April 30, 1994
Thirteen days until my birthday
I wish I could disappear. That’s what I thought the first time I laid eyes on Butch Calder, though I didn’t know his name then. He was just a boy—an older boy, and cute too—standing on the porch with his fists balled and his face sort of scrunched up. Like he was tough or trying to look it. I fell for his act until he opened his mouth.
“I’m nobody,” he’d said to Trey, and you could tell deep down, he really believed it. Big mistake, letting Trey Waters see inside you. I knew that from experience. Trey’s hand was on my shoulder—it fit all the way around—and squeezing tight. Sometimes, I thought Trey was the devil with his red-rimmed eyes, his long, bony fingers, and his nails that looked like claws, stained yellow from his cigarettes. You never let the devil know who you really are.
“Well, Nobody, if I want your opinion I’ll give it to you. Now scram.” Trey didn’t even look at Calder—that’s what his friends called him, he told me later—but I wanted him to, desperately. I wanted him to look anywhere but at me. Because I swear, it felt like he could see through me. Right down to my bones and further, where I’d buried my secrets. The ones he could never know. Trey’s thumb brushed my neck, and I shivered. “Now, where were we?” he asked, all slick and slimy, the way he used to talk to Mom.
“Not until you let her go. She’s a kid, you pervert.”
This boy was braver than I’d figured. Or stupid. But his courage made me bold, and I shrugged off Trey’s devil claw. I wondered if it left a mark. “I’m going inside,” I told him, the words sticky in my dry mouth. I didn’t move though. It was one thing to say it and another to do it. Trey had that kind of power.
“You get one free pass, Nobody, because I’m such a nice guy. And I don’t feel like gettin’ your blood all over me.” Trey slipped his knife out of his back pocket and pressed the little button—click—that revealed the blade. I was acquainted with that knife. I’d held it in my hand before. Tomahawk brand with a gold alligator on the case and the initials B.A., for Bruce Allcott. Trey’s knife had once belonged to my father. “But next time, I suggest you mind your own fucking business.” He made a show, polishing the length of it with the hem of his shirt like the star of a gangster movie.
Calder didn’t answer, and he didn’t look scared. At least he wouldn’t have to most people. But I noticed the way he held his body rigid as a board. I knew fear when I saw it.
“And don’t think I’m gonna forget about you, Evelyn. You owe me, and you know it. Your mama knows it too, God rest her soul.”
Trey slunk away through the woods at the back of the house. I watched his oily brown ponytail until I couldn’t see it anymore. Then I turned to the boy, suddenly feeling nervous. I didn’t talk to older boys. I didn’t talk to boys period. But he seemed different. Safe. And did I mention, cute? Cassie would be so jealous. “Thanks,” I mumbled. “He’s a jerk.”
“I was gonna say psychopathic asshole, but yeah. Jerk. That too. Do you want me to tell somebody he’s bothering you?”
I shook my head fast. That was the last thing I needed. Everybody already thought I was a freak. Evil Evie with her mutant-green eyes. Someday, I’d get contacts. Turn them brown as mud.
“Alright. Mum’s the word then, but be careful.” He paused for a second. “Wanna come back inside?”
I headed up the stairs. From the porch, I could hear Gwen playing the viola. I liked her, though I couldn’t say why. I just knew she wasn’t like the girls at Port in a Storm or even Cassie. She was beautiful and smart and nice and different. But that day, her playing sounded sad, and I wondered if this boy knew her. “So what’s your real name, Nobody?”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Butch
January 14, 2017
Saturday
Evie remembers me. Or at least she thinks she does, and I’m not about to tell her otherwise. That she doesn’t know the real me. That the Butch she met that day at Port in a Storm—the Butch who hadn’t killed a girl yet—is a ghost. A shadow. I recall him fondly, bittersweetly, like a long-lost friend. But I don’t pretend we’re the same person. Ending a life, her life, ended him too.
“I wasn’t sure you’d remember me,” I say. “Or want to be reminded. It was a long time ago.” My heart is doing that thing again. Thumping like a goddamn snare drum. She’s going to ask me where I’ve been the past twenty-some odd years. She’s going to ask what I did to land myself on parole. She’s going to ask why I’ve got her license in my pocket.
