Time Will Tell

by Barry Lyga

Normally when she banged on his door and beseeched him to turn off the rock, he would crank it up. Anything to blast the Valley girl pop out of her head. But this morning, he could not be bothered—he slapped his hand out, shutting off the radio.

  He dragged himself through the rote necessities of the morning—a piss, a scrub of his face, a pass with his toothbrush. With perfunctory efficiency, he slicked back his hair into its gleaming, immobile crust.

  Since he was running late, he had the perfect excuse not to eat breakfast. When he arrived at school, he was shocked to find Jay there, hanging out with the twins near the school store.

  “What happened?” Dean asked in a whisper, sidling up to the trio.

  Jay shrugged. His voice, too, was hushed, but not as dramatically as Dean would have thought for someone dragged out of the school by the cops a couple of nights ago.

  “They brought me over to the sheriff’s. Called my dad. Then they let me go with him and said someone from the school would talk to me.”

  Dean couldn’t believe it. For this he’d lost two nights of sleep? He glanced over at Antoine, but Antoine did not look back.

  First period was calculus. Jay sat two rows over from Dean and seemed absolutely at peace until the PA burbled, “Patrick Dearborn, please report to Admin.”

  A murmured chorus of Ooohhh bubbled like swamp water. With a grin that was pure bravado, Jay stood and saluted Mrs. Weismuller before ambling out the door.

  Dean had no head for math in the best of circumstances. The only reason he’d taken calculus at all was because he thought it would look good on his transcripts. And with Jay promising to give everyone As, he hadn’t tried very hard to grasp the concepts in the class.

  These were not the best of circumstances. He could not focus on the equations and formulas projected on the screen, the numbers, letters, and brackets merging into a nonsensical mishmash of text. At some point, he just gave up trying to understand and stared down at his blank notebook as though something intensely interesting had appeared there.

  With ten minutes to go before the end of class, Jay returned, his eyes hard, his jaw set. He stared in Dean’s direction even as he handed a slip of paper to Mrs. Weismuller.

  Mrs. Weismuller moistened her lips and shook her head as she read the paper. With an apologetic tone to her voice, she said, “Dean, they’d like you to report to Admin.”

  A fork of lightning speared Dean’s heart, and his gasp for breath drowned in the gurgle of Oooohhh that erupted again. Mrs. Weismuller shushed them as Dean managed to stand and headed to the door.

  Jay grabbed his arm on his way and leaned in.

  “Don’t speak to each other!” Mrs. Weismuller snapped in sudden alarm.

  “Screw the prisoner’s dilemma,” Jay whispered, and then dutifully returned to his seat.

  Dean staggered down the corridor to Admin, moving by muscle memory alone. His loafers slapped the linoleum, echoing in the empty hall.

  At Admin, Mrs. Wistern gazed at him balefully before telling him to go into the principal’s office.

  The door was open. Dean stepped inside. He’d been in here before—at night, with Jay. They’d gone through Mr. Taylor’s desk just for the hell of it, absconding with a pad of hall passes and a roll of breath mints for their troubles.

  Mr. Taylor sat behind his desk in a charcoal-gray suit, the jacket slung over the back of his chair. His tie was a nubby magenta, squared-off. He had a full head of shaggy brown hair and a nose that could have stood in for an Olympic ski ramp. His eyes were frighteningly, piercingly blue.

  “Close the door,” he said evenly. “Have a seat.”

  Dean did as he was bade. As he sat down, he thought, Screw the prisoner’s dilemma.

  “We need to talk about what happened this weekend, during homecoming.” Mr. Taylor did not seem upset or angry. He clasped his hands over his belly and leaned back in his chair. “You were at homecoming, correct?”

  “Yes, sir,” Dean said. “I heard the police come, but I didn’t see anything, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  Wow. The lie came out so smooth that it would have surprised Dean…if he’d been in his body. Instead, he was floating just outside it, above and slightly to the left, looking down on himself as he spoke.

  Mr. Taylor nodded as though he believed this. “The police did come. And they arrested Patrick Dearborn. He’s your best friend.”

