SCOUT

by Sanjiv Lingard

  I had him down as a pervert.

  We sat in his office, and thankfully he did not perch on the end of his desk as he had done in some of our previous meetings, his crotch at about head height.

  “I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’re making this application, Scout.”

  “I might have to defer for a year.”

  “That’s fine – we apply for state aid now, get it all in train. And if your mom recovers, then you’ll be off to college in the fall.”

  He seemed to have misunderstood the nature of my mother’s ailment.

  “Where’d you want to go?” he asked.

  “Chicago – of course, then Duke, or NYU.”

  “All good schools. I remember being your age…”

  I drifted off around about then, not because I didn’t want to hear him reminisce about his university days, but because a bus had pulled up in the parking lot and from it tumbled the soccer team. With the early starts at Dinkel’s, and working late into the night on my college application, I had forgotten that Mike was flying back from California that day.

  He jumped down Batman-style from the top of the steps and collided with his buddies. Principal Sting was telling me about his own time at college, when students had long hair and spent all day in picket lines.

  Right on!

  “It will be the time of your life,” Sting was saying, as I watched Mike and his pals dump their kitbags on the sidewalk.

  The lunch bell rang, and the corridors exploded with noise. Principal Sting was jolted back to the present day. Students flooded into the parking lot, obscuring Mike from view.

  I was itching to get out of the office, but Principal Sting wasn’t finished with me yet. He checked my application form, printed off my academic record, and spoke to his secretary to contact the admission officers at my target colleges.

  “We’ll get you into school – don’t you worry, Scout,” he said, shaking my hand. I knew he meant well, but he had taken forever to complete the paperwork, and in that time Mike had disappeared.

  I had been well and truly Stung.

  Chapter 30

  I rushed through a knot of freshmen who looked older than me. All that remained of the soccer team was a pile of luggage. Mike and the other boys had left.

  It was easy enough to pick up their scent. Hunger, after an early flight and small on-board meal, was the dominant emotion. These boys were headed for food.

  Mike and his friends had abandoned their bags, knowing that within the strict hierarchy of high school anything emblazoned with ‘Varsity Team’ would be left untouched. No one messes with the soccer stars.

  I jogged along the trail, hoping that they had headed for the canteen. But senior jocks would rather be seen dead than eating with civilians, and the soccer team had headed for the parking lot. My heart sank as I realised that Mike had joined his friends, and all that remained was a tell-tale scuff of rubber and the heat from a V8 engine.

  Much as I wanted to surprise Mike, I didn’t want to jog in pursuit. If I didn’t want to be late for Mr Dinkel, I would have to sprint. The only thing less attractive than a girl in work clothes is a girl sweating in work clothes.

  Damn! Why did I leave my cell back at Dinkel’s? It’s called a ‘mobile’ for a reason, dumb-ass!

  I unlocked my bike and glanced at the clock above the school entrance. Just a few minutes to the lunch rush, and there would be no chance to send Mike a text.

  Oh well, that’s the life of a coffee-pouring bagel girl.

  I rode past the sporting bags and into the parking lot. I had missed Mike, and the thought suddenly came to me that I had also missed lunch. I’m probably no weirder in my eating habits than any other teenager, but having worked in the catering trade since my junior year I’d got used to taking meals at unorthodox times. Breakfast, for example, was mid-morning, after the assault of the Moms’ Brigade; lunch was mid-afternoon, after the rush. I wasn’t used to eating at lunchtime – yet I was suddenly hungry.

  I was ravenous.

  It hit me like a physical pain, almost toppling me from the bike. It was the kind of hunger you feel if you have no qualms about your body shape, no fear that anyone is going to judge you if you sit at a table and stuff your mouth with everything and then some more.

  It was the hunger of a sports jock.

  I wobbled on the bike, as if punched in the stomach. I overshot the exit to the parking lot and then stopped. Balancing on one foot, I looked back at the empty spaces where Mike and his friends had parked their cars.

  I had sensed their trail – from the bike.

  My breath came fast and ragged. I wondered if this was a mistake, if I had somehow caught a reflection of my earlier sounding. I set off once again on the bike, circling the parking lot towards the pile of sports bags.

  My feet were on the pedals, and I was wearing trainers. Up until now, I had only been able to follow a trail by being in contact with the ground, and I had to be barefoot. I gained strength from the ground, as if it were my own personal third rail.

  Though suspended on the bike, I slipped easily into the groove. The boys’ hunger caught me yet again and steered me first towards the empty parking spaces and then out of the school gates in pursuit.

  I could follow the trail on a bike!

  I did not even think about being late for Mr Dinkel. All I thought about was my new skill – my talent was developing boundaries which were yet to be tested. It was like waking up one morning and finding that I was able to play the violin. Riding the trail seemed as natural as a musician playing the fiddle. It was hard to remember a time when I couldn’t see the trail from a bike.

  The bike led the way.

  I rocketed along Main Street and discovered that however fast I pedalled the trail remained distinct. Though Moy’s bike had left the factory with eighteen gears, most were rusted into a clump. If I had a bicycle that had more than three operational gears, and maybe with a comfortable saddle and brakes that could stop it when required, then I could chase down the freak who took children.

