Under the Overtree

by James A. Moore

  He was looking pretty damn good and feeