by Barry Lyga
“I’m okay, Mom,” she said, and this time she almost believed it.
Mom nodded, absorbing the lie. “But, baby,” she said, a small, sad smile tugging at her lips, “I’m not.”
THE PRESENT: LIAM
They had a dishwasher but almost never used it. From a young age, Liam had been washing the dishes to help out in the kitchen while Pop put away the leftovers and the left-out ingredients from dinner. It had been a way for Liam to be closer to Pop at first, an unconscious and unfathomed attraction to his nonbiological parent. Liam understood Dad too well, on a visceral level. But as a kid, he’d been drawn to Pop, who was blond where Dad was dark, heavy where Dad was light, boisterous where Dad was reserved. The kitchen became their nightly ritual. By mutual understanding and no words whatsoever, Dad was barred from the kitchen after dinner. Pop and Liam time. Sacrosanct.
“Hear from El?” Pop asked, shutting the fridge door on leftover risotto and mushrooms.
His back to Pop, his hands working in the soapy water, Liam shrugged.
“Not so loud,” Pop admonished, and Liam chuckled.
“Just a text,” he said. “I’m trying not to crowd her, you know?”
Pop came up behind him and kissed the top of Liam’s head. He had to go up on tiptoe to do it—Liam had taken an inch over Pop a year ago. “You ever going to tell that girl you love her?” Pop asked.
“I’ll get around to it one of these days.”
Pop patted Liam on the shoulder. “Don’t wait too long, kiddo. Life’s short.”
“So’re you.”
“No one likes a smart-ass kid, Liam. Don’t forget the pan in the oven.”
Pop kissed him once more, on the cheek, and left Liam to finish the dishes.
Liam set the pan to soak, then pulled out his phone. now a good time?
El sent back a screen grab of her Insta DMs. It took Liam a moment to register what he was seeing.
I’ll show it to dad right now
NO!
Liam flicked his gaze through the archway that led to the dining room. Dad and Pop sat at the table, scrolling their phones in that silent communion married people have.
why not?
we don’t know who we can trust
Fuming, Liam almost shut off his phone. El was being paranoid. They knew his father hadn’t attacked her.
chill out, she texted, as though she could read his mind. i have a plan.
Liam tried not to move, but he was cold and his body wanted to dance back and forth to generate heat.
El’s plan was simple and to the point: Stake out the statue and see who showed up. Liam wouldn’t have done this for any other human being on the planet.
And yet here he was at close to midnight, twenty minutes from home and practically begging to be grounded for life if he got caught.
Leave it behind the statue of Susan Ann Marchetti in the park tonight at midnight and this all ends.
Yeah, we’ll see about that, Liam thought.
The park could mean only one place, in context: Susan Ann Marchetti Memorial Park, a popular municipal park in Brookdale, not far from Canterstown. And there was only one statue in the park, that of the eponymous lady herself. So Liam got to the park around eleven thirty and secreted himself in some bushes with a line of sight to the statue. He hadn’t left it there, partly because screw this guy, but mostly because the knife was locked up in Evidence Control.
He shivered. It was a cold fall night, and he suddenly had to pee. Shouldn’t have downed a Coke on his way, but he’d needed the caffeine and sugar boost.
Fumbling at his fly, he relieved himself into the bushes, suppressing a sigh of relief as he did so. No sooner had he tucked himself back in than he spied movement by the statue.
A thrill ran through him, supercharging his body beyond the chemical capabilities of caffeine or sugar. Holy crap. It’s happening.
It suddenly occurred to him that the odds were very good that he was about to see one of his friends’ parents skulking about, and his excitement crashed.
Shifting slowly into a better viewing position, careful not to make noise or rustle the bushes, he peered out to the statue. The lighting was poor here, as throughout most of the park. He wished he had night-vision goggles. Not just for this, but in general. It would be cool to have night-vision goggles.
A figure broke loose from a cluster of shadows. Dressed in black pants, black boots, and a long black jacket, as well as a black wool cap. Nice. The figure glanced around, then casually meandered over toward the statue.
