The Cemetery Boys

by Heather Brewer

  He grabbed a Snickers bar and came up to the counter beside me. I started to say, What, no drinking and driving today? But decided it was better not to engage. I could see Holly outside in his car, and I hoped like hell he wasn’t going to raise the subject of me hanging out with his little posse again, because frankly, I didn’t have it in me to say no politely. For a moment, I thought I’d lucked out and he-who’d-been-named-after-a-small-road had come down with a terrible case of laryngitis, but then, like an idiot, I made eye contact. It was all over. “Hey, Stephen. What are you up to?”

  “Buying a Mountain Dew?” I had no idea why it came out like a question. I guess I was in awe of his observational abilities.

  He nodded and glanced at the bottle on the counter, as if to confirm that I was indeed purchasing a caffeinated beverage.

  “I heard you were hanging out with that Cara girl.”

  My jaw tightened. I didn’t like the way he said hanging out. “Yeah. What of it?”

  Lane shrugged, a smart-ass look on his face. “Nothin’. She’s just kind of a sk—”

  I had a pretty good idea what he was about to say. I also had a pretty good idea that Lane was about to get punched in the face.

  But then the bell above the door jingled, and Lane went quiet. I turned to see Scot and Cam step inside. At first they didn’t notice me. Cam was texting as he walked, barely looking where he was going. After he put his phone in his pocket, he glanced my way and smiled. “Hey Stephen. What’s up?”

  “Not much. Just trying not to die from the heat. You know.”

  Scot chuckled. “If you think this is hot, just wait till the humidity really kicks in. This is nothing.”

  As if I needed another reason to loathe Michigan summers. But it felt good to joke about them for a change.

  Cam and Scot headed for the cooler. They looked at what was inside for a moment before Cam called to the guy behind the counter, “Got any Diet Pepsi?”

  The man narrowed his eyes and grumbled, “If it ain’t in da coolah, I ain’t got it.”

  Scot shrugged and tugged Cam out the door again. On their way, both offered me “later” nods and smiles, rolling their eyes at the guy behind the counter, as if the three of us were in on the same joke. Register Guy snorted and before the door could even close all the way, he said, “Fags gotta keep their girlish figures, I s’pose.”

  Lane laughed like it was the funniest thing he ever heard. I froze. An angry heat crawled up my neck to my face. I was insulted on Scot and Cam’s behalf, but I’d be lying if I said I was surprised. This was exactly the kind of bullshit I expected from a town like Spencer. I tossed a glare at Lane and then threw it at the old man. “Doesn’t it bother you that you’re furthering the stereotype of closed-minded hicks?”

  They both just stared at me like I was an alien, until I said, “Those guys are my friends. Lane, you’re an ass.”

  Without an ounce of shame or regret, Lane scoffed right in my face. The old man leaned forward and in a gravelly voice said, “Well, if you’re so bothered by it, Sally, why don’t you hike up your skirt and follow ’em on outta here?”

  In my mind, I wished something horrible on the old man. Something I couldn’t picture specifically, but horrible nonetheless.

  Suddenly, the man behind the register began to cough. But he didn’t just cough. His entire thin, aged body racked with such violent spasms as he coughed that I thought he might die right then and there. The old man—still coughing—stretched out a hand so I could presumably put a dollah fiddy in his palm. Another cough sent his hand straight into the bottle of Mountain Dew, knocking it to the floor. The plastic bottle hit the tile with a thud and Mountain Dew burst out of the seam around the cap, spraying everywhere. Dropping my wallet on the counter, I bent down and grabbed it, covering the busted seam with my hand and trying to stop the sugary onslaught.

  When I came back up, I half expected to find the old man dead on the counter. But no such luck. He wheezed one last wheeze, then he took a deep breath and just stared. “You still gotta pay for dat.”

  I stared back at the old man. He had to be kidding me.

  Holding out his hand once again, he said, “Dollah fiddy.”

  Reluctantly, I reached for my wallet on the counter. But it was gone.

