by Barry Lyga
“I’m so glad you’re up and about, honey.”
Elayah tried not to let her affection for Kim interfere with her quest. “Thanks. But if you could answer Marcie’s question…”
Kim leaned back against the counter and kept stirring her coffee, staring into its depths as she spoke. “Teaming up on me. This is about the time capsule. All that stuff. Right?”
They all four nodded mutely. Liam just had to chime in: “This is what we do now, apparently.”
With a groan and a sigh, Kim pushed past them—gently—and went into the tiny, cramped living room. Growing up, Elayah had found Marcie’s life somewhat magical. With divorced parents, she had two of everything: two bedrooms, two TVs, two living rooms, two kitchens.… But as she’d gotten older, she’d realized that such mystical bifurcation came at a cost—combining Marcie’s two into one still would not have equaled Elayah’s mundane singleton lifestyle. Marcie’s life was less than the sum of its parts.
They followed Kim into the living room. The TV—muted—showed someone furiously whisking a bowl of what appeared to be cookie dough. Kim was addicted to cooking shows, the more outlandish, the better.
Kim sighed as she sank into an overstuffed armchair that faced the TV, swiveling it to face the four of them.
In all the years Elayah had known Marcie, the decor, the furniture, the framed photos on the walls—none of it had changed. Not a whit. As she settled onto the sofa, she knew that if she flipped the worn, lumpy cushion, she’d espy the faint borders of the stain she’d caused at age seven during a sleepover. Chocolate milk met damask; chocolate milk won.
Kim stared at them. “Peej,” she said, a rasp of memory in her voice. “You guys just had to go dig it all up, didn’t you? Everything that was supposed to stay buried.”
Was it an admission of something? It felt like an admission of something. Elayah had slept in this woman’s home, eaten her cooking, used her shampoo, borrowed her tampons, for God’s sake.… What had she done?
“Maybe you guys shouldn’t have buried it in the first place,” Jorja said with a level of snark Elayah found shocking in a girl talking to her girlfriend’s mother.
But if Kim was annoyed or offended, she did not show it. Instead, she merely smiled and said, “Has your dad ever showed you his senior yearbook?” Regret and satisfaction blended in her voice, satisfaction taking the upper hand, if only slightly.
Jorja blanched, then recovered. “He doesn’t really keep stuff like that.”
Kim smirked knowingly. “Ask him about it,” she said. “It’s not for me to say.”
“We know about Sheppard Pratt,” Jorja said with as much dignity as she could muster.
“Mom, come on,” Marcie complained. “We’re just trying to—”
“Trying to do Dean’s job for him?” Kim shook her head and finally sipped the coffee, which must have been awful, judging by the expression on her face. “Look, I get it. The tables are turned. Suddenly you guys get to look through all our dirty laundry. You think one of us did… something. What kid wouldn’t want to slap their parents back for all the slaps?”
“My parents don’t believe in corporal punishment,” Jorja said somewhat officiously.
Kim sighed with her entire body. “I wasn’t being literal, Jorja. Jesus.” She slurped some more coffee, then stared down into the murky depths of her mug. “We did some things,” she said after a moment. “I did some… I did some stuff I’m not proud of. But I don’t think… I don’t think we hurt anyone.”
“Did you know Lisa De Nardo?” Elayah asked. Marcie, next to her on the sofa, had gone mute. She clutched Elayah’s hand with the desperation of abused puppies.
“Who?”
“McKenzie,” Liam jumped in.
“Oh.” Kim shrugged. “Sure. Not well, but, yeah.”
“Did you know about her and Martin Chisholm?”
Kim burbled laughter. “No one knew anything. Rumors didn’t get hashtags and GIFs until a few years ago, guys. People saw things. People talked. We knew, but we didn’t know.”
“And no one went to the police.” Elayah’s outrage spilled out like bile. Every time she thought about Lisa De Nardo née McKenzie in the hands of that rapist while no one lifted a finger to help her, her indignation flared anew. “No one did anything.”