  It was passing strange that the principal knew who was whose best friend.

  “He is,” Dean said. “Look, I don’t know if you know this or not, but his mom just died. So he’s—”

  “I’m aware.” Mr. Taylor cut him off, his tone not unkind. And Dean realized: Mr. Taylor’s boss, technically, was Jay’s dad. Jay’s dad was on the board of education.

  “But what I’m interested in,” Mr. Taylor went on, “is who else was involved. And I know you were.”

  Had Dean’s focus been on Mr. Taylor, he most likely would have reacted to that comment with a weak grin and a stuttered, unconvincing laugh of denial. But most of his brain was busy churning through the epiphany that Mr. Taylor was Jay’s dad’s subordinate. How hard could they or would they actually come down on Jay? Especially given that his mother had just died?

  They were prowling around for a scapegoat, he realized. Someone else they could dump this on.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean said with bewildered confidence.

  His denial seemed to shake Mr. Taylor. “You expect me to believe that your best friend copied keys to this building and you didn’t know about it? You’re the SGA vice president.”

  Dean shrugged. “I don’t know what Jay does when I’m not around, sir. I was having a good time at the dance, and I heard the sirens like everyone else. And I was really surprised later to learn that it was Jay.”

  Mr. Taylor pursed his lips. To Dean’s astonishment, he realized that even he believed himself. That was exactly what had happened. A giddy, feathery feeling eddied within him; he was going to get away with this.

  “We’re not going to let this go,” Mr. Taylor went on, a note of impatience ringing. “Do you think we can just let students roam a multimillion-dollar physical plant with impunity?”

  “I would imagine not,” Dean said. “Is Jay going to be in trouble?”

  “Him and anyone else who was with him.” Mr. Taylor glowered significantly.

  “Look, if I knew anything, I would tell you,” Dean said. Screw the prisoner’s dilemma. Jay had told them nothing. He knew he could bear the weight of whatever happened because of who his father was. And because he was Jay, he was indestructible, and he would always win. “If I hear anything, I’ll come to you. Honest.”

  Mr. Taylor said nothing for a moment, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. This conversation clearly was not going the way he’d imagined.

  “Can I go back to class now?” Dean asked earnestly. At that moment, the bell to change periods rang. Mr. Taylor said nothing and did not so much as budge as the tones rang out over the PA system.

  As the last clanging echoes died away, he nodded to Dean and said, “Yes. Go back to class.”

  THE PRESENT: ELAYAH

  Look,” Liam said, “we gave it a good shot. More than one. But we don’t have a victim.” He ticked off the point on one finger. “We don’t have a motive—”

  “Didn’t you hear her?” Jorja insisted. “She cheated. On your dad!”

  “With your dad!” Marcie interjected.

  “My dad wasn’t dating anyone.”

  “Oh, so it’s all my mom’s fault, then?”

  “Guys!” Elayah clapped her hands for attention, then held them up, palms out. After their talk with Kim, they had convened in her garage, settled into old lawn chairs, with Jorja slumped in a threadbare lounger. Dad was at work; Mom was at the store; the house felt vaguely safe.

  “Guys! Come on. This is, like, ancient history. It doesn’t really matter who cheated on whom. Because where’s the victim, then? I mean, are we sa
ying Liam’s dad was so pissed about Kim and Peej hooking up that he went out and killed… someone else? Doesn’t that seem weird?”

  Marcie and Jorja each nodded, somewhat grudgingly.

  “What’s really weird,” Liam said with an utterly, forcefully guileless expression, “is that your parents hooked up and now you guys are hooking up.”

  Jorja surged up from the lounger, rage etched on her face.

  “Take that back,” Jorja said.

  “Take it back? It’s a fact.”

  “It’s true,” Marcie said. “It is a little weird.”

  Jorja flexed her fingers. “Just don’t be a dick about this, Liam. Not this. Come on.”

  Liam shrugged. “Sorry.”

  It was just enough of an apology that Jorja sat down.

  “I think we need to take a big step here,” Elayah said. “I think we need to go to the sheriff.”