“A lifetime ago,” she says. That’s all. Then, she goes quiet, just standing there back-dropped by the past. Our past. I can’t look at that tree, but I can’t not look at it. And the silence grows as wide as a frozen lake. Before I know it, I’m yammering to fill it.
“I guess you turned out alright, huh? A doctor. Wow. That’s pretty impressive considering…” Insert foot in mouth, Butchy. “I mean…you had it pretty rough. I’m sorry. I hope that wasn’t rude.” That’s another thing about prison. It really does a number on your social skills.
“It was honest,” she says, looking up at me with those eyes. And the weight of pain in them, the beauty too, nearly bowls me over. Because I’m light-years from honest right now. “How have you been?”
This is my chance to spill my guts. I realize now, she won’t ask. It’s one of those taboo questions like asking a woman if she’s pregnant or asking your boss how much he makes. “I’ve been…”
“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it. I understand. I work with offenders. A lot of them were in prison too.”
I nod at her, grateful, but I can’t leave it at that. Can I? I owe her something. Everything really. She doesn’t know the half of it. Think twice, speak once. That’s what they taught us in anger-management class. So, in my mind, I play it out like I always do.
“I killed someone. A girl.” The words will collapse the universe. I’ll wait for them to suck us into a black hole, the kind of place nothing could escape from. Not even light.
“Oh.” Not a horrified oh. Shocked, yes. But she won’t run. So it won’t be a complete disaster. “That must’ve been hard to say out loud.”
“Yeah.” She’ll be in full therapist mode by then, but I won’t mind. I know the rules of that game, and it feels safe. “But I’ve had a lot of practice. Eight psych evals before they let me out. Not that I counted or anything.”
She’ll laugh, and for a moment, I’ll remember her as she was, as she used to be. A kid and already smarter than I was. Just for that moment, I’ll let myself pretend to be Young Butch again. Hero. Rescuer of young girls. Not the villain. The destroyer.
I open my mouth to do it, to get it over with. I’ve done it so many times, performing like a trained monkey for those parole commissioners judging me from their ivory tower. But I’ve never said those words to someone who knew me before. Someone like me. And it feels all wrong. Like meeting your doppelganger.
“I got my bachelor’s degree in Folsom.” That’s what I come up with. Of all things.
“What did you study?” As if we’re just two old buddies at a high school reunion, shooting the breeze. And I’m not a murderer. And she’s not a hitchhiking shrink.
“Sociology. Go figure. No wonder I can’t get a job to save my life.” We both laugh, and it feels good. But then, I feel guilty. Again.
“You know, my office building manager is looking for a custodian. You’re probably overqualified, but…”
“I’m interested. It’s the best offer I’ve had yet. Heck, it’s the only offer.”
“I can’t make any promises, but I’ll put in a good word. It’s the least I can do, Butch? Or is it Calder? What should I call you?”
Creep. Liar. Cold-blooded killer. Among other things. “Well, as I recall, it was always Calder for my friends.”
“Calder it is then.” She smiles at me, a sm
ile with a twist to it. A secret I want to know. And I realize I’m in more trouble than I thought. Trouble, with a capital T. Because Evie remembers me, and she’s not a little girl anymore.
****
Sebastian is sitting on the bed, reading, when I get back. Apparently, Lord of the Goddamn Flies is so engrossing he can’t be bothered to say hello.
“Hey. I’m Butch. Your roommate.”
He studies me over the rim of his glasses, then extends a hand. “Sebastian Delacourt. Nice to meet you.” His grip is as weak as a dead fish, and as soon as I let go, he’s back in his book.
“Lord of the Flies, huh?” I flop down on my mattress, wondering why I can’t stop talking. But with Evie’s license still in my pocket and everything I didn’t say spinning in my head, I’ve got to move my mouth to stay sane. “I was always partial to Piggy myself. How ’bout you?”
“Jack.” Well then. Heartless savage it is. As if this guy wasn’t spooky enough with his disappearing act last night. “Jack’s misunderstood, you know. The officer sees it at the end. He’s just a little boy who’s in over his head.”
I’m not sure if I should laugh or run. “That’s one way to look at it, I suppose.”
