White Rabbit

by Caleb Roehrig

  “I’ve been waiting for this all night,” he murmured gruffly as he dragged me down onto the narrow bench beside him, sweeping the curtain closed. He pulled me in for a kiss, and I shifted back, moving his hands away from my waist, my neck. It only took him a second glance to register my expression. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  “Why don’t you want to be my boyfriend?” I blurted the question clumsily, surprising myself with how needful I sounded, and watched as Sebastian’s shoulders sagged. Our relationship was not only undeclared, it was also undefined—a secret that didn’t actually exist. We were like a tree falling in the forest with nobody around … and then maybe we weren’t even really a tree to begin with.

  “Rufus—”

  “I just want to know why.” I tried to sound firm, secure, but I could hear my own unevenness—my own weakness—and it embarrassed me. Two sentences in, and I was already losing the argument I had started. “You didn’t mind being Lia’s boyfriend, but you don’t want to be mine.”

  “This is about Lia?” he asked stupidly, cocking a brow. “I told you—”

  “It isn’t about Lia,” I returned with frustration, even though, yes, it was obviously about Lia—at least in part. “This is about … this is about us spending time together. It’s about this, right here, now.” And it was about kissing in the alcove behind the theater, and hiking in the Green Mountains on weekends, and our Skype chats in the middle of the night, and the way he made sure our fingers touched whenever we passed things to each other at meetings for the newspaper. “This is about me not wanting to spend time with anyone else but you, and you saying you don’t want to be my boyfriend.”

  It sounded so pitiful that I’d have kicked myself in the face if it were physically possible. Sebastian raked a hand through his short, dark hair, his brow furrowing, and said, “Rufe, you know how I feel. I just … I don’t understand why we need to, you know, put some kind of label on it, or whatever. Why can’t we just be what we are?”

  Because I don’t know what we are, I thought, but did not say. Instead, I retorted, “Labels keep things organized. What’s wrong with labels?”

  He sighed. “I just spent the last year wearing one of those—being someone’s boyfriend, dealing with all the drama—and I’m just kinda worn out from it. You get that, right?” It was a leading question, and I provided the nod expected of me, even though I didn’t get it. How could I? I had never been anyone’s boyfriend and couldn’t help taking it personally that his sudden need for a label-free existence coincided precisely with the advent of our relationship. I swallowed my words, not even sure how to speak them out loud, and Sebastian continued, “One of the things I really like about you—about us—is that there’s no pressure, you know? We can just be ourselves.”

  “But what do I mean to you?” I persisted, feeling smaller by the second and yet determined to at least not completely fail myself. I hated the way my voice shook, hated how much of my self-esteem actually depended upon his answer. When planning this conversation in my head, I’d envisioned myself resolute and in control, but here I was spiraling and trailing smoke.

  “You know what you mean to me.” He moved close again, putting his hand back on my waist, squeezing. The scent of citrus and vetiver embraced me, and I felt my stomach go all gooey. “All the crazy CIA shit we do—getting hall passes at the same time just so we can kiss during school hours, just so I don’t have to wait all day to do it? You know what you mean to me.”

  I licked my lips, but I was like a fish on a hook, and he knew it. “I—I just…”

  Sebastian put his other hand on my chest and shoved me against the wall of the booth. The air rushed from my lungs and warmth erupted in the pit of my stomach, flooding my extremities. I goggled at him helplessly as his hand prowled its way under my shirt, and when I felt his touch against my flesh, my skin knotted all over with goose bumps and I emitted an embarrassing whimper.

  His lips grazed mine—not a kiss, just a promise—and he murmured, “This is the best part of every day, Rufus. This. You really have to ask what you mean to me?”

  My willpower was running on its very last fumes, and it took all I had to whisper, “It j-just really m-matters to me. It feels like … I just need to know.”