Liam leaned forward a bit. Looked like a guy, but in that coat, who could tell for sure? He didn’t think it was Marcie’s mom, but…
The figure stepped around the statue, and Liam realized the flaw in his part of the plan—the best concealed spot near the statue had a very obstructed view of the back of the statue. Which is where it was supposed to be left. Once the mysterious person in black went around to the back of the statue and saw that the knife wasn’t there, he or she or they would just disappear into the park and vanish for good.
I should have planted something there. Like a decoy. Duh. Next time I sneak out in the middle of the night to catch a bad guy, I’m totally going to think it through.
El had told him not to improvise, but he figured now was the time to improvise.
As quietly as he could, he emerged from the brambles and leaves surrounding him. His legs, cramped from squatting in the bushes for so long, seized up on him; he sacrificed a few seconds to do some deep knee bends to get the blood flowing again. Then he crept closer to the statue, sidled around it—
And was busted immediately. He damn near crashed into the figure in black, who was crouched at the base of the statue, running his—yeah, it was a dude after all, big shock—fingers along the concrete. The man yelped and sprung up from his squat. Liam, off-balance from the near collision, flailed, snagging the hem of the guy’s coat with one hand.
His grasp was tenuous at best. Liam fell to the ground, still clutching the coat. The man grunted in surprise, threw a look over his shoulder. Liam caught a glimpse of high cheekbones, shaved smooth. A smallish nose. A flip of honey-dark hair protruding from under the cap.
“Let go!” The man lurched forward.
Liam flung his other hand out, grasping the coat up higher this time, tightening his grip. The man stumbled and dropped to one knee. Progress!
With a heave of breath and a groan of effort, Liam pulled himself into a wrestler’s crouch, now landing both hands higher on the coat. It occurred to him that if the guy just slipped his arms out, he’d be home free, leaving Liam with nothing but a jacket as a trophy.
Instead, the guy stumbled as he tried to rise, collapsing on all fours. Liam pounced, tackling him around the midsection, bearing both of them to the ground. The statue stood in a circle of cobblestones; Liam’s left hip and elbow sang their pain; he tuned them out. He was not letting go of this dude.
“Get off!” the guy cried. His voice was low-pitched, slightly nasal. Liam twisted, hugging the guy from behind and above, trying to tip them over so that he could get him in a headlock. Wrestling lessons from gym class were a million years ago, but muscle memory saved the day.
The man thrashed under him, hands scrabbling against the cobblestones for purchase, for stability. Liam rocked them back and forth. Anything to keep the guy from gaining any sort of leverage.
Smash his face against the ground. The savagery of the notion startled him, as did his immediate acceptance of it. Yeah, smash the guy’s face. That would stop him.
He released his grip, counting on his weight to hold the guy down while he reached for his head. Grab the ears. Lift. Smash. Repeat? Maybe. Let’s see how it goes.
But in probing for the man’s head, he shifted his weight, and in that moment, the man rolled to one side, knocking Liam off-kilter. Shimmying like a snake, the guy wriggled out from under Liam.
Liam cursed under his breath and stretched to clasp the man’s ankle. But the guy
kicked out, knocking Liam’s hand aside, then lashed out with his other foot, catching Liam fully on the left side of his face with the bottom of his shoe.
The world exploded red, then white, then black. Sparks danced before Liam’s eyes. Through a fuzzy haze of static, he witnessed the man scramble a couple of feet away, then rise to his feet and dash off through the bushes.
Back in the car, Liam gulped air until his breathing returned to normal and his heart rate subsided. Then, in a move that he knew would make his dad proud (after his dad finished berating him for being here in the first place, of course), he whipped out his phone and tapped out a quick list of everything he could remember about the man and their scuffle.
His ribs hurt and the side of his face throbbed, but his vision had cleared and showed no signs of impairment. Skimming his list, he determined that it met with his satisfaction. He began composing a text to El, but a look at the time told him she was probably asleep. And it was too much for a text anyway.