Sebastian closes the book and chuckles, shaking his head at me. “I’m totally messing with you. I like Piggy too. I mean, look at me,” he says pointing to his glasses. “I practically am Piggy.”
I put a pin in that one. It would be downright uncivil to agree. “Did you hear what happened up the street?” I ask. “I’m surprised this place isn’t crawling with cops ready to give us the shakedown.”
“Uh, yeah, sort of. Some of the guys were talking about it at breakfast. Why? What did you hear?” I’m surprised this guy lasted one day in the joint. He’s a ball of nerves, the way he’s tapping his fingers against the cover of that book. But then again, maybe he’s got reason to be.
“They’re saying murder. Of a kid. A girl. Probably happened early this morning. Maybe around 4 a.m.”
I wait for my bluff to sink in. For Sebastian to crumble, to dissolve into a murky puddle, leaving only his glasses and his copy of Lord of the Flies behind. Instead, he raises the leg of his jeans, showing me a GPS monitor strapped to his pasty-white ankle. “It’s a good thing I’ve got this to vouch for me then.”
I play it cool, but I’m losing my edge. Clearly. It’s the size of my cell phone. How could I have missed it? In a house like this, that gadget can only mean one thing. My roomie is a high-risk sex offender.
****
Mr. Richert’s door is open, so I don’t bother knocking. But I close it behind me, carefully, quietly. I don’t want anybody to know I’m here. And by anybody, I mean Sebastian.
“What’s up, Calder?”
“I need a new roommate.”
Richert leans back in his chair, rubs his baldhead, and smirks. “Does this look like a college dorm to you? It doesn’t work like that. Now, what’s this all about?”
“You know what it’s about.”
“Enlighten me.”
“He’s got a bracelet, Frank. Don’t mess with me.”
“And?” He shakes his head, dismayed. “Everybody’s the same in this house, Butch. Anything that happened before you got here is confidential. That’s for your protection too, ya know.” It hits like a grenade, but it’s not a shocker. That’s what he’s thinking. We’re the same. Sebastian and me.
“I’m not a goddamn perv.” It feels good, spitting it at him like that, but I want to take it back. It sounds like prison talk. I suck in a deep breath and count to ten just like I’d been taught. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I mean, I’m not a sex offender.”
Richert considers me with a blank stare. “Remind me again why you went to prison.”
I sigh, accepting complete and utter defeat. “Murder. I killed a girl. I know it’s not any better or any worse. But Sebastian left his room the other night. Last night.” Murderer and now a snitch. Real classy, Butchy.
“You’re better than this.” Richert points to the door, sending me on my way. “Now get a grip and deal with it like a man. Okay, cupcake?”
Butch
May 1, 1994
Twelve days before I killed her
“I think I’m in love. And my life’s lookin’ up.” That was the song playing on the clock radio when the alarm went off at 9 a.m. Like Eddie Money read my mind. “I think I’m in love. Because I can’t get enough.” That’s right, Eddie. I couldn’t get enough of Gwendolyn Shaw. Which explained why Young Butch was up at the butt crack of dawn on a Sunday. And hungover, no less.
I lay there—head pounding and thirsty as hell—but snug as a bug in those scratchy two-dollar motel sheets, because Gwen had kissed me. No. Gwen had made out with me. Definitely first base. Tongue and everything. And as sick as it sounded, I had a little girl to thank for that.
“Evelyn Anne Allcott, we’ve been looking for you everywhere.” That’s what Cherice had said the moment she’d seen us walk in together. Me with my tail between my legs and Evie hiding behind me. Gwen had stopped strumming the viola, and all twenty pairs of eyes turned to take us in. The silence stretched out long and as taut as a rope.
“Calder found me,” Evie had said, finally, clinging to my hand like I was her big brother, and she wanted to show me off. And just like that, three words, and The Unfortunate Incident of Butch and the Guitar (otherwise known as Butch is a Filthy Liar) was completely forgotten. Well, almost.
“So why did you lie about playing the guitar?” Gwen had asked, hours later. We were parked up at Grizzly Peak, sunning ourselves on the hood of the ’Cuda. And I was already half-drunk on the bottle of Patrón Gwen had stolen from her dad’s liquor cabinet. The good stuff. Not the crappy tequila Wade always puked up in the Blue Bird parking lot.