  Sebastian exhaled, and put his forehead to mine, his eyes closed. For a long moment I held my breath, my heart beating so hard it hurt. I needed him to say the right thing … but if he didn’t, what would I do? I wasn’t sure I had the strength to walk away if he insisted on us continuing to Just Be Ourselves—on leaving me to always wonder why, if labels didn’t matter, did it matter so much that we not have one?

  Finally, he declared in a low, soft voice, “Okay, Rufe. If it matters to you, then … it matters to me. We can be boyfriends.”

  My heart literally expanded, like a balloon, and for a second I could swear I had started to float off the bench. “Are you sure? I mean … so, I’m, like … I’m your boyfriend now? Officially?”

  “Yes, dork.” He laughed a little, amused by my enthusiasm. “You’re my boyfriend now—officially.” Sebastian was quiet for just a moment after that, gazing into my eyes, and then he added softly, “I’d do anything to make you happy. You know that, right?”

  I was so overjoyed that, to mark the occasion, I insisted we actually use the photo booth for its intended purpose. We put our money in, planning to make a series of wacky faces for the camera—to have a strip of tiny pictures of us behaving like one of those perfect couples you see in the movies, all carefree and zany and loving life; but after the first pulse of the flash went off, Sebastian pulled me into his lap and started to kiss me.

  His tongue slipped into my mouth, I wrapped my hand around the back of his head, and for three more bursts of light I simply lost myself in the electrical bliss of being his boyfriend.

  10

  My father spares me but a single baleful glance before hustling April into the backseat of his Mercedes, where I presume that both Isabel and the family attorney sit, waiting to hear the full version of what they’ve been dragged out of bed for in the middle of the night. After Peter climbs in to join them, the slamming of his car door booms like cannon fire in the narrow, deserted parking lot.

  “Rufus, wait,” Sebastian calls out as I start heading from the Jeep to the doors of the station house.

  “I told you I don’t want to have this conversation right now,” I hiss back in annoyance, making a point not to look over at the shiny black windows of the Covingtons’ luxury sedan as I hurry past. If I know Peter, he’s already working out some way to hold me responsible for April’s predicament, and I’m eager to avoid speaking to him for as long as possible. With any luck, he’ll be tied up with my sister and her lawyer until long after the police are finished with me. Whenever that might be.

  “It’s not that!” Sebastian breaks into a jog, grabbing my arm and stopping me a few feet from one of the pillars that support the triangular overhang above the building’s entrance. When I turn to face him, I’m surprised to see fear in his eyes. “What’s the plan, here? I mean, are we seriously gonna go in there and just start talking about murder? Should we have lawyers? And, I mean … are they gonna call our parents?”

  The very idea of this last possibility seems to fill him with more dread than the whole going-in-there-to-talk-about-murder part, which surprises me a little. I sure as hell don’t want my mom involved—she has more than enough to worry about, and getting her and Peter under the same roof will surely only result in at least one more homicide for the Burlington police blotter—but I can think of no reason why Sebastian wouldn’t want his well-known and widely-respected father to come down and swing some influence.

  Still, he’s rigid with concern, his lips pressed together as he drills the question into me with worried eyes. An unwelcome wave of sympathy buries me. “We won’t need lawyers,” I say, almost sure it’s true. “We’re not even witnesses, right? We just picked April up. Our parents will only have to be present if
they decide to question us, and they won’t; the murder didn’t even happen in this jurisdiction. Probably they’ll just want to take our statements—what did we see, when did we see it … that stuff.”

  I am, of course, putting a very optimistic face on it. We’re about to walk into a police station with blood on our clothes, and while we have an explanation, that doesn’t mean they’re just going to accept it. And if they choose to search me for any reason, I’m going to have a hell of a time explaining away Fox’s drug money.

  The truth is, sooner rather than later, our parents will be dragged into this—I know that—and I’ve got no kind of plan worked up for easing into that particular phase. Stalling for time is the best strategy I’ve got. Sebastian seems mollified by my arguments, though, because he gives me a weak smile. “You almost sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

  My own smile is too weak to survive. “Peter’s reported me to the cops before.”