And besides, do I really want to leave evidence that I did this?
He lifted his gaze to the vanity mirror and stared at himself. Was this how it was going to be now? Thinking like a cop and a criminal? Covering his tracks while searching for someone else’s?
Jorja’s voice in his head: Come on, Li. For El.
Well, yeah.
He texted El that he would fill her in in the morning and then drove home.
THE PRESENT: ELAYAH
Elayah had told herself she could sleep in her room. She was very persuasive—top scorer in debate club and mock-trial team, three years running, thankyouverymuch—and she convinced not only her parents, but also herself.
Pajamas on. Shea butter on. Stitches lubricated to prevent scarring.
New sheets. The guest duvet cover because hers was covered in blood and, hey, let’s not think about that, okay, let’s just think about that nice, stout lock on the window. Gee, it sure is hefty-looking and, according to the locksmith site she’d checked, was rated number two in the world. Which would probably suffice since they weren’t trying to keep the CIA out.
With a deep breath, she had stepped into the room, threw back the duvet and top sheet, climbed into bed, and turned off the lights. Then she’d rolled right out of bed, marched out of the room, and walked down the hall to her parents’ room, where she stood in the doorway and announced, “Yeah, that’s not gonna happen after all.”
Mom and Dad exchanged a knowing glance. She figured one of them had just won ten bucks from the other.
That night, for the first time since seventh grade, Elayah slept in her parents’ bed, curled up next to Mom. Dad slept in her room. She put her phone under her pillow, set on vibrate.
It woke her from a thin sleep sometime after midnight. Next to her, Mom breathed regularly and steadily. Dad’s snores echoed down the hall.
The text from Liam was mysterious, frustrating. Sort of like Liam himself.
success? kinda-sorta? talk tomorrow
She sighed and slipped the phone onto the nightstand. Unable to fall asleep again, she rolled out of bed silently and stretched. What had happened? Should she text Liam back? He was probably on the road, so bad idea.
Above and behind the nightstand was a window looking out into the backyard. Elayah quietly peeled back the shade to peek outside. The moon was high and bright, almost full.
And someone stood in her backyard.
Her heart jumped once. Her brain immediately rejected the evidence of her eyes. A high fence separated her yard from the adjoining houses. It’s not like someone could just wander back there accidentally or unintentionally. It was after midnight. Therefore, her brain insisted, you’re not seeing what you think you’re seeing.
But someone was there. Standing underneath the cherry tree that grew in the northwest corner of the property.
Elayah’s mouth went dry. Her eyes darted to Mom’s slumbering form. Wake her? Go get Dad? Call 911?
Picture. Take a picture of the guy first. Right?
She bobbled her phone plucking it from the nightstand, finally righted it, and peeled back the shade again.
There was no one there.
Told you so, her brain said smugly.
LIAM
Liam woke to his own hiss of pain. In his sleep, he’d rolled to his left, pressing the tender side of his face against the pillow. He crawled out of bed less than six hours after crawling in.
A brief look in the mirror over his dresser told the tale: A massive black-and-blue continent had arisen from the ocean of his face, folding around his left eye and inflating down to his cheek. He appeared as though he’d taken a boxing glove to the face.
It could have been worse, he supposed. It could have been a footprint.
Well, you snuck—sneaked, sorry, El—out of the house, down to the park, back home, and back inside without being caught. You couldn’t expect the night to go perfectly, right?
Dad and Pop milled about the kitchen. Pop had hash browns on the griddle, and Dad’s head had disappeared into the fridge. “Where is the cheddar?”
“Behind the mushrooms,” Pop said without so much as a glance up from the potatoes.
“But where are the mushrooms?”
“In front of the cheddar,” Liam said helpfully.
Dad chuckled dryly and closed the fridge door. He startled at the sight of Liam’s face. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Well,” Liam said slowly, as Pop turned and added his gasp to the conversation, “first I was born. And then at some point I hit puberty. And then—”
“Not funny!” Dad snapped. Pop abandoned his griddle to come to Liam’s side, taking his chin in his hand and turning his face this way and that against the light.
