by Scott Kelly
Everyone watched me as I turned to look at my home. Anywhere but there.
The road out of Kingwood ran to the left of the little white, wheeled box I called home. Further still, the woods I’d grown familiar with. Still further left, my friends. Just a moment ago, these things hadn’t been options; all I saw was my trailer. Now, though: “Okay. I’ll stay here, then, with you guys.”
“Eureka,” David said. “How do you feel?”
“A little weird,” I answered, walking toward the woods. I got a little thrill—something about disobeying my dad.
“My turn,” Steven said. He walked between David and I, six inches shorter with thick glasses. “Let me try.”
I stopped, looked at David. He turned to me. “You do it. You’re ‘it’ now. Steven goes—give him fifteen minutes. After he’s done, he picks who is next. That’s all.”
A new game, then. I put my hand on Steven’s shoulder. “Tag,” I said. With no hesitation, he ran deeper into the woods.
“I want to swim in the creek, come on,” he called. Cameron and Emily laughed, jogging after him.
I searched for the moon between the trees. Couldn’t find it. Only a single grackle, which rested on a dead limb of cypress that rose over the treetop canopy. I followed my friends.
6. Day one
Eighth grade
Another day. I was exhausted, but happy—didn’t get any real sleep the night before; didn’t even get in bed until three in the morning. But, it’d been fun. Still had silt between my toes, could feel the sand in my sock.
Now, though, it was back to the real world. I stuck a finger through the cigarette burn in my shirt, sighing. The bus rolled to a stop outside the school. All six of us walked slowly out, packs heavy on our backs, and stood in the parking lot between the middle and high schools.
David soldiered on to the high school alone, saying farewell with a nonchalant wave. I turned to my friends—they looked as exhausted as I felt; purple bruises under bloodshot eyes.
A wet squelch came from Steven’s shoe. We made eye contact and both cracked smiles. “You tired?” I asked as we began our walk to class.
“Totally worth it,” he said, smile widening. Steven carried his backpack in both arms, as the straps had long since broken. His voice dropped conspiratorially. “Watch this.”
My glasses-clad friend crept away from me, toward Kent. He snuck up behind the much larger boy and slapped his free hand down on the back of the landlord’s son.
“Tag,” Steven said. “You’re ‘it!’”
Kent spun, lifting his hands to defend himself. When he saw it was only Steven, he relaxed. “We’re not playing anymore,” he said. “It’s school.”
“Who says we’re not playing?” I asked. “David didn’t say the game was over, you know. C’mon, it’s not hard. Just take whatever you were about to do, and don’t do it. Do something else.”
Kent looked around. A few dozen of our classmates stood outside the entrance, near the flag pole. His face turned red; he turned again, looking back at us. Finally, his eyes rested on Steven and the backpack in his arms.
Kent slammed a meaty fist down on the bag. Steven gawked as it hit the ground with a vicious whomp.
“Now you’re ‘it’ again,” Kent said slowly.
Steven shrugged helplessly. “Great. Good idea, Kent,” he murmured, leaning down to pick up his bag. He looked at me and shook his head as the bell rang.
On to class; desperate to stay awake. Teachers seemed to feel sorry for me, probably my clothes—usually wasn’t hard to put my head down in a corner desk and let the class go on without me.
So it went. Soon the blessed ringing came; I grabbed my backpack and stepped out the class. I spotted Steven exiting a room a few hundred feet from me—it occurred to me that he was ‘it’ again. I stood a safe distance away; didn’t want to have to play David’s new game in front of the entire school.
Steven snuck up behind a girl with strawberry blonde hair: Cameron. He put a hand on her shoulder; she turned. I imagined a single word was exchanged between them.
The moment he lifted his hand away, Cameron gripped the boy by the shoulders and pulled him into her, like she wanted to head-butt the young geek, but no, her lips were pursed and, holy crap, she kissed him. Steven cringed so hard he might be trying to disappear into himself. Instead, their lips met in an angry mash, both parties seemingly terrified by the act, Steven’s thick glasses pushed lopsided up on his forehead as Cameron leaned down to meet him.