  “That’s because you’re a complete psycho with a history of violent behavior.” The disembodied and chillingly familiar voice comes from somewhere over my right shoulder, and I turn slowly, like a monster-movie extra just becoming aware that the shadow behind him is actually a sixty-foot-tall radioactive tarantula.

  As I pivot, my body tensing up reflexively for fight or flight, Hayden Covington emerges from behind the support pillar, where he’d apparently been leaning and smoking all along, just out of sight. His blond hair combed back from his forehead, his polo shirt the same aqua hue as his eyes, he tosses a cigarette to the ground and stomps it out with the toe of a suede deck shoe before giving me a predatory smile.

  “Hayden,” I say cautiously, fighting against the urge to take a step back. Mentally, and at top speed, I replay the entire conversation Sebastian and I have just had, wondering if we’ve incriminated ourselves somehow. I don’t think so, but Hayden has an uncanny way of knowing things …

  “Faggot,” the boy acknowledges me casually and then, looking past me, gives a constrained nod. “Bash. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Fox Whitney is dead,” I blurt, and watch as Hayden lazily tugs a soft pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his khaki shorts and busies himself with lighting one.

  “So I hear,” he remarks uninterestedly. For a moment, I wonder what he’s doing there. Either Peter made him come as a show of family solidarity for April, or he’s here to take pleasure in watching his sister’s life fall apart. Tucking his Zippo and cigarettes back into his shorts, Hayden takes a long drag, blowing the smoke out in a sideways stream that glows in the lights from the overhang. Then he fixes me with a flat, cold stare. “What the fuck’s it got to do with you?”

  “April was supposed to call me.” Obediently, I launch into our cover story. “When I didn’t hear from her, I got nervous, and Race and Peyton said she’d been upset when their party broke up, so I thought maybe I should go out and check on her.”

  Wordlessly, Hayden turns his interrogative gaze on Sebastian, who swallows audibly and states, “He didn’t know where Fox’s lake house was, but I’d been there before, so I … I offered to give him a ride.” Seemingly aware of how weak this sounds, he adds, “I was worried about her, too.”

  “When we got there, it was … well, it was pretty bad,” I conclude, watching the red ember on the end of Hayden’s cigarette, imagining him flicking it at me—or grinding it into the back of my hand. I know he’s not particular.

  I’m not entirely sure why I feel the need to account for my actions to Hayden Covington, of all people. In part, I tell myself, I’m just taking advantage of an opportunity to rehearse the story we’re about to go in and repeat to the cops; and in part, I figure it’s also my safest chance to evaluate my older brother’s behavior with regard to the news of Fox’s death. In my opinion, he still qualifies as a potential suspect.

  Lia told us that Fox had been “trying to do something shady” with the drugs he and Arlo were dealing—shadier than just selling them in the first place, I guess—and we knew from April that Hayden had been one of Fox’s customers. It is in fact likely that some of the two grand currently stretching out my shorts pocket originally came from the blond sociopath who’s staring me down right at this particular moment. And Hayden is not someone you pull “something shady” on. If Fox had been running some kind of scam and my older half brother was one of his victims, eleventy million stab wounds was actually Fox getting off easy.

  Nothing I’ve learned specifically implicates Hayden, of course—and, with the money in my pocket and April about to speak to the police, it’s thankfully none of my concern any longer—but my curiosity has nevertheless been aroused. Hayden wouldn’t think twice about framing his little sister for murder; he doesn’t care about her any more than he cares about anybody else.

  The truth is, though, that I’m gabbling to my brother like a spineless subordinate because I’m fucking scared of him. He’s barely two years older than me, and scarcely three inches taller, but he’s got shoulders like the Lincoln Memorial and a cruel streak that makes Hannibal Lecter seem cuddly by comparison. “We just drove April back to town now.”

  “That,” Hayden remarks in a smooth voice, blowing out a ring of smoke that wobbles up into the heavy night air like a poisonous jellyfish, “is a load of bullshit.”

