He was in the section of the library devoted to animals. A shelf with nothing but books about dogs. A book with nothing but diseases that afflicted dogs. His mom had been right. The Kid sat on the smelly carpet, his back to the shelves.
The pages were filled with descriptions, glossy color photographs. Page after page of canine affliction. There were blotches, blights, bumps, rashes. There were parasites, fleas and ticks, worms that lived in dogs’ intestines, in their skin, in their hearts. There were broken bones, sprained joints, arthritic limbs. There were urinary tract infections, bowel disorders, heart and lung diseases. There was no end to the list of things that could go wrong.
There were diseases of the brain that lead to fits and seizures, neurological malfunctions illustrated in the book by drawings of an electrical storm over the dog’s head, dark clouds with lightning bolts. There were photographs of dogs gripped by these malfunctions, dogs lying on kitchen floors, bathroom floors, legs shot out and stiff, jaws snapping, mouths frothing, eyes glassy and wild. Dogs that looked like Steve Rogers on the porch, about to bite The Kid’s dad, about to pee all over himself.
Canine Epilepsy. A term for it, a name. Something already discovered and researched. There was no known cause, no definite reason some dogs had seizures. Maybe it was inherited from the dog’s parents, maybe the dog had some trauma to its head. A blow, a beating. Maybe it had been trapped in the sewer for days, weeks, eating rats, maneuvering in the dark. There was no reason. It was just something that happened.
There was a loud whisper from the other side of the bookshelf, Rhonda Sizemore telling Arizona to Keep away from him. The Kid tried to ignore it, tried not to worry if Arizona would believe what she was being told, if she’d follow this advice. If she’d be scared away completely. He concentrated on the book instead.
The book said that there was no real way of predicting when a seizure was going to occur, but sometimes the dogs knew. Sometimes the dogs acted funny. This was called the aura phase. Also called the prodrome phase. During this time, a few minutes before a seizure, a dog might act frightened, spooked, might come looking for comfort, for company. The best thing to do during this phase was to get the dog to a safe, open area, away from furniture or sharp objects, away from electrical cords they might get tangled up in.
During the seizure, there wasn’t too much that could be done. The dog will shake, the dog will make unnatural noises. The dog might lose control of its bowels. Its tongue might turn blue. These were all documented things, things people had seen and experienced before. There were pictures in the book. A seizure usually lasted two to three minutes. The book said that you should write down details of the seizure, keep a written record of what was happening. Keep your hands away from the dog’s mouth. Don’t worry about the dog swallowing its tongue. The dog won’t swallow its tongue. Its tongue is too long. Be patient. Stay calm. It will only last a few minutes.
The Kid wrote these things in his notepad under the heading Steve Rogers, Epileptic. It was reassuring, transferring this information from the library book to his notebook. The comfort of a known thing.
After school, he took a long, roundabout route to the burned house. He didn’t want to stay outside, vulnerable on the street to Brian or Razz, but he was in no hurry to get to the house. He was afraid of what he would find. He expected police cars, TV news vans, Miss Ramirez and the vice-principal, Michelle’s angry mom and her mom’s drunk boyfriend, the bawling twin sisters, the porch and front yard crowded with people and cameras and lights. This was a major event. A girl had run away from home, had spent the night in the burned house. Michelle would be arrested, taken to jail. The Kid would be shown as an accomplice. The mural would be discovered, broadcast on TV, unfinished before the signal could be sent out, the angel still missing a hand, exposed for everyone to see.
He stopped at Gift 2000 and bought a few things for Michelle. A box of cereal, a word search book. Finally screwed up enough courage to make his way down the street.
There were no news vans, no police cars. There were no people crowded on the sidewalk. The burned house looked like it always looked, quiet and empty. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe that something like this could happen and no one would know.
There seemed to be another candle missing from the ring by the front door. The Kid couldn’t be sure, but he thought he remembered more candles the night before.
He opened the security door, moved through the front room quietly, into the hallway, past the bathroom. There was no guarantee that Michelle was even still there. He might find the living room empty, the expired candle, a note that said she’d left for the Twin Cities.
The Kid heard something to his right, a noise in the bedroom. He turned to see a shadow coming fast, swinging something large, a club or a bat, and he was only able to drop the Gift 2000 bag and put his hands over his face before he was hit hard in the chest. He fell onto his backpack on the floor, rolled and curled, keeping everything close and tight to minimize how much the kicks and punches hurt.
Nothing else happened. He lay curled in a ball, waited. Was it Brian and Razz? Was it the grabbing men from the library lawn? Nothing else happened. He heard heavy breathing from above. He didn’t open his eyes, didn’t want to see what was coming. He would rather just get through it.
“Fuck.”
He knew the voice, but the voice didn’t register. He kept his body clenched, his arms and legs drawn in as tight as they could go, his stomach tensed, his eyes closed.
Someone was touching him. A hand on his shoulder. Not punching or scratching or pushing, just a hand on his shoulder. The voice again. “Kid, I’m sorry. Look. It’s me. Open your eyes.”
He knew the voice, but the voice didn’t register. He squeezed tighter into the ball, clenching every muscle, keeping his face hidden away.