I heard a gasp; I turned to my right. Kent. He stood with his mouth gaping, face colorless, looking sick.
A coach snatched Cameron’s arm in one hand and Steven’s in another, dragging them toward the office. Emily noticed their plight and walked to them, dark chocolate hair bouncing with each step.
Cameron reached out with her free hand and gripped Emily’s in passing, like they were sharing a note. Not the case, though.
Emily spun and intercepted the coach who held Cameron and Steven. She leapt into the older man, arms clinging to his shoulders, pulling him close, lips extended. The coach, quadruple her size, resisted, pulling away—Emily hung from the big man’s neck like jewelry until at last he peeled her off, face four shades of crimson.
The coach laughed, all confusion and disapproving head shakes. He opened his mouth and then closed it, glancing around. Dozens of students in the halls, but no other teachers.
Emily only stood and smiled, hands folded behind her back, studying him.
The adult shook his head, ran a hand over his bald scalp. His mouth opened then closed again; still no words. After a moment, the coach appeared to grow angry, but still had no response. Finally, he continued to pull Steven—who wore the biggest, stupidest smile I’d ever seen—and Cameron to the office.
Emily continued walking, kitten smile on her lips. She approached Kent and me.
I swallowed back cold fear. Was it my turn?
Kent shoved me out of the way, intercepting Emily. “Tag me!” he demanded.
“You just got tagged,” Emily noted. “It was lame.”
“I didn’t do it right.”
“You’ll get another turn,” she said. Then she arched an eyebrow. “You just want to kiss Cameron, don’t you?”
“I, well, I just…” The bell rang, freeing Kent from the clumsy justification.
If she wasn’t tagging him, then it must be me. I looked pleadingly at Emily, hoping to get this over with. She only shrugged and turned away.
Frustrating. I raced to next period to keep from being late. Class was torture; I couldn’t keep my mind off her. She must be waiting to tag me. When the period finally ended, I walked cautiously into the hallway, checked right and left, and…
No Emily. I walked around, looking up and down the halls, but—no Emily. On to the next class. And the next.
I spent the rest of the day anxious for her to appear. Kent and Steven passed by multiple times, and when I asked about her, neither had answers for me.
Finally, last period: English. I stopped in the doorway. Could see from here—my name was written on the whiteboard in red marker. The last in a long list of speakers, the rest of whose names were erased days earlier.
Christ. Book reports. I’d known about this for weeks. In fact, an essay on “The Giver” sat on my bed at home.
A soft hand touched my neck, flesh hot against mine. “Tag.” A girl’s voice—Emily.
“Nice,” I mumbled.
“Fifteen minutes,” she said.
I crossed the threshold and sank down in a chair, putting my backpack up on my desk and half hiding behind the bag. Classmates chuckled.
My teacher—a thin lady with a wide, pronounced mouth and formidable front teeth, gnawed her way through roll call. I tried desperately to remember what I’d written, but nothing came.
“Jacob, since you had the good luck of going last, I expect this to be an exemplary report,” Mrs. Kerrigan’s voice was thick as syrup.
Emily’s fa
ce smiled out the small window in the classroom door.
Ten minutes to change. What would I normally do at a time like this? Tell the teacher I’m not ready, go back and sit at my desk in shame? But, I’m not ready—can’t change that.
I walked to the front of the class, behind the podium. Could feel their eyes on me.
“I read…” I began. Fellow students stared skeptically. I watched them: the Austins, the Baileys, the Coltons. Wasn’t friends with any of them. Didn’t dislike them, but we were from two different worlds.
So, this is Eureka. Change anything.