  I feel the color drain from my face. Is our lie that obvious? “It’s not.”

  “April was supposed to call you? Try again, shit-sack.” Hayden steps closer, and I struggle not to flinch, but he smells my fear and smiles. “Why’d you really go out there? You one of Fox’s customers? Or maybe you were buying for your mom. Was she too busy sucking dicks at the bus station to get it her—”

  “She was supposed to call me,” I insist stiffly, my mouth dry, my rage struggling to free itself like a dog chewing off its own leg. Just breathe. Keep it together. “It was about … my mom and Peter. They had an argument.”

  It really hurts to admit this out loud, after what he’s just insinuated, but it’s the official story we’ve agreed upon for the police. Amusement glitters in Hayden’s cold blue eyes, and he bares his teeth in another self-satisfied grin. “Still begging for handouts, huh? Guess she’s not turning as many rich tricks anymore, now that her tits are starting to sag. Too bad. Hey, tell her I’ll fuck her if she cuts her rates in half.”

  A muscle in my jaw flutters, heat throbbing at my temples, but I refuse to take the bait. It would suit Hayden’s agenda perfectly for me to take a swing at him in front of the cops, Peter, and their family attorney. I’ve long since lost count of how many times we’ve played out this scene: my older brother goading me into a fight, beating me into the pavement, and then telling his parents that I’d been the one to attack him. His toadying friends have always been happy to back him up, to swear that if Hayden fractured my jaw, he’d only done it in self-defense.

  Peter, for his part, has never failed to use each occasion as a gleeful bludgeon against my mother, repeatedly threatening lawsuits, police intervention and, typically, my removal to some institution for violent and unstable youths.

  When he finally went through with it, it was almost a relief.

  I was in the seventh grade when Hayden broke my arm during a fight, and Peter immediately reported me to the cops for assault. Just for good measure, he also filed a lawsuit against my mother for pain and suffering, emotional distress, and—because my half brother had sprained his wrist pounding my face in—Hayden’s medical bills. It was a preemptive strike, offense as defense, and it worked; broke and unable to fight back, my mom had no choice but to sign a one-sided out-of-court settlement wherein the lawsuit would be dropped if my mother relinquished all claims to future child support. We’ve lived in the incident’s shadow ever since.

  With effort, I ignore my brother’s taunting and repeat, “It was pretty bad. April is kind of messed up right now.”

  “So’s Fox,” Hayden jokes crassly. I have no idea how to respond to that, and after a moment, he continues, “She
say why she did it?”

  “According to her, she didn’t.”

  “I’ll bet.” He picks a fleck of tobacco off his lip. Then, “You actually believe that, or did she just figure out how to make you help her get away with it?”

  “No,” I answer unsteadily, the money in my shorts as heavy as a piano.

  “You’re lying.” Hayden states it, flat and certain. “Hope you at least told her to wipe her fingerprints off the knife.”

  I gape at him in a silence just long enough to be telltale before I recover my wits and try to push past him, mumbling, “I have to give my statement to the cops.”

  “I asked you a question, faggot.” Hayden grips my arm hard enough to leave a bruise, jerking me right back to where I was standing before. His eyes flashing like a warning signal, he growls through gritted teeth, “Are you covering shit up for her?”

  “Leave him alone, man,” Sebastian cuts in, stepping forward.

  “I know how broke-ass you guys are,” Hayden continues in a jagged undertone, his breath reeking of beer and his fingers digging into my bicep like he’s trying to reach my bone marrow. “You see a way to make money, you take it, right? Finding my kid sister with a dead body’s like a fucking blackmail payday for you and your trashbag mom—”

  “Fuck you!” I exclaim, my face blazing, the world warping before my eyes. In my mind, on an endless loop, I’m watching Hayden’s teeth explode into the night sky, scattering like fireworks. I want to hit him so badly I can taste it—literally—a coppery, brackish film coating the back of my tongue.