“Why do you think?” I’d tilted my head to take her in. The curve of her shoulder, where—have mercy—she’d pulled down the strap of her tank top. The cute upturn of her nose. Her lips, the palest pink, like rosebuds. Geez, Butch. This girl had turned me into a poet, a goddamned Shakespeare.
“I don’t know why, Calder. That’s the reason I asked.” She’d taken a lazy swig from the bottle and licked her bottom lip. Then, she’d laid back and closed her eyes. Who is this girl? This girl who looked like an angel and played the viola. This girl who drank tequila straight from the bottle.
My head buzzed—maybe I was drunker than I thought—and the whole world went a little gauzy. I couldn’t think hard enough to come up with a good excuse. “I wanted to impress you. That’s why.”
I’d felt the heat of her body beside me. Closer. And closer still. But not as close as I’d wanted her. Her fingertips had brushed mine, and I’d held my breath until she spoke. “Kiss me.”
Horndog I was back then, it sounded like an invitation, a request. A demand even. Kiss me, Butch! Do it now, before I spontaneously combust from wanting you! But looking back, years later, I wondered if it had been more of a dare. Whatever it was, however she meant it, she didn’t need to say it twice. I’d sat up, taken her face in both my hands, and pressed my mouth to hers, hoping Lydia O’Connor had been right when she’d told the entire fifth grade I was a good kisser.
“I think I’m in love! It’s gotta be love!” I belted out the final chorus into my toothbrush, laughing at myself in the bathroom mirror. Then, I froze, leaned closer. Blinked and blinked again.
Mom’s chestnut brown eyes, Dad’s hawk nose—plus the bump I’d earned in juvie—and Jesse’s goofy grin. My face belonged to the dead. The eyes white with terror. The nose—and the ribs and the spinal cord—shattered on impact. Jesse’s head nearly cut clean off by a mangled shard of metal. It all flashed in the mirror like I’d been right there when it had happened. I should have been. But I’d convinced Mom that thirteen was too old for a dollar-store Halloween costume and old enough to be left home alone.
“Batman.” That’s what Maria had told me when I’d asked her what costume they’d found in the wreckage. “Batman and the Joker. There were two, Butch. One for your brother, and…”
That wasn’t meant to make me feel like the worst kid in the history of the world, but it did anyway.
I started the shower and stuck my whole head under the ice-cold water, still wearing my boxers. It hadn’t happened in a while, but sometimes my brain needed a hard reset. A CTRL-ALT-DELETE like the dinosaur computer in juvie, where they’d let us play PAC-MAN. I figured the shower was better than punching my face like I used to. And when I looked back at the mirror, shaggy hair dripping, my face was my own again. Except for my lips. Those were Gwen’s now. They were chapped and sore to the touch. A small sacrifice to the make-out gods.
Humming again, I stripped down and waited for the water to warm. At the Blue Bird, you never could tell how long that might take. And usually, I didn’t give a damn. My schedule was wide open. But not today. Today, I had somewhere to be, and a girl—the girl—who was waiting for me.
****
Picture this. I pulled up to Lake Anza in the ’Cuda—top down, duh—blasting track 1 of my KISS cassette tape, “I Was Made for Lovin’ You,” and outfitted in my all-new swag. Black board shorts with orange flames licking up my thighs and Ray-Bans propped on my head. When I saw Gwen sitting on the bench in an itty-bitty red bikini, I thanked God I’d been doing a hundred pushups a day since foster home number two, where the dad was hardcore ex-military. I was no Schwarzenegger, but I’d won the pull-up contest in juvie last year.
“Hey,” I said, swaggering toward her like I owned the place. I watched her eyes linger on my pecs. But I cut her some slack, because my own eyes were fixed to her chest like a hawk hunting field mice.
“I like your shorts.”
“Thanks. I got them ’cause of the flames.” Great. I sounded like a third-grader.
“You’re a KISS fan, right?”
I nodded, my tongue suddenly thick and useless. Why am I so nervous? I tried to remember that very tongue had been inside Gwen’s mouth less than twenty-four hours ago.
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