe sweat off my forehead as I put my lawn mower back in the trailer. I decide to walk by the parked car. Maybe I’ll be able to see who is inside. Maybe the person inside has something to say to me.
I step up to the sidewalk and walk past two houses before the SUV pulls away. It doesn’t start up and squeal its tires and take off. It just moves away.
For a moment I wait to see if it’s going to come back, but it doesn’t. I text Marvel. Does anybody in your family drive a black Jeep Cherokee?
No. Why?
I’ll explain why when I talk to her next. Which I hope will be tonight.
I never do get hold of Marvel that night, or the next day. I realize something is up when Harry calls to say he needs me to come in. “She called in sick yesterday and again today.”
I suddenly feel ill, imagining the worst. “What’d she say?”
“Just she’s got some stomach bug.”
“I can be there within the hour,” I tell Harry.
First I need to see if I can talk to Marvel. Or better yet, see her in person.
After texting and calling, I borrow Glyn’s truck and drive over to her apartment building. I text her again to say I’m at her building and need to see her. I finally get a call back.
“Are you okay?” I ask before I even hear her voice.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I just can’t work today.”
“You don’t sound like you have the stomach bug.”
“It’s my aunt. I didn’t want to go into details with Harry.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
There is a pause.
“Marvel?”
“I can’t tell you.”
So much for the pact.
“What about the promise we made to each other? About saying if something happens to one of us?”
“Nothing happened to me,” Marvel says. Her voice is calm, probably more calm than mine.
“Then what’s going on?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Is this like female stuff? My mother will sometimes tell us boys to not worry about something because it’s female stuff.”
Her laugh makes me feel better. “No, it’s not ‘female stuff.’ It’s more complicated than that.”
“I’m standing outside your apartment building.”
“I can’t leave my aunt. You just have to trust me on this.”
“Marvel, I don’t—”
“Brandon, please.”
I glance around the parking lot, wondering if her uncle might be around, ready to drive into me with his car.
“The last thing I need after the past couple of days is pressure. Please.”
I sigh. “Okay, sorry. All right. But just—just let me know if I can do anything.”
“Just trust me when I tell you I’m okay.”
I head back to the truck. I don’t know if I believe her when she says she’s okay, but I have to let her be. I hate it. It’s like Seth. I want to help him out, even though I barely know him, and even though he doesn’t seem to care for my help.
“Keep in touch,” I say.
“I’ll see you soon,” Marvel says.
For some reason I’m having a hard time sleeping, so I decide to ride my bike.
But it’s about two in the morning, isn’t it?
I go riding, even though I don’t have a light on my bike. I head down to the record store, and it’s totally lit up inside. I wonder if Harry forgot to turn off the lights when he closed. Then I see that the front door is open, and strange music is coming from inside.
I hear my voice being called out as if it’s part of the song.
But that doesn’t really make sense, does it?
“Brandon . . . ,” the voice says.
It’s Marvel’s voice. She says it in a desperate way, a pleading fashion. She sounds tired and wounded.
“Brandon, help me.”
I get off my bike and go inside the store. The music is louder, and it gives me the chills. It sounds like a church organ playing a weird, somber tune, the kind you might hear at a funeral. Then I see Marvel dressed in black.
“You came when I called,” she says.
But she never called, and why is she dressed in black?
“Am I dreaming?” I ask.
“Doesn’t reality sometimes seem like a wonderful dream or a horrible nightmare?”
“Yes.”
“Life can be that way if we allow it to be,” Marvel says.
So am I making up these images and words and playing them out in my head?
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. But you aren’t and neither are any of the people around you.”
“Why is that?”
“Because something bad is coming. Something very bad.”
The organ suddenly stops playing and the silence feels really eerie.
“This is a dream,” I say.
Marvel shakes her head and begins to laugh. “No, Brandon. This is definitely not a dream.”
Then I see her face morph into my father’s hateful glare. “Come over here, Brandon,” he says in that tone I know so well.
Now I don’t want to be dreaming anymore. I want to wake up.
“You think you can go behind my back but you can’t, son. You can’t and you never will.”
Suddenly the figure in black starts running toward me, but it’s not my father. It’s Seth Belcher, and he looks very dead and very cut up and very creepy.
I start running, and I’m running and I think I actually try to run out of my bed. I jerk and pinch my neck and then realize I’m almost off my mattress. I’m sweating and my heart is racing.
For a long time, I just breathe in and out. I can’t remember the last nightmare I had. Most of the time I don’t get crazy dreams. The world is crazy enough without them. This came out of nowhere.
Then again, so did Marvel.
“Did you hear the latest on the search for Artie Duncan’s killer?” Harry asks.
His question surprises me. “I heard they let the suspect go, right?”
“Yeah. The cops are telling teens in particular to be on the alert. They don’t think Artie’s death was random. They feel it was premeditated and well planned out. That’s why they’re having such a hard time finding who did it.”
“Did the police say who the suspect was?”
“You need to be careful,” Harry says without answering. “I know you ride your bike around, sometimes at night, so just be careful.”
I think of the odd nightmare I had the other night. Harry’s gaze seems serious. I know he’s trying to both encourage me and warn me.
“Tell your friends, too,” he says.
“You really think there’s some crazy killer out there?”
His eyes dart around behind his glasses. “I pray there’s not, Brandon. I’d like to think Artie’s death was just some random, awful act of violence. But you can never be too careful in this world. I hear about kids being abducted all the time. It makes me not want to let our boys out of the house.”
“Yeah, it’s freaky.”
For a moment he stares at me. “You know—you can tell me stuff if you need to.”
“About Artie’s death?” I’m not sure I’m following him.
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