  “Are you mental?” Liam asked. “Now you want to do that?”

  “Now you don’t want to do it?” He’d been the one suggesting going to the sheriff from the very beginning.

  “That was before we did a bunch of stuff that’s either illegal, immoral, or just plain dumb,” he informed her.

  “But he’s the only one we haven’t talked to yet. Other than Marcie’s dad.”

  “Maybe Brian got pissed that Kim and my dad hooked up.…” Jorja said, sitting up straight.

  “Again, and killed someone else?” Marcie asked in such a withering tone that Elayah questioned whether their relationship would last the night.

  “Look, we know some things the sheriff doesn’t know. We know the handwriting on the note matches the postcards. It’s like… it’s like we have ingredients, but no recipe.”

  “And we don’t even have a picture to know what the meal is supposed to look like,” Jorja offered.

  “Thank you for helpfully extending the whatever-you-call-it,” Liam snarked.

  “Metaphor,” the other three all said at the same time, then did simultaneous double takes.

  “We can give your dad what we know,” Elayah told him. “And he can put it together with what he knows. And maybe this all gets figured out.”

  “And maybe I end up in deep trouble because none of us are supposed to be doing any of this.” Liam flexed his fingers as though seeking something to clutch as a distraction. “Technically this could all be called obstruction of justice. We could get in big trouble.”

  They sat in silence, staring around at each other as though one of them would suddenly snap and reveal the solutions to all the mysteries.

  “Who the hell would steal an old mixtape?” Marcie said out of nowhere, her tone beyond annoyed, as though the missing cassette were the worst part of this whole ordeal.

  “Well, either it was a mistake or it’s not a mixtape.”

  They all turned to look at Liam, who seemed shocked to find himself the subject of their attention.

  “What? It’s pretty obvious—you don’t steal a mixtape. You steal, like, an important recording.”

  Elayah fumbled for her phone and brought up the pictures she’d taken the first day, on the hill overlooking the school. In the Before Times. When the world still made sense.

  “Here they are,” she said, studying one particular photo for a moment. “The two tapes. Look.”

  Pinching the picture larger, she thanked the ghost of Steve Jobs for the excellent camera in her iPhone, then held it out for the others to see.

  Jorja squinted. “So the one Liam’s dad gave back to you has writing on it. Song titles. The one that’s missing has nothing written on it.”

  “It’s a confession,” Marcie said with unearned yet captivating confidence.

  Jorja’s eyes lit up, and it killed Elayah to slay her mood. “Doesn’t matter what’s on it. We don’t have it.”

  Just then Elayah’s phone chirped. “Indira,” she said, and swiped to accept the call. Elayah put her on speaker.

  “Hey, Elayah.” There was something different about Indira’s voice. Even at its huskiest, it possessed a bounce and a verve that communicated almost as much information as the words conveyed. Now it was low, soft, funereal. “Am I on speaker?”

  “Yeah.”

  Indira asked to be taken off speaker. Raising her eyebrows at Liam, shooting a quick look over to Marse and Jorja, Elayah shrugged and complied.

  “What’s up?”

  “I have to tell you something. This will be hard to hear.”

  Elayah tried to imagine what could be so hard to hear. What could be worse than what she’d already been through?

  “We pulled your dad’s blood type from the DNA you gave us. It matches the blood type on the report Liam showed us. AB. He’s the only one of your parents with AB. Which means… well, it means a few things are possible. It could mean your dad struggled for the knife with someone and was cut.”

  “Or it could mean my dad killed Antoine. Or my dad is Antoine and killed Marcus. Because they’d both have AB, right?” Misery and nausea cloaked her. Mist filled her brain.

  “Yeah,” Indira said after a moment’s hesitation. “I mean… yeah. Look, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. If we had the blood from the knife, we could maybe pin down if it’s your dad’s blood or his twin’s. Maybe.”

  “But it’s one of them.” She looked around. Her three friends all had furrowed brows. She felt as though she’d just been given bad medical news.

  “Or someone else with AB,” Indira pointed out.