  I yelped, and punched the air. I couldn’t wait to tell Mike. This was it! This was our chance to find the missing boy!

  I sped past The Bean Counter and flipped it the finger.

  Screw you!

  Predictably, the boys had headed for the Nacho Barn. When you have a real hunger on, what is more satisfying than Tex-Mex? Right now those boys would be slathering their tacos with Dave’s Insanity Sauce.

  I skidded into the parking lot. Sure enough – there were two pickups, one belonging to The Drifter. The trucks throbbed with an aura of starving soccer boys. I could feel the emotion riding in waves from the overheated engines. They had raced to get here.

  I freewheeled on my bike towards the Barn. Through the vast windows, I could see Tyler and the other members of the soccer eleven crowding around a table, centre stage. They had somehow crammed into a booth for eight.

  Mike wasn’t with them.

  They hadn’t seen me yet, and in truth they were not looking out for a damp-haired girl gliding along on a bicycle. I looked around for Mike.

  Maybe he’s in the bathroom? I thought.

  But Mike was always the focus of things, and there was no space for him amongst the boys. And then another thought came to me:

  Maybe he hasn’t joined the team for lunch. Maybe he’s gone off to see someone. Maybe he’s gone off to see… me!

  The explanation was so perfect that I laughed with joy. Mike must be headed to Mr Dinkel’s for his favourite salt-beef bagel, ‘schmeared’ with hot mustard. There was not a moment to lose. If I pedalled fast I might beat him to it, and appear at the counter just as he came in the door.

  I rattled past the picture window of the Nacho Barn, catching The Drifter’s eye. Tyler half rose from the banquette, his mouth a big ‘O’. I could almost hear his befuddle
d catchphrase following me out of sight –

  “No shit?”

  *

  It was easy to pick up Mike’s trail. He had left the Barn in a hurry, still nursing a fearsome hunger but fired up by an important sense of mission.

  Oh? So I was a ‘mission’?

  It wasn’t quite what I expected him to be feeling. I’d hoped he might be thrilled, but here was a sense of urgency.

  Perhaps he was worried that I wasn’t picking up the cell phone?

  Mike had torn out of the parking lot. I had so expected his trail to head north west that I almost missed it as it made an abrupt turn to the south.

  Mike wasn’t headed to Mr Dinkel’s.

  I steered after him, knowing that this was a bad idea.

  Damn that curiosity. It’s what killed the cat.

  The trail led off Main Street and onto Randall. The area had seen better days. When the Doughy Doughy Boy bestrode the land, workers clocked off, the aroma of corn syrup in their hair, and headed for the bars and pool halls on Randall. There were barber shops and – I’m told – a private house that catered for all tastes.

  All that had gone, leaving behind a wasteland of used car lots and dry cleaners. The only bar to survive was O’Casey’s Irish Tavern, which opened just as the Doughy Mill closed down. It proudly announced that it was ‘Established in 2005’, next to an illuminated four-leaf clover. I guess it brought a bit of Irish luck to the owners of O’Casey’s, as the bar had limped on through the depression which gripped the town.

  One way it made ends meet was by forgetting to ID its patrons. For that reason, O’Casey’s was a favoured haunt of senior year students.

  I slowed down, the chain ticking against the spindle of the gears.

  This wasn’t good.

  Mike wasn’t a drinker, and yet here he was, in the middle of the day, at the most notorious joint for teenage alcoholics. I’d followed him like a creep. Mike wasn’t a criminal. He wasn’t even my boyfriend. Mike’s private business was exactly that – private.

  This cat was about to be well and truly killed.

  Coming out of the tavern, arm in arm, were Mike and Brianna. They were falling over each other, Mike laughing. They seemed, at this distance, to be cheerful and happy.

  They fell against a car. It was Brianna’s car – I recognised it now. A yellow VW beetle. How cute. It looked like a shade of toxic plutonium.

  And they kissed.

  I couldn’t tell whether he was kissing her, or whether she had made the first move. I lost count of the number of seconds their mouths were locked together. I think I held my breath for the entire length of it.

  And it didn’t end there. Mike and Brianna got in the car together. By now my vision was so blurred I couldn’t spot who was driving. I wanted the ground to swallow me up. At least the car was pointed in the other direction. They would leave without ever knowing my distress.

  But nothing in Scoutland is ever as easy as that.

  The yellow Beetle executed a sharp U-turn and headed towards me. Whilst admiring the German car’s efficient turning circle, I ducked out of sight behind a pickup. I forgot that I was astride a bike, so the ducking down consisted of losing my balance and clattering to the sidewalk.

  The paving stones smacked into my shoulder, a stony ‘hardee-har!’ to finish off a perfect day.

  *

  I slammed the door, took the battery from the phone and hurled the handset across the bedroom. Then I crashed onto the pillows, wanting to forget everything that had happened. I could see why people blotted the bad stuff with drink or drugs. All I wanted was oblivion.

  Sometimes it’s better to live in a cocoon. Each day that I pursued this stupid talent of mine, I got to see more of the inner workings of the world. If you could see the skull beneath the skin, then a person’s face would not be quite as beautiful. The more I saw, the less I liked it.