“He wasn’t that much older than us. No one thought much of it.”
Elayah couldn’t accept that answer, but she had no response other than to light her hair on fire and dive-bomb Kim while screaming at the top of her lungs. She settled for squeezing Marcie’s hand instead.
“How did Lisa’s note end up in the time capsule?” Jorja asked. “It had to be one of you who put it in there.”
“Beats the hell out of me, Jorja.” Kim seemed almost cheerful in her ignorance. “It was a long time ago, one, and two, do you really think I would notice a little bitty thing like that? That damn time capsule sat in Brian’s garage for at least a week, and they never locked it. Any one of us could have gone in there and put the envelope in there. Or done it the day we buried it while we were digging the hole and not paying attention.”
“Brian? Wait. Dad?” Marse sat up straighter.
“Sure. Your father kept the time capsule in Nana and Poppy’s garage.”
“So he could’ve put in the note or the knife or both,” Jorja mused. “He had access.”
“We all had access,” Kim said wearily. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Dean’s no dummy—if this was easy to figure out, he’d’ve done it by now.”
“Can we go back to Mr. Dearborn?” It was the first time Liam had spoken in a while. He stood behind Elayah, his hands resting lightly on the back of the sofa. When she twisted around, she saw a thoughtful, focused expression aimed unerringly at Kim.
Slip the boy some tongue and suddenly he’s all True Detective. Who knew?
“He goes by P. J. now,” Liam went on, “but you guys used to call him Peej?”
“Patrick Jason,” Kim said, nodding. “He never liked Patrick. Once he was in law school, he decided to be P. J., so we started calling him Peej. But for a couple of years there in high school, he went by Jay. Using his middle name before he settled on initials.”
“My dad didn’t kill anyone,” Jorja said hotly. “He’s a defense lawyer, for God’s sakes.”
“Yeah, and when we were kids, he thought he was going to be a cop,” Kim shot back.
“Really?” Jorja’s temper cooled instantly in the wake of this pronouncement. “My dad?”
“Sure. And Dean was going to be a writer.” She passed a hand over her eyes. “We made mistakes. I… I cheated on your dad, Liam. With Jorja’s dad. That’s the big secret, okay? Are you happy now?”
Liam stiffened. “You were my dad’s girlfriend?”
“Yeah. I thought we…” A sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh emanated from her. “We were going to get married. That was the plan. But then, you know.” She shrugged.
“My dad didn’t even know he was gay until college,” Liam protested. “He met this guy named Whit—”
“I don’t know about that. When we broke up, he… It was after Christmas break. Right before Peej was sent away. Look, that year a lot changed. Everything changed.”
“Because of the time capsule. And Uncle Antoine.”
Memory, Elayah knew, could be sunshine, and memory could be a blade. Kim winced with the pain of remembering. “I wish it was just that. I wish I could tell you that poor, sweet Antoine ran off and we all changed. But we were changing before that. Like you guys are right now. And we were figuring it all out.
“Let me tell you something: You’re all smart and talented kids, and you’ve been told that most of your lives. We were, too. And we all ended up stuck here, except for Antoine, who got out while the getting was good. Smart and talented isn’t enough.”
“Then what is?”
Helplessness radiated from her eyes as she spoke: “I don’t know. If I did, do you think I’d still be
here?”
1986: DEAN
Dean delivered a cup of punch to Kim and then—without even actively deciding to do it—lied and told her he needed to use the restroom. He left her there on the edge of the dance floor and walked briskly to the gym door, then down the corridor. Past the girls’ bathroom. Past the boys’ bathroom. To the spot where the galvanized steel security barrier had been unfolded from one wall and locked into place on the opposite wall, barricading away the rest of the school. He leaned against the wall and lightly thumped the back of his head against it.
What was he going to do? What was he going to do with his life?
Prom. Jesus, he’d completely forgotten about prom until Kim brought it up. It had been tough enough coming to homecoming with her, knowing how much it hurt Antoine to see them together like this. In six months, how much closer would they be? He wanted them to be so much closer, and it would hurt so much more to watch Dean go to prom with her.
What could he do? What should he do? Why couldn’t it be easy? Why couldn’t the world just accept him and Antoine as they were? And not the world of San Francisco or New York, not the world of far-off cities he’d never been to. The world of Canterstown. The world of his family and Antoine’s family and their church. Who were they hurting? They weren’t hurting anyone. They weren’t doing anything wrong. They were just trying to be together and be true, but the world kept telling them no.
“Hey.” Kim approached from down the hall. “Everything okay?”
He had become so practiced at the lazy, easy smile. “Yeah. Just catching my breath for a second. You’re tiring me out.”
She pressed herself against him, kissed his jawline, then leaned up to whisper in his ear, “I want to tire you out.”
A hot pulse thrummed along his rib cage. His stomach flopped. Kim put a hand on his chest.
“Guys!”
And the crashing sound of a body hitting the security barrier, which rattled in place.
It was Brian on the other side of the barrier, eyes wide and wild. “Guys, there’s a problem with Jay! He’s losing it!”
With as much care as the impulse allowed, Dean pushed Kim away. “What do you mean?”
Brian fumbled with his keys and scanned the barrier for the keyhole. As he did, he spoke rapidly. “He started banging on the glass. Said something about his mom.… She was in the hospital or something—”
“Was?” Dean asked.
Brian found the right key. Slammed it into the lock. “Yeah. Was. She’s dead, man. She killed herself this afternoon.”
Dean’s heart lurched as though his body had been yanked on a tether attached to a jet. He heard Kim gasp but scarcely registered it.
“Where’s Marcus?” Brian asked as he unlocked the barrier.
“With Dinah. No time to get him. Or explain any of this to her. C’mon.”
Between the two of them, Dean and Brian hauled the barrier open enough for Dean to fit through. Before they could close it again, Kim squeezed through, too, carefully pressing her dress close to her body so as not to catch it.
“You don’t have to come—” Dean started.
“He’s been a wreck for a while because of this,” Kim said. “She’s been in the hospital for weeks and—”
“How did you know that?” Dean regarded her with a quizzical expression.
Kim strove to keep her face neutral and succeeded. For the most part. “We talked. When he let me in the school that one time.”
With a cluck of his tongue, Dean nodded, as though tasting a new meal and unsure of its flavors. He swallowed it, though. They relocked the barrier behind them and followed Brian through the hallways to the central entrance.
It was worse than Dean had feared. Jay stood in a circle of broken glass. The display case doors had been smashed to pieces and glittered all around him like a fallen halo. As they watched, he reached into the case, withdrew a framed photograph, and dashed it to the floor at his feet. From the amount of debris around him, he’d been doing it for a while.
The Cup, ironically, was untouched.
“Jay!” Dean stage-whispered. “You have to stop this, man!”
“What year?” Jay asked no one in particular, staring straight ahead at the broken glass of the case. “What year was she born? I can’t remember. I can’t remember!”
He spun around, glaring at Dean with wild eyes. “If I can’t remember, how will anyone know? How will they know what to put on the stone?”
Dean hesitated. His best friend’s face, flushed and pale at once, bright red broken by speckles of white, loomed at him. Nothing made sense anymore.
“I’m gonna bring the car around,” Brian said. “Someone’s gonna hear this, and we gotta get him out of here.”
Dean nodded permission and Brian ran off. Dean and Kim came up on either side of Jay. Dean didn’t want to risk a touch—it might set him off.
Kim was not so concerned. She put a hand on Jay’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Jay. I’m sorry she’s gone.”
Jay didn’t flinch. He sniffled back tears and growled, “She’s not gone. She left. There’s a difference.”
“She was sick. She didn’t know—”
“Yeah, man.” Dean leapt on the idea. “She never would have left. You know that. It was in her head.”
Jay laughed bleakly and took a wooden plaque from the case. “Who cares?” His voice was hoarse and dead at the same time. “Who cares about any of it? She’s dead.”
He smacked the plaque against the wall once. Twice. Three times. It made a sharp, loud cracking sound each time, echoing down the halls. On the fourth blow, the plaque broke in half with a disappointingly dull snap.
A terrible light blazed in Jay’s eyes, candles set aflame with pain and anger. “We should burn this place down. We should burn this whole town down. No one would miss any of it.”
Dean and Kim locked eyes in fear. Jay did not make idle threats. He meant every word of it. In a day or an hour, he might not, but at this moment, he had every intention of setting fire to the whole town. Dean wondered if Jay had matches on him. He wondered if he was going to have to fight his best friend.
The rhythmic pounding of feet dragged Dean’s attention away from Jay. Antoine dashed around a corner and skidded to a halt before them, his eyes wide, his breath coming in huffs.
“Police!” he gasped. “Coming in! Now!”
Dean’s heart free-fell into his gut. What the hell were they going to do?
“Jay, the cops are coming.” He infused as much authority and stability into his voice as he could, pushing through the panic and the heat of fear. “Brian’s getting your car. We have to go. Now.”
With one hand, Jay pushed Dean away. Kim’s hand on his shoulder didn’t seem to bother him.
Dean was torn. He had Kim hanging on to Jay, Jay refusing to move, Antoine standing there with fear in his eyes.… He could run, but how could he abandon his best friend?
Down the hall, voices. The police.
Dean hadn’t brought his keys with him to homecoming, but Brian had handed his set off when he ran for the car. Dean flicked through them and found the key to the nearby storage closet. The encroaching voices and the sound of heavy footfalls made his decision for him.
“Stop screwing around, Patty,” he said, hoping that the use of Jay’s hated childhood nickname would shock him out of his trancelike state of methodical violence.
Jay didn’t so much as budge.
Fine. Jay was on his own.
He grabbed Kim’s hand and gestured to Antoine. They dashed down the cross corridor, and Dean discovered his hand was remarkably steady as he unlocked the storage-closet door. They were within eye- and earshot of the display case. The storage closet was packed with boxes and cleaning supplies. Antoine went in first and pressed himself into a corner. Dean pushed Kim in, then stepped in himself. He could swear he heard a clear voice—“You! Stop!”—as he closed the door, praying the hinges wouldn’t squeak or squeal.
He managed to
ease the door closed without a sound.
In the dark, a hand groped at his. Kim. He squeezed tightly.
“We just have to be quiet,” he whispered to her.
Breath sounded all around him. He knew the cadence of Antoine’s respiration. He closed his eyes against the dark, swallowed. Breathed through his mouth to be quieter. ’Toine’s breath and Kim’s seemed to roar at him like bull elephants.
They heard the police yelling at Jay. Heard more crashes and smashing as Jay ignored them.
A steadying hand on his shoulder. Antoine.
Yelling again. “Stop! Down on your knees! Hands where we can see them!” All the stuff they’d ever seen or heard on Miami Vice or T.J. Hooker. Not entertaining now.
He heard Jay laugh and expel a breathtaking string of curse words. Then a scuffle. Then a sudden quiet.
Kim squeezed harder. Behind them, Antoine muttered something under his breath, and Dean wanted to tell him to be quiet, but saying that would defeat the purpose.
Were those footfalls outside the door? Was that the squeak of a shoe?
Any second now, he knew, the police would open the storage-closet door.
Any second now.
Monday morning came. Dean could not be certain if he awoke from a fitful sleep in which he dreamed he was awake or if he’d never slept at all. One seemed as likely as the other, and his exhaustion offered no answers. He stared up at the ceiling, his radio alarm clock chattering away at him.
No one had opened the storage-closet door. They’d escaped. He’d tried to call Jay all day Sunday. The first several times, no one answered. At around two in the afternoon, Jay’s dad picked up and said that Jay was not available, would not be available, and stop calling, please.
Dean thought about Jay’s mom. He didn’t call back.
Now Jenny pounded at his door. “Like, totally wake up!” she complained. “Turn that off!”