“I read a book about a boy who lives in a trailer.” Everyone was silent, now. “Every weekend, he puts his dirty clothes in a sack and walks half a mile to the Laundromat. He sits in there for two hours every Saturday morning, wondering what everyone else gets to do when they wake up. Then he puts on the clothes he washed—his dad’s, really, since he outgrew his this year and hasn’t got any new ones—and wears them to school, because even the teachers will say something if he wears dirty clothes and stinks. People make fun of him for what he wears, but he knows they don’t even have to wash their own clothes, and that’s not fair. Everyone treats him like he chooses to dress that way, even though he doesn’t.”
Some kids in the back glanced at one another, chuckling. Red heat climbed my cheeks. “At the end of the book, he, um, he…” My voice cracked; more chuckling. If I talked anymore, I knew it wouldn’t come out clear. “I didn’t finish reading the book,” I mumbled.
I hoped this counted as a good tag.
The teacher sighed, pulling the glasses away from her face. “See me after class, Jacob.”
One girl—one chubby girl with no makeup and a thick chin that covered her neck—was smiling, absolutely beaming at me. I smiled back at her. No one else seemed to care. I returned to my seat, ducking behind my backpack.
Too much adrenaline. Couldn’t handle seeing my friends from Broadway, not yet. Someone might want me to tag them; too much to deal with, after my day.
I skipped out on the teacher’s invitation to see her after class. Needed some fresh air, so I decided to walk home. Hot—always hot in this part of Texas. The last fresh, green colors of spring were baking away in the coming summer sun.
A few hundred yards from the school, walking in the same direction, was the plump girl who’d smiled at my performance earlier. Wondered if she’d talk to me.
“Hey,” I said, breath coming in heavy huffs from jogging to catch up. “I’m Jacob. What’s your name?”
“Hey,” she answered, smiling at me. A pretty face—perfect teeth, glowing smile. Eyes and hair a deep brown. No makeup, no earrings, no need. Everything clean, simple. “I’m Nora.”
“So, how do you like Mrs. Kerrigan’s class?”
“It’s okay,” she said. “More interesting today than usual.”
“Oh yeah?” I asked.
“I know what you were doing in there—I know that wasn’t a real book. I gotta admit, that was pretty cool. Y’know, I kinda feel the same way half the time. Not the clothes, I mean, but people judging me for how I look.”
“Why’s that?”
“Don’t play dumb,” the plump girl accused. I shrugged; we walked five minutes without a word.
“So, where are you going?” I tried to resurrect the conversation, not sure what I’d done wrong.
“To the store,” she said.
“I walk this way, too, sometimes.”
“To the trailer park, right?” she asked.
“Yeah, the trailer park.” The words came out stronger than I’d expected. Too used to being teased. She must have sensed it, because we were quiet for another five minutes.
I stared straight ahead while we walked another hundred yards. The red and white sign of Dairy Queen came into view.
“This is where I wait for my dad,” she said.
“The ice cream is good here.”
“What about it?” Hand on her hip.
“Nothing. I just…I just like it,” I stammered. Don’t mention food, ever—got it.
She stopped outside the fast food restaurant. I stopped too; I didn’t want to leave her, not yet.
“When does your dad come to get you? He doesn’t mind you waiting alone?”
“It’s just for a little while; my mom is in the hospital.”
“What’s wrong with her?” I asked.
“She has cancer.”
“Oh.” I didn’t know what else to say. In the struggle to come up with something nice, one of the most awkward sentences of my life surfaced: “Well, hey, having your mom die isn’t too bad. My mom is dead, and I’m okay.”
Nora looked at me, shocked, and began crying. I turned and walked away, fast.
7. Other people
Now
“—Jacob Thorke,” a guard calls. I awaken with a jolt, memories extinguished by fluorescent lights.
“Yeah?” I ask, stretching my neck.
“Come with me.”
The guard opens the gate and I step through. There’s a strange moment where he focuses on locking the cell again and I’m just looking around, thinking about escaping. He finishes and leads me deeper into the jail.
It’s possible another member of the Six is imprisoned here. Not sure, but I might walk by him any moment. Kent Gimble.
