by Sean McGinty
“Vampires? Aliens?”
“Aaron—”
I waited, but she didn’t go on. Waves from the boat fanned out to the shoreline, knocking against the pilings. Water sloshed around under the pier. The water was impossibly blue—like something out of a tropical postcard.
“Look. I’m not here to bug you. I just wanted to talk. I brought some of your stuff. It’s in the car. I couldn’t carry it all out here because, well…” I sort of wiggled the crutches, but she didn’t look up. “Katie?”
She sighed and closed her book. “OK. Let’s talk.”
She set the book aside, but not on the pier. She placed it into the air next to her, and it floated there, three feet above the water, before it swelled up, popped, and disappeared. And as Katie raised the brim of her hat and looked up at me, I zoomed in on her blue eyes. Something was different. The light in them had changed. They were…less blue somehow.
“No. You didn’t! You’re having—?”
“FUN®,” she said. “Birthday present from my sister. She paid for the lenses and a one-year contract.”
“Aw, shit, Katie, you don’t want to do that.”
“Why not? You’re always talking about how great it is. I finally joined the modern world, right?” She fluttered her eyelids. Her gaze drifted down to my cast/boot thing. “What happened?”
“I fell in the hole.”
“Oh.”
“But I got out, and then I found the treasure, and it was all this money, but not the kind of money that’s worth anything, because it was old money. But that’s not important. What’s important is—” I cleared my throat. I’d gone over this speech in my head about a dozen times on the drive over. “Well…I learned something. Or more like remembered. Just—how holy everything is. Which sounds silly, I know, but I mean that it’s real and it’s good. And I’ve been thinking about what you said, about a hole in us that can’t be filled. But I think I know what does fill it. Love.”
And she kind of flinched at that word, but I kept going anyway. Man, it felt good to be honest for once.
“And I just want to say again how sorry I am. Because when I said to look in your heart, I meant that. And with Shiloh, I just got distracted. And when we were together, you and me—not together together, but just hanging out—I felt something. This, like, electricity that I’d never felt before. Those times we were hanging out, when we were looking for the treasure or whatever, it was fun. Not FUN® fun, but real fun. Actual fun. But even more than that. And I know I’m young and stupid, but I’ve been thinking about that electricity, and the only word for it is love. I’m in love with you.”
And I don’t know what I expected—but I kind of know what I was hoping for. I was hoping that Katie would hear my words and that the power of my love would move her. I was hoping she’d throw her arms around my neck and my crutches would fall to the pier and we’d stand there, embracing each other, over the blue, blue water with the sun setting behind us. Because she had felt it, too. She had felt the electricity and she couldn’t deny it. And later we’d go out for dinner at this really great place I knew, just 3.2 miles down the lake, and collect our free dessert.
But that isn’t what happened.
Katie just sat there in silence. Waves sloshed against the pilings. Homie™ popped up.
> hi original boy_2!
u r a FAIL!
yay! for state parks?
“Go away, Homie™.”
“Aaron,” she said at last. She said it slowly, carefully, and I could tell from the tone of her voice that whatever she was gonna say next, it wasn’t what I’d been hoping for, and I wasn’t ready for that. So I cut in.
“Hey, are you hungry? We could talk about it all over a meal. I know this really great place we could get dinner….”
She nodded at the paper bag on the pier. “I just ate.”
“Oh, well, that’s OK, too. We don’t have to do that. But—OK. Here.” I took the mood ring out of my pocket. “I didn’t get to give this to you that night. Happy birthday. Again.”
But as I went to hand the ring to Katie, something happened. I stumbled and it fell from my hands, fell to the pier, and I watched in horror as it rolled bumpily along a couple feet, then slipped soundlessly between two of the boards. And then I was down on my hands and knees, searching for the ring, hoping beyond hope that maybe it had fallen just so. Maybe it had wedged itself between the cracks. But it was just boards and empty space and cold blue water below.