  The bell above the door jingled and I watched as Lane dashed outside, my wallet in hand. To say I was pissed didn’t even begin to cover it. I ran out the door as fast as I could, but it was too late. Lane’s car peeled out, Holly laughing her head off in the passenger seat, and I was left standing there, breathing in the smell of exhaust and burnt tires, not knowing what I was supposed to do.

  “You left me!” The words came suddenly, and so did the shove on my shoulder as Cara whipped around to face me. She was wearing my shirt—the one I’d abandoned on her bedroom floor. It looked incredibly sexy on her, and I wondered if I would ever get it back again. But mostly I didn’t care. Smacking me on my arm, her eyes wide with incredulity, she said, “I can’t believe you! It’s bad enough you just left me there with my crazy mother, but then you don’t even stop by or call or anything? For three whole days!”

  “So . . . you’re mad?”

  Cara rolled her eyes. “No.”

  I sighed in relief. At the same time, a smirk settled on her lips. Her perfectly kissable lips. “I just can’t believe you left like that. I didn’t know what to think. I’ve never had a guy run out on me before. You should’ve seen the look on your face. Priceless.”

  I was immediately tempted to ask just how many times she’d had a guy in her room like that, but I managed to resist. It wasn’t any of my business. Besides, Spencer was a small town. Going by math alone, how many guys could there possibly have been? “I’ll have you know your mother can be a very intimidating woman.”

  Cara nodded, her voice dripping with what I hoped was sarcasm. “Yeah, she frequently scares boys out my window and down the roof.”

  Screw resistance.

  “What boys?”

  Grinning, she shoved me again, but lightly this time. I had the undeniable urge to pull her closer and kiss her throat. As she turned and headed down the sidewalk, she said, “You are so aggravating. Why did I sneak out to see you?”

  “Does that mean no more grope-fests?” She rolled her eyes at me over her shoulder, but I stood my ground. My shaky, hormonal-boy ground. “No, seriously.”

  “Maybe. We’ll see. For now, I’m still grounded. So I’d better get home.” She stopped on the sidewalk, turning back to face me, and shrugged. “For a few more days at least. Till Martha forgets what she walked in on.”

  “I know I won’t forget it.” It sounded like a line—maybe it was—but I meant what I’d said. I’d never forget the way that Cara’s skin had felt against mine, or the way that she’d made my heart race. Some moments in life were etched into your memory. Some were burned into your soul.

  “You’re sweet.” She stood there on the sidewalk, looking conflicted about leaving. She said, “I’d better get the hell out of here before I kiss you again.”

  She turned, and as she walked away at a good clip, I called after her, still hopeful, “That would be a bad thing?”

  She kept on walking.

  A few hours later, I found myself bored and alone in the oh-so-exciting downtown area of Spencer, Michigan, where the top summertime activities consisted of people watching and car watching. And there weren’t that many cars on the road. After returning home to borrow a few bucks from my dad, cursing Lane the whole time, I’d finally grabbed that Mountain Dew (dollah fiddy), along with a bag of Doritos (dollah turdy), and parked myself on a bench across the street from the gas station. I’d swiped Devon’s journal from my nightstand and shoved it in my back pocket, but couldn’t even muster the energy to flip through its pages. Like I said, I was bored. Too bored to even entertain myself. But not bored enough to hang out with my grandmother or my dad. I don’t think anyone in the history of man has ever been that bored.

  “What�
��s goin’ on, dude?” Markus plopped down on the bench beside me, just as I was crumpling up my empty Doritos bag.

  I offered him a shrug and washed back the Doritos taste with a swig of pop. “Not much. Just sitting here. Wishing I was somewhere else.”

  “You’ve basically described the entire adolescent experience.” He chuckled, and then followed my gaze across the street. “Seriously, what’s up?”

  “I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure things out around here. What do people do for fun in Spencer? I mean, I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes, watching these old men across the street, and they haven’t done anything. They’ve only moved to use the restroom or grab another cold one.”

  “So let me get this straight. You’ve been sitting on this bench for half an hour, staring at some old men in front of the gas station. And you’re wondering why they don’t seem to have a life?” Markus raised a sharp eyebrow at me. “Somebody please call the irony police.”