  Tacked on the wall was the street map, with pink Crayola tracing the route Mike had laid out for me. How vain of me to think that he was sending me a message! I leapt from the bed and tried to swipe it from the wall. Naturally, I missed. It now hung by one tack, upside down.

  When you spin a heart shape you are confronted by a completely different meaning. Just 180° can make the difference between love and self-hate. I understood, now, that Mike had invited me to the Halloween party to insult Brianna. The invite was a kind of rebound middle finger, saying: ‘I can go out with the plainest girl in the year and she’s still better than you!’ That I had thought otherwise made me exactly what hung on the wall:

  An ass.

  I was a misshapen, swollen ASS.

  DECEMBER

  Chapter 31

  December 1st, the snows came. It was the season’s way of telling us who was in charge. The airport was closed, and power lines came down. Ploughs travelled the highway, piling drifts taller than a house on either side. The wind, fresh from the North Pole, blew the snow back onto the road. The ploughs scooped it up again.

  I caught two buses to Bethesda. There was no direct service, so I had to change at Peoria. The windows were fogged all the way, and there was little point wiping the glass clean because there was nothing to see. The sky was the same colour as the earth.

  The driver let me off at the hospital gates. He told me to be at the stop by four if I wanted the return journey. He would look out for me, but if I wasn’t waiting his would be the last bus until Monday.

  I could have taken the easy option. I could have asked Molly to bring me in her Crown Vic, but I didn’t want to see Mike or any of his family.

  Why the hell did Molly ever have to introduce me to ‘Woody’ Forrester?

  She called every so often with a report on the search for Marcus. It wasn’t going so well.

  “I don’t want you to feel disappointed,” Molly said.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “That route you traced in the city? Guess what? It wasn’t covered by a single transit camera. I thought maybe it was bad luck when he parked out of sight in the municipal lot. Turned out the bastard planned his escape to the smallest detail. He took Marcus down blind alleys, following the only route out of the city that would not appear on camera.”

  “I was no use at all?”

  “No – you were useful. It tells me an awful lot about this operator. Can you imagine how much planning it took? How much foresight? This isn’t a guy who acts on the spur of the moment. He’s always in control, and he’ll find it hard to deviate from the plan, impossible to improvise. He’ll make a mistake; that’s how we’ll catch him.”

  *

  Thanksgiving had come and gone. Molly asked me to join her family, but I pretended I had another invitation. I spent the evening on the couch with Moyheddin, eating microwaved turkey and bingeing Friends. I didn’t feel I had much to be thankful for.

  I let Mike’s calls go to voicemail, deleted his texts. I didn’t want to speak to him, afraid that I would shriek at him.

  He was a traitor! More than that – he was a coward.

  Mike had never been honest – not with me, not with his buddies, and maybe not even with himself. He was too cowardly to admit his geeky side to the soccer jocks, and he was still in love with Brianna. That’s why he wouldn’t let me confront Brianna about the graffiti – because he wanted to be able to play the both of us off against each other.

  Walking up that hill towards the hospital, I let the wind blow Mike right out of me. It scoured the chambers of my heart, emptying me of my hopes and dreams. Even jealousy was blown to the south, and no thought of Mike remained.

  *

  Eileen sat alone in her room. The radio that I had bought for her remained on her dresser, but someone had taken away the power lead. There had been complaints about the noise, apparently. Some of the older folk could not sleep when Eileen played her music. Now she stared at th
e radio set, as if expecting it to burst into life.

  She looked up when I came in, and for a moment I thought I was looking at a ghost. She was pale, and she had lost more weight, and her hair was thin and straggly.

  “Oh, Mom,” I said, unable to check myself.

  I rushed across the room and hugged her tight – which was an awkward thing to do when she was sat in a chair and I was wrapped in a huge winter parka. I almost smothered her, I think.

  I threw off the coat, which gave me just enough time to remember the First Rule of Mom’s Club:

  Expect nothing.

  I wanted to hold her, to snuggle up until we were warm, to bury my cold nose in the crook of her neck as I used to when I was a child.

  Slowly Mom’s attention swung back into the real world. These last few years she had been lost for longer and longer at that multiplex in her head, watching whatever movies were being projected onto the screen. She no longer had an inkling of the world outside.

  “Eileen?” I said.

  Her mouth trembled, searching for a word. That was another symptom of those with dementia – if you don’t speak to them, they forget how to speak back. A sufferer needs to hear words, so that they can latch on to one of them and build a thought from it. It was clear that no one had been speaking to Mom. And without words, a person is lost.

  “Scout?” she asked, as if coming out of a dream. “Why are you crying?”

  “It’s cold, that’s all. The wind makes my eyes water.”

  “The radio doesn’t work,” she said.

  “I’ll get it fixed. The thing is, Eileen, you were playing it too loud.”

  “But I can’t hear it.”

  “That’s because it’s not working.”

  “That’s what I’m saying!”

  The conversation with Eileen was as absurd as ever.

  “I’ll get the nurse,” I said, beginning to stand. “I’ll get it fixed.”