And I was ready to jump in the water and go diving for it, but I wasn’t supposed to get my boot wet. I started taking it off. As I was messing with the straps, Katie started talking, and by the time she was done I’d stopped messing with the boot.
“I guess I liked the attention,” she said. “It was fun—I’m not saying it wasn’t. And yes, when I was out here with my papa and sister and I lost the ring, it did make me sad, because I do like you, but—”
“Why does there always have to be a but? If you don’t have any feelings for me, why’d you cry when I told you about Shiloh?”
She was kind of glaring at me now. “Because I do have feelings! And I’m sure she did, too! And just because something can’t work doesn’t mean I’m not sad about it.”
“Who says it can’t work? You sure had your dad convinced it was working.”
“Right. Maybe I let him believe what he wanted. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m always making things so complicated. It’s the stupid Space Amazon. I’m sorry.”
“And I am, too! So let’s forget the Space Amazon. Let’s just go with—”
“Aaron. It wouldn’t work.”
“Why not? Give me one good reason.”
“Because I keep telling you. Because you’re still a kid. Because I’m a teacher. Because I’m moving.”
“Moving?”
“The leper mite fiasco was the final sign. It’s time to get out of Antello. I’ve been sending out applications. I’ve got an interview next Wednesday.”
“Where?”
“Here. Tahoe.”
“Well, that’s not so far. I could drive out on the weekends and—”
“Aaron,” she said quietly. “Please.”
And even with the lenses over her eyes, I could still read the blue. I could see what they were saying. Please don’t make me break your heart.
Well, but she already kind of was.
And the truth is, even if you like someone and they like you—and you know they like you—they get to do what they want to do. And sometimes life is complicated, and sometimes things don’t work out, and sometimes you just have to let it go. Maybe that’s what her eyes were really saying. Let it go.
But I couldn’t let it go. I was having the hardest time letting it go. I asked her what she was doing next, and she said she was going back to her sister’s. They were going to watch The Land of the Lost (YAY!) together. She’d ridden her bike to the lake, and I asked her if I could give her a ride back, and she said OK. So we threw her bike in the back and gathered up Bones, who was barking at some squirrels, and I drove her to her sister’s house. It was a pretty nice house. From the drive you could see the lake shimmering in the distance. I could see how it wouldn’t be hard to spend a summer there.
And I didn’t want to let her go. She was walking her bike up to the door. I grabbed the bag I’d packed for her—undies and shirts and a couple sweaters in case it was cold at night—and followed her up the drive. And I was like, “Katie.”
And she was like, “Yeah?”
And I was like, “What if we just—sit out here for a while? It’s just—it’s such a beautiful evening. I mean, listen to those birds. I never knew there were so many birds up at the lake.”
And she paused. “Aaron, those aren’t birds.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, Aaron. You’ve been having FUN® so long you’ve forgotten.”
“Forgotten what?”
Katie sighed. “Reboot FUN®.”
“Reboot it?”
“Yeah.”
So I pressed my fingers into my eyelids and said the magic words. There’s no place like home. The world went blank for a moment, and then, for the first time in a long time, I took a moment to see it as it was. I mean, as it actually was: the sky a little less blue, the trees a little less green, the water a little less shimmery. But what really got me was the strange and sudden silence.
The birds were gone; their song was gone. No tweeting, no soft electronic cries.
“Wow. I didn’t realize. All the shininess. All the birds. It’s just—”
“FUN®,” she said.
And I didn’t really know what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything. I just gave her a hug, and then I turned and crutched down the drive and got in my truck with Bones and gave Katie a little wave, and she gave me a little wave back, and I left.
And that was my big road trip. One good thing was I didn’t have a lot of time to dwell in my sorrow and failure, because there was more stuff to deal with when I got back to Antello. I woke late the next morning to the sound of Bones barking, and I cracked the blinds to see a short man in a Hawaiian shirt standing on the porch.
“Please be informed,” he yelled, “that you are advised to restrain your animal!”