  “Okay. Point taken. But what about the kids?” I gestured around at the empty sidewalks. “It’s a sunny summer day and no one’s outside. It’s me, you, and the old men. And they just sit there. Every day. For hours.”

  “They’re not just sitting there. They’re waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “Just . . . waiting.” He shrugged, his eyes on the old men. “Since the auto parts factory two towns over closed down, it’s all most people in Spencer can do. Wait for the factory to reopen, or for a new one to open in its place. And in the meantime, wait for the unemployment checks to show up in the mail. Times are pretty tough for everybody right now.”

  “That I do know.” Sweat rolled down my forehead and I wiped it away with my arm, wondering if there would ever be a break in the heat. “But I don’t know, it just seems like no one is really doing anything about it around here. It’s like everybody’s given up. Is that bad luck, or is this place just cursed?”

  “If you have nothing better to do, why not go see a movie or something?”

  “Can’t. No cash. My dad is as broke as everybody else, and that douche bag Lane stole my wallet.” I’d thought about reporting it to the cops, but really, this was between Lane and me. Tattling on him to the authorities was no way to show him what a dick move he’d made. Egging his car, on the other hand . . .

  “Did he, now?” Markus grew quiet for a moment, his demeanor chilled. Then he slid his thumbs in his front pockets and shrugged. “Don’t worry about Lane. The boys and I will take care of it.”

  Right. Take care of it. As if they were the mafia of small-town Michigan or something.

  I watched as one of the old men across the street nudged another and nodded in my direction. I chuckled. “It would be kind of funny if they were staring at me wondering why I don’t do anything all day. An endless loop of ‘what the hell,’ y’know?”

  “You really are sad here, aren’t you, Stephen?”

  A heavy sigh escaped me. “Yeah, to be honest. Hanging out in the Playground is great. You and the rest of the guys are great. Devon’s great. Cara is . . .”

  “Hot.”

  I skipped over that commentary. One: I really didn’t want anybody but me noticing how hot Cara was, and two: I didn’t want anybody noticing that I’d noticed how hot Cara was. “But I still can’t figure out if I’m here for the long haul or not. And I still don’t feel like I fit in either way.”

  “Who cares about fitting in? Fitting in is overrated. The important thing is you don’t waste what time you do have sitting here judging everybody else.” We exchanged looks. Markus held up his hands in self-defense. “I’m just saying. Who gives a shit what they do, what you do, the endless loop or whatever? Just do something and screw the rest.”

  I sighed again, but this time with fewer dramatics. “Another valid point.”

  “You keeping score?”

  “I might be.”

  “For the record,” Markus said, “Devon might be, too.”

  I shot him a glance. “What do you mean?”

  He looked around and lowered his voice, as if someone might be trying to listen in on our conversation. “Cara, dude. You’ve gotta be real careful when it comes to Devon’s sister. When I first moved here, I made a comment about the royal hotness that is our fearless leader’s sister and he hit me so hard it dislocated my jaw.”

  “Damn,” was what I said, but the word inside my mind started with an F. A big, totally screwed F.

  Markus was looking at me with the air of a man speaking to a death row inmate. “Yeah. So just be careful, okay? Cuz if you hurt her, Devon will cut your balls off.”

  “Funny, those are the exact words he used with me, too.” I tried to laugh it off like I really did think it was funny, but I suddenly felt like my shirt was too tight around the neck. I was very much in need of a subject change. “So, Markus. Where’d you move here from, anyway?”

  “Atlanta.” When he said the name of his former home, a look of longing crossed his eyes. Moving here clearly hadn’t been his preference, either. “Hotlanta, if ya like. My mom moved here for a boyfriend, but he’s out of the picture now.”

  “You don’t have an accent. Where’s your southern drawl?”

  “Not everyone from Georgia sounds like they’re from the country. There you go, judging again.” He nudged me with his elbow as he stood. “Come on. I’ll show you what I do to stay entertained around here.”

  He turned right and I followed him, dropping my empty Doritos bag and half-empty Mountain Dew bottle in one of the three public trash cans in Spencer as we rounded the corner onto Water Street.

  “Does what we’re going to see involve Devon and the other guys?”

  “Not this time.”