  Elayah shrugged. They were almost 100 percent certain that no one but the parents had put things in the time capsule. So it had to be one of the twins.

  “I’m really, really sorry, Elayah,” said Indira. “We’ll, uh, keep digging on our end.”

  The call ended.

  Elayah twisted in her seat to take one of Liam’s hands in both of hers. She kissed the top of his hand and tasted the salt of her own tears.

  As was traditional when her dad was on night shifts, dinner became breakfast in Elayah’s house: On this night, banana pancakes and bacon, with a side of hash browns. Elayah pushed the food around, trailing a slurry of powdered sugar, butter, and syrup along the edge of her plate. Her appetite was nonexistent, and she couldn’t even look across the table at her father.

  “Something wrong, baby?” he asked.

  Yeah, you killed my father.

  He hadn’t, of course. But she was having trouble disassociating the name from the role, the relationship. Was this something children of twins went through, and she’d missed out solely because of Antoine’s—Marcus’s?—disappearance? Regardless of the names and the faces, the people behind them remained the same.

  She literally did not know who her father was, even though he was sitting right across from her.

  “Just not hungry,” she mumbled, still not looking up.

  “Not feeling well?” he asked, and the sincerity of his tone rankled, dug its claws under the flesh between her shoulder blades, raising the hair on the back of her neck.

  “Why do we have Aunt Jemima?” she snapped, dropping her fork onto her plate. “Didn’t they stop making this stuff? It’s racist.”

  “I found it on sale,” Mom said mildly.

  “If something’s going on,” said her father, his voice verging into disciplinary territory, “tell us. Otherwise, watch your attitude.”

  She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t be in the house with him. Not now. Not knowing what she knew.

  Rising from her seat, she said, “I’m going to spend the night at Marcie’s,” and bit off and swallowed if that’s okay. Because she wasn’t asking, damn it; she was telling.

  When she rounded the corner, she pulled out her phone. She didn’t text Marcie, though—she texted Liam.

  1986: MARCUS

  With Brian tagging along, Marcus sought out Dean at home. They found him in his basement bedroom, where he’d erected custom-built cases for his burgeoning comic book collection. Marcus glanced around. Dean had described the setup to them all
as he’d built it, in a manner that Marcus had assumed to be overly self-impressed. But he had to admit that the space was cool. If you were going to read silly crap like comic books, you might as well have a very nice, handmade walnut-fronted cabinet to store them in and a couple of comfy beanbag chairs to read them in.

  “What’s up?” Dean asked, flopping onto a chair.

  Marcus squatted into the other beanbag and faced his friend. Brian leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s about Jay, man.”

  “What about him?” Something clouded Dean’s eyes. Marcus thought it might be knowledge, trying to get out. Trying to break through.

  “We’re not happy about this,” Brian said. “But we have to talk.”

  “He’s outta control,” Marcus said. “Even before homecoming. That stuff with the pizza guy…”

  “That was my idea,” Dean said quickly.

  “Right,” said Brian. “At first. And then you tried to get him to back off, but he was—”

  “You know Jay,” Dean interrupted. “He gets something stuck in his teeth like that, and he just can’t let it go.”

  Licking his lips, Marcus shook his head slowly. This was the problem with Dean: Dean saw everything from every angle. He understood everyone’s perspective. Dean read comic books, so he thought the good guys always won. Which was just one step away from not acting because, well, the good guys are going to win anyway, right?

  It reminded Marcus of Dr. King’s admonition about the moral arc of the universe bending toward justice. People were fond of quoting that, but they always neglected to mention that the arc bends because we bend it.

  “I get that he’s your best friend,” Marcus said, plucking words with care and precision, like pomegranate seeds. “He’s my friend, too.”

  “Our friend,” Brian said with some urgency.

  “But we gotta rein him in, man.”

  Dean wasn’t buying it. “No one can make Jay do anything he doesn’t want to do. You both know that.”

  “He’s gonna get himself in trouble,” Brian said, “and we’re always around him, so we’re gonna get in trouble, too. That stuff at homecoming… he could narc on us at any time. All of us. I know he’s being cool now, but if they pressure him…”