I opened the door and he thrust out his hand.
“Aaron O’Faolain, I am Peter Juliet.”
“Who?”
“Peter Juliet, the defense attorney. It appears that you are having FUN®, Aaron.”
“Yeah.”
“As am I. Had I known you were having FUN®, I would have done a mindtalk™. Normally, I do not conduct these home visits. However, my secretary has contracted scabies, which is a highly contagious skin condition. May I come in?”
“Why are you here?”
“You didn’t get the message? I am representing your friend Angelo Davíd Sandoval, aka ‘El Oso’ aka ‘Oso,’ in his upcoming trial. The reason I’m here this morning, Mr. O’Faolain, is to prepare you for testimony tomorrow in his sentencing hearing.”
> yay! for ace defender peter juliet with over 13 years’ experience in injury and malpractice?
“Yay.”
Peter Juliet opened his briefcase on the coffee table. “We’ll need you at my office at nine A.M. The address is 963 High Street, suite 201—second floor, first door on the right. I’m messaging you that right now. Do you have a clean, solid-colored button-up shirt, preferably white, and slacks? If not, I will provide you with these items. In addition, you will need to shower and shave. Do you have a razor and shaving cream? If not, I can provide these items.”
I told him I had the items in question, and he explained to me how the hearing would work. He, attorney Peter Juliet, would take care of everything—all I needed to do was show up tomorrow and follow instructions. When the time came, I would take the stand and in a clear and sober voice enumerate the reasons why my childhood friend Angelo Sandoval was not only an upstanding person but indeed a role model to the youth of Antello.
“I’m messaging you some Wit Lit to look over. Here, let me give you a hard copy to study as well.”
“Wit Lit?”
“Witness literature. Some suggestions for what to say when you take the stand. Study it. Memorize it. Bring it with you tomorrow. I’ll see you at nine A.M. sharp. We’ll rendezvous at my office, then go over to the courthouse together.”
I looked at the paper in my hands. It wasn’t a list of suggestions so much as a character witness Mad Libs, and Peter Juliet or his scabrous secretary had already filled in all the blanks:
My name is Aaron O’Faolain, and I have known Angelo for 10 year(s), and I am here today to tell you why I believe he is an upstanding citizen. I have seen the good and kind nature in Angelo shine through on many occasions, including the time when he earned “best takedown of an opponent” honors on the Antello High School J.V. wrestling squad, and when he was kind and courteous to his neighbors, and his regular attendance at Saint Mark’s Catholic Church, where he has sung tenor in the Sunday choir on several occasions. So you can see, this is not some degenerate we are talking about. No, my good friend sitting here before you today, Angelo Sandoval, is not only a role model for many, but also a productive and contributing member of the city of Antello. Furthermore, I would like to add that if you take the “o” off of “Angelo” you will see that the name spells “Angel,” and this to me sums up the character of the person in question. Thank you, your honor presiding judge Helen Levitt. Here ends my statement.
But the next morning at the Antello Municipal Courthouse when I took the stand and found myself facing the crowded gallery, I just couldn’t bring myself to read from that paper. Too much was at stake. My best bud was on trial, and it was like a Sandoval family reunion out there: aunts, uncles, sisters, nephews, nieces, plus these three biker dudes in leather jackets—and of course Oso himself, in a clean shirt and tie with his hair slicked back—and I knew I couldn’t just read the prepared statement. He deserved something more, something from the heart, like YAY! for HeartLand® Heritage candles or Heart Coffee or HomeHealthHeart Care—but really just something honest and true and from the heart.
So I turned the paper over and just started talking.
“Well, OK, it’s like this. Some people in this world are really wonderful. Actually, forget that. All people are wonderful—but some people are wonderful in a way that is, you know, really wonderful. Not that I want to get into ranking things, because also everything is pretty much the same thing. Like, we’re all in this together, you know?”
I took a breath and looked up from the podium. Everyone was looking back at me, just sitting there watching me with curiosity and waning patience—well, all of them except for Peter Juliet, who was waving around a copy of the speech and jabbing at it with his index finger.