  “So what about tonight? You guys hanging out at the Playground like always?”

  “You know it. We hang out there every night.” He looked at me like he was daring me to judge him, too. “And frankly, we’ve been wondering where you’ve been.”

  I shrugged, forgoing a whine about my grandmother’s endless list of chores, which would have been only half true. “Just been kind of tired. But I’m up for it tonight.”

  “Ah. Can’t do it tonight. We’re busy.”

  “You’re busy? Or we’re busy, meaning I’m expected to attend something else?”

  “Look, it’s private business with the rest of the gang, okay? I can’t say any more than that. Hell, I’ve already said too much. Devon would kick my ass if he knew.” Markus ran a hand through his hair, brushing it away from his eyes. There was a nervous edge to his movement.

  “He can’t kick your ass for not telling me anything. On the other hand, if you want to tell me what’s up, I promise I won’t tell. I thought I was supposed to be in on all the secrets after the other night anyway.”

  Markus flinched.

  “Just . . . not tonight, okay? And stop asking so many damn questions.” He sounded irritated, which was strange considering I was the one being ditched. Had Devon found out about me and Cara, and now wanted to plan exactly how they were going to kill me? He knew. He had to know. Of course he knew. He was Devon.

  As we rounded the corner near the movie theater, Markus nodded to a small, square building up ahead of us. The sign on the front was practically falling apart, its paint so faded that the words Spencer Library were difficult to read. “Here we are.”

  I blinked at him for several seconds. It wasn’t that I didn’t like books. I totally got the whole pull-to-fiction-for-escapism thing. I’d just kind of been under the impression that he was taking me somewhere seriously cool. Like maybe into the attic of the mansion to hunt for ghosts or some shit. I don’t know. Anything would have been better than the nondescript building I was staring at. “This is how you pass the time? At some run-down, dusty library?”

  At Markus’s proud nod, I said, “I’m going back to the gas station.”

  Markus caught me by the arm and tugged me toward the library. “Hey, it’s better than staring at old men all day. Besid
es, I think you’ll be interested in what I have to show you. Come on.”

  Markus looked quickly in both directions before we went in, almost like he was making sure we weren’t being followed. That, more than anything, finally caught my interest.

  The inside of the library was far better taken care of than the outside, even if it was a little overstuffed with books. Off to the right there was a small grouping of four desks, with four giant, ancient desktop computers. The walls of the library were decorated with a “tasteful” blend of local artistry and posters encouraging people to read. From behind a tall desk to the left, a woman’s head popped up. She had graying hair and a pleasant smile, and wore small rectangular spectacles on the end of her nose. A thin pink sweater was draped over her shoulders, and dangling from the ends of her glasses was a beaded chain, shiny and every color you could think of. She looked, to put it plainly, the way I’d hoped my grandmother would look when we pulled into town. Warm, inviting. Kind. “Oh, hello, Markus. I thought I’d be seeing you soon. Heading downstairs?”

  Markus smiled and guided me around several tall piles of books. The place didn’t appear messy so much as organized in a way that only the librarian could understand. “You know it, Ms. Rose. This is Stephen, by the way.”

  Ms. Rose gave an absentminded wave. “A pleasure to have you, Stephen. Enjoy yourselves. Let me know if you need help finding anything.”

  We came to a narrow, metal staircase that spiraled down into the floor. As we descended into darkness, my grip on the handrail tightened in apprehension. Markus hit a button on the wall as we reached the bottom of the stairs. The lights flickered on, and I gasped. Though the room upstairs had had a sense of order to it, the basement level was utter chaos. Along each of the four walls were large shelves, stretching from ceiling to floor. Each shelf was stuffed full of books, newspapers, and boxes of microfiche film. In front of the shelves were piles—almost too many to count—of books and newspapers. A heavy layer of dust covered everything, striking a sad chord inside me. I hated to see so much history forgotten. I looked to Markus, who nodded, as if he could see my thoughts written all over my face and agreed with my assessment completely. He placed his left hand on my shoulder and then swept his right arm out in front of us, gesturing to the room in all its dusty glory. “These, my friend, are what’s affectionately known as the stacks.”