“Kid, calm down. It’s okay. It’s just me.”
The hand moved to his elbow, prying his arms off his head. The Kid fought against it, but the hand kept pulling, unfolding his elbows and knees.
He opened his eyes. Someone was crouched beside him, long hair hanging down to brush his cheeks.
“It’s okay,” Michelle said. “I didn’t know it was you.”
They sat on the living room floor next to the candles. She’d hit him with a two-by-four she’d pulled from one of the charred hallway walls. She’d been carrying it all day in the house as a weapon, in case the men who stole her backpack came after her again. She kept the two-by-four beside her as she ate the cold chicken and handfuls of cereal straight from the box.
“I have a good swing,” she said. “My dad used to tell me I could play for the Dodgers if they let girls play.”
The Kid didn’t know if her swing was that good, but he knew it was hard. He could feel a bruise forming on his chest, the skin tender and swelling.
She told him that she hadn’t left the house. She’d read the comics about a million times and looked at the mural, but other than that it was pretty fucking boring. She picked up the word search book, looked at the cover, put it back down. Dug another handful of cereal out of the box and shoved as much as she could into her mouth.
“Did anybody ask about me at school?”
The Kid shook his head.
“Good,” she said, although she didn’t sound like she thought it was good. The Kid thought that maybe she sounded disappointed. He wondered if he should have lied, if he should have said that all the kids were asking about her, Miss Ramirez was asking, Mr. Bromwell, everybody. He wondered if maybe she would go back home if he told her this.
Are you coming back to school?
“Hell no.”
Someone’s going to notice.
“Who’s going to notice?”
Miss Ramirez.
“Fuck Miss Ramirez.”
You shouldn’t say that.
“Why not?”
She’s our teacher.
“So the fuck what?”
People are going to get worried.
“Exactly,” she said, chewing again. “Nobody gives a fuck.” She poked a straw into the juice box, took a long pull. “You’re going to come here soon and I’ll be gone. Don’t be surprised. You’ll come in here and the place will be empty again. I’ll leave the candles. That’s how you’ll know I’m gone. I sent a letter to my dad today. He’s going to send a bus ticket right to this address. One-way to Minneapolis.”
When?
“Soon.” She picked up the word search book, flipped it over to look at the instructions on the back cover. “I don’t know when exactly, but soon you’ll come in here and I’ll be gone.”
The Kid didn’t know if he believed her or not. He knew she wanted it to be true, but he didn’t know if it actually was true. She said she hadn’t left the burned house all day, so how did she mail the letter? Where did she get the stamp?
“Let me see,” she said.
What?
“Where I hit you. Lift up your shirt and let me see.”
The Kid shook his head.
“Don’t be a pussy. I just want to see where I hit you.”
The Kid untucked his shirt, lifted it over his belly, up past his head. He couldn’t see what Michelle was doing, but he could feel her leaning in, her face in close to his chest. He felt her hand near the sore spot, the warmth of her fingers, not touching him, just hovering close.
“Not bad,” she said. “I don’t know if it’ll make a scar, but it’s not a bad bruise.”
He sat in the pickup in the parking lot of Lucy’s school. He wasn’t sure how long he had been there, what time it was. Midafternoon. He hadn’t been to the school since Lucy had been gone. He’d had no reason to go back. He hadn’t even driven by.
A hefty security guard stood by the front entrance, cleaning his nails with a toothpick. Darby told the man he was a parent. The guard nodded, let him through. Darby stood in the main hallway. The overhead lights shone off the linoleum, the metal lockers, a headache-inducing gleam. The hall empty, the middle of a class period.
He climbed the staircase to the second floor, past the principals’ offices, the break room. A day like this, right about this time in the afternoon. Greene carrying Lucy down the hall. He tried to picture it, tried to conjure the moment around him, but now that he was actually there, he couldn’t. He couldn’t see it.
He stepped into the nurse’s office. The nurse was washing her hands at the sink, an older woman with bug-eyed glasses and a short chop of bottle-reddened hair. She looked up when he came in the door.
“Can I help you?”
She didn’t recognize him. He was surprised by this. He thought that she’d know exactly who he was. She had seen him many times before, picking Lucy up from school, helping Lucy move things in and out of her classroom in the afternoons, during weekends, summer recess. The nurse shook her hands in the sink, pulled a brown paper towel from the dispenser. She tilted her head a little, walked toward him, drying her hands. She tossed the paper towel in the garbage pail, waited for a response.
“I’m looking for a student,” he said.
“Are you a parent?’
“Yes.”
“You have a child at this school?”
“No. I have a son in middle school.”
“We don’t give student information to anyone other than parents or legal guardians.”
“I’m not looking for medical information.”
“We don’t give any information to anyone other than parents. Can I have your name, sir?”
He didn’t want to say it. He wanted her to know without him saying it. He wanted her to know, to remember.
“Darby,” he said, finally. “My last name is Darby.”
She looked at him, eyes swollen through the lenses of her glasses. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, Mr. Darby, I’m so sorry. I didn’t recognize you for some reason. I’m so sorry. How are you?”
He nodded. The familiar question. He nodded. That was his answer.