“But here’s the thing. We are in this all together, and Oso, the way he’s wonderful is—well, it’s impossible to explain. It really is. But one thing you could say is he’s got a big heart. Like, I could give you a million examples of just what kind of guy he is. He’s really just a good guy. I could give you all kinds of examples.”
“Mr. O’Faolain, I believe you had a written statement.”
“Right. But let me give you an example.”
I took a sip of water to give myself time to think. There were a lot of stories to tell, but I hadn’t considered the fact that they needed to be court-friendly. I searched deep in the back of my memory and grabbed at the first thing that came to mind, which was that one time I got hit with the softball in P.E. and he helped me around the bases—and it wasn’t until I was halfway through the story that I realized that the star of the story was not, in fact, Oso. It was another kid. I’d gotten them confused. I looked out at my audience, all those shining faces. What did it matter, really? The spirit was the same.
“…So in conclusion, sometimes it’s the smallest gestures which make the biggest differences. I don’t know if he even remembers it anymore, but I know I will never forget—no, I’ll always be grateful for that day in the field with Oso.”
“Your honor, we will also submit his written statement for your review.”
As I was stepping down from the box, I caught Oso’s eye. He looked grateful and also a little confused, but he gave me the thumbs-up.
Next, his aunt spoke, then his little nephew, and then, one after another, the three biker dudes, who I realized now were Los Ojos de Dios. The first two said they had known Oso a long time, that he had done yard work for him, and that he was a great employee, a hard worker, always punctual, etc.—and the last one said the same stuff and added how although the city was pursuing charges, he, Pedro Santistevan, would like to drop the charges of breaking and entering because it was all just a big misunderstanding.
There was a short recess, which actually lasted an hour, and then presiding judge Helen Levitt returned to deliver the sentencing verdict of Angelo Davíd Sandoval for one count of criminal misdemeanor: public intoxication. This would mean
a98,000 in court fees and fines; two hundred hours of community service; and required completion of Crime: The Real Victim, a class to be held every Tuesday and Thursday evening in the basement of the First Antello Baptist Church.
I didn’t get to talk to Oso after the trial, but he showed up at my grandfather’s house the next Saturday with two 5-irons and a putter, and we went golfing. The grass had burned in big black patches, and where it hadn’t burned it was in various states of death—yellow, brown—and it was like walking around on a giant camouflaged bedspread. The patches made the contours more difficult to judge—not that I’ve ever been much of a golfer, or any kind of golfer, really—though I am proud to say I’m one of only a handful to ever have golfed the famous Coyote Heights. Let me tell you, that water hazard on 13 is a real bitch—even without the water.
We took a break on the hill above the 14th hole, the one where I’d fired off my grandfather’s ashes, and looked out at the apocalyptic land.
When Oso reached into his pocket, I was expecting him to pull out some pills, but instead it was a pack of TrueMint® Spearmint gum (YAY!).
“You want one?”
“What’s it do?”
“Keeps your breath fresh. Gives your jaw something to do. I’m going sober, bro. Not just because of the probation, either. It’s time. I’m evolving, bro. By the way, thanks for your testimony at the sentencing. You really saved my butt.”
“Well, you had a lot of support—what was up with the Santistevan brothers? You worked out some kind of deal with them?”
“Yep. It’s the biker code, bro. Keep it even. For not turning their asses in for selling fake VPHPs, they agreed to testify on my behalf.”
“I was meaning to ask you about those pills. When I ate some that night with the backhoe, I really felt something weird.”
“Nah, bro. The police tested them. They’re just aspirin. But that’s the thing—they were wrapped in baggies like they were ready to sell, and the police wanted to know where I’d gotten them—and I could have said that I’d gotten them from Pedro Santistevan, who was hiring underage youngsters like myself to sell fake drugs, and I gave Pedro a call and let him know that, and we made a deal.”