The path the guard chooses—a winding one, worming through dark bowels of the jail—is meant to scare me, I believe. We end our tour in a room so small I can’t imagine the space is designed for two, but the twin metal chairs force me to accept it.
I sit in the tiny chamber for what seems another eternity. Caught in limbo, between identities. In jail, men become new people, just to survive. I’ve got no trouble with that. Nothing keeps me from becoming whoever I need to be. David taught me well.
A few moments later, the door opens. The counselor assigned to me five years ago by the state—Mr. Aschen—fills the frame. The detective from before stands in the rear, badge reflecting the wan lights of the hall.
“Jacob Thorke, right now you’re here as a witness. We’ve got forty-eight hours to decide if we want to let you go home as one, or if you’ll be staying here with us as a suspect,” the detective says. “We want to hear your version of events. Now, Mr. Aschen assures us he can get your full cooperation in telling us what led to the death of David Bloom. Because of your age, and because of your history, I’m allowing him to interview you—for now—until we make a final decision about your status here. I expect you to communicate honestly with us. A boy is dead, and we need to know what happened.”
When I say nothing, the detective only nods and mumbles a few words to Mr. Aschen.
My counselor enters, a bulging folder in one hand, and closes the door. The familiar widow’s peak points boldly down his forehead, directing attention to the long, narrow nose and tight mouth below.
Our knees are practically touching in the cramped space. The chamber feels a bit like a confessional.
“It’s not so bad,” Mr. Aschen says, forever an optimist, taking great pains to cross one leg over the other. A set of notes rests on his lap. He retrieves a pen—black and silver, elegant—and holds it between two fingers. “Bigger than my first office.”
“They just want me to confess.” I point my chin at the camera in the corner of the room. “There’s no evidence. They think I’m more likely to confess to you.”
“They also don’t have any witnesses, Jacob, and you could be one. You’re painting this picture.”
“Is all that paper really about me, or is it just to make you look prepared?” I ask, staring at the thick manila folder in his lap.
Mr. Aschen responds with his infinitely patient grin. “I brought real notes. These are David’s notes, and Emily’s, and Cameron’s, and Kent’s, and Steven’s. Yours are here, too. “
“Well, where do you want to start?”
“How did David die?” he asks. “And be honest, Jacob. Detectives in another room are watching all this, checkin
g your facts, calling the people you mention. They’re going to be listening very closely to what you say.”
I shrug. “I’d almost rather be talking to them. You’re going to try and convince me this is all David’s fault, somehow. You always do. Look, I told the detective how David died. Someone in a mask pushed him off the water tower.”
He folds his arms. “But, there’s more to it,” Mr. Aschen says gravely.
“There’s more,” I agree. “And you don’t believe what I’ve told you, anyway.”
“David is dead now, Jacob. It’s time to focus on yourself and what you’re going to do with the rest of your life. Are you going to put yourself in prison, or not?” I can smell the stale coffee on his breath. “Was this self-defense, Jacob? Did David attack you?”
“Never! Come on, David was always great to me.”
“Great to you. What about everyone else?”
I lean back, wipe my palm across my face. “David didn’t have a lot of respect for other people. People who weren’t his friends, I mean. You know? But, they never had any respect for us, either. We were the novelty, we were the poor kids. At the end of it all, I think we can safely blame the death of David Bloom on other people.”
8. No exit
Freshman year
High school was not an improvement—being the youngest again stacked the odds against me, opened up the field. Sometimes, I had to avoid the bus stop; that meant riding my bike to school, then being late and sweaty. Teachers didn’t help. Even though I mainly tried to avoid fights, I’d end up punished for being tardy, or for not paying attention. Hard to pay attention and watch my back at the same time.
The worst detentions came on Friday afternoon. Partly because of where they were held, but mostly because it was filled with the same people I’d gotten in trouble trying to avoid. We were supposed to meet in one of the extracurricular facilities a few hundred feet away from the main campus—small, cheap, standalone buildings.