“It was Dennis, right? Your name? Dennis, I was so sorry to hear about Lucy. We all were.”
He didn’t know what that meant. That she’d heard about Lucy. This woman had been there, had called the ambulance. He didn’t know what she was talking about, that she’d heard about Lucy.
“How is your son? William?”
“Whitley.”
“Whitley. Yes, of course. I remember Whitley. When Lucy was setting up her room in the summers, he’d be running in and out of the empty classes, singing in the loudest voice.”
“He’s in sixth grade now. Whitley.”
“Is he still singing?”
“No, he’s not.”
He wished he had brought the newspaper clipping. He wanted to show her the name, the blurred face. Greene, D. He wanted the nurse to tell him what she knew, what she remembered.
“Mr. Darby?”
The nurse was looking at him, concerned. “Is something wrong with your hand?” she said.
Was something wrong with his hand. His hand was covering his mouth, holding his mouth shut tight, keeping the speck inside. He brought his hand down, hooked his fingers through his belt loop to keep them still.
“Is there a coach here?” Darby said. “A football coach?”
“Mr. Gonzalez. I believe he’s with a class at the moment.”
“Could I leave my phone number for him? Could I leave him a message?”
She sat behind her desk, opened a message log. She wrote a name in the log, Dennis Darby, and he gave her the number of the new cell phone.
She closed the log, looked up at him.
“Dennis, do you need some help?”
He didn’t know who she was talking to. Dennis. He shook his head. She didn’t know who she was talking to, what she was talking about.
He was halfway down the main staircase when he had to stop. The speck in his mouth, gagging him. He needed to open his mouth but he was afraid to open his mouth.
The bell rang. The classroom doors opened behind him, students emptying into the hallway. The staircase filled, students pushing past, ascending, descending. Darby held on to the center railing, waiting for them to pass, his mouth shut tight. He cleared his throat, waited. The crush of students pushed into him, shoulders and elbows, students his size, larger. He gripped the handrail, closed his eyes, kept his mouth shut. Cleared his throat, waited.
It took forever. He stood there forever, waiting for it to end.
Miss Ramirez made an announcement at the start of the day, even before she took attendance, even before they all stood and put their hands over their hearts for the Pledge of Allegiance.
“Michelle Melendez is missing,” she said. “She’s been missing for two days, and her mother and father are very worried about her.”
Her mother’s boyfriend, The Kid thought. Miss Ramirez had her facts wrong. Michelle’s mother and her mother’s boyfriend.
“Has anyone seen her in the last two days?”
All the kids shook their heads. They hadn’t seen her. A couple of the boys in the back laughed at something Razz said.
“This isn’t funny,” Miss Ramirez said. “This is a serious situation.”
The Kid shook his head with everyone else, hoping he wasn’t shaking it too much or too little. Hoping he wasn’t a bad liar.
“If you see her, or if you hear of anyone else seeing her, you’re to tell me immediately,” Miss Ramirez said. “Does everyone understand?”
All the kids nodded. They understood. The Kid nodded along with them, not too much, not too little.
He found Matthew sitting by himself at lunch. The Kid needed to tell Matthew about Michelle. He needed someone else to know. It was too much for him to know alone.
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There’s something I have to tell you.
“What?”
It’s a secret.
“No,” Matthew said, shaking his head. “I told you. I don’t want to hear any more secrets.” He tried to ignore The Kid, tried to watch a kickball game on the other side of the yard, Brian and Razz and a bunch of kids from other classes, running and shouting and laughing.
This one is important.
Matthew kept shaking his head. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Where?
“Here. Sitting here. I don’t want you to sit here.”
Why not?
“Because if you’re sitting here then no one else will sit here.”
Who else is going to sit here?
“I don’t know. Anybody.”
Who?
“I don’t know who. Anybody.” His voice getting louder. “If you’re not here, maybe somebody else will sit here.” Matthew speared a ravioli with his plastic fork, pushed it around through the tomato sauce on his tray. “Just because people don’t like you, you think people don’t like me either.”
Who cares what they think?
“I care,” Matthew said. He was shouting now. The muscles around his mouth were trembling. He stared hard at The Kid.
“Aren’t you sick of people not liking you?” Matthew said. “I am. I’m sick of it.”
The kickball game was breaking up. The other kids started back toward the lunch tables, toward the doors to the school.
“Just get out of here, okay?” Matthew said. He took a sip from his milk carton. “I don’t want anybody to see you near me.”
The Kid couldn’t believe it. Matthew was all The Kid had, he was The Kid’s only real friend. And now he was ashamed of The Kid? Now he was better than The Kid, he was worried to be seen near The Kid?
The Kid didn’t even know what he was doing, he was so angry. He grabbed Matthew’s milk carton and threw it, splashing Matthew’s face, the front of his shirt. Matthew jumped up, fell back into the bench. Milk dripped from his nose, his chin. He didn’t say anything, just looked at The Kid, his mouth wide with shock. He wiped his eyes, grabbed his backpack and turned from the table, bumping right into Brian as Brian passed behind the table. Matthew’s wet shirt and hands pushing into Brian, getting milk all over the front of his track jersey.
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