“I’m fine,” Liam protested, gently disengaging from Pop. “It only hurts when I stare at something really hard.”
“What happened?” Dad demanded again. “Were you in a fight?”
Liam shrugged. “Masturbation accident. We’ve all been there, right?”
He knew it wasn’t working when Dad and Pop both—without so much as a glance at each other—folded their arms over their respective chests and glared at him.
“Okay, okay,” he said with a sigh. “I fell out of bed. Got tangled up in the sheets, fell, hit my stupid face on the stupid nightstand. Can I score some of those hash browns now?”
Pop clucked his tongue and relented, stroking Liam’s face for a moment before returning to the stove. Dad nodded thoughtfully. Liam figured he’d pulled it off.
Maybe.
1986: KIM
Kimberly Tate—one of many Kims in school and therefore known mostly as Kim T. or even K. T.—had no illusions about her artistic abilities, thanks mostly to her artistic sensibilities. She could identify good art, pick it apart, analyze it. And that same ability made her painfully aware of her own shortcomings when it came to creating art.
You need to learn how to take enjoyment in something you’re not good at, her dad told her once. It’s okay not to be the best at something.
Tough lesson to learn, she thought, sitting in art class, but one she’d taken to heart. As proved by the fact that she—stubbornly? obstinately? idiotically?—took an art class every single year of her high school career, even knowing that she would never be great at it.
Art class had a lot to recommend it, actually. With grades totally subjective, the pressure to succeed dissipated, replaced with a gentler sense of accomplishment. No questions; no answers. Just the work.
Plus—and this was more important than she’d initially thought when signing up—art class was mostly girls. It was a welcome break from all those booming, assertive, insistent masculine voices and attitudes in the rest of her classes.
Fortunately, she had found Dean.
Dean, who was unlike the rest of the boys. Oh, he could be as gross—as grody, her Val-speaking friends would say—as any other boy. As loud. As unyielding. But his core was kind and empathetic. He possessed an inner gentleness that sh
e’d never witnessed before.
It all went back to sixth-grade social studies, Ms. Grimaldi’s class.
With no particular reason for doing so—the lesson that day was on the Trail of Tears—Ms. Grimaldi suddenly segued into a discussion on the very nature of America itself. In America, she claimed, anyone could be or do anything. Anyone could grow up to be president. Even a girl.
There’d been a ripple of slightly astonished, slightly bemused laughter at that, as the boys in the room chuckled at the idea. Ms. Grimaldi slapped her hand against the blackboard. The dull thwack of her hand and the resultant cloud of chalk dust had halted the class’s reaction, and she’d repeated herself firmly, in an almost-defiant, I dare you to laugh tone.
But Kim had—through sheer coincidence—not been watching Ms. Grimaldi during the literal and figurative dustup. She’d turned to check out her friend Becky’s hair, which had been a disaster in homeroom, sending Becky in a panic to the lavatory. Kim wanted to see if some hair spray and time with a brush had managed to rescue Becky’s coif, but she’d been distracted by Dean, who sat just in front of Becky.
When Ms. Grimaldi made her comment about a girl someday being president, when the boys reacted, Dean hadn’t said anything at all. Made not a sound. Instead, he simply nodded, his expression thoughtful, as though absorbing the information.
And then…
Just the tiniest smile.
A smile, she thought, of approval.
She was too young, she knew, to be in love. But she also knew that when the day came, she would be in love with Dean.
And that had happened, almost as though foreordained. Their friendship grew throughout middle school, deepened and burgeoned during freshman and sophomore years, then turned into something much more before Thanksgiving junior year.
Most days, she sat with the boys at lunch. In truth, she missed sitting with Jenny A. and Jenny M. and Becky and Sarah and Missy, but Dean was her boyfriend and she knew it was right to sit with him. Besides, the guys were funny, and she heard things at their table that she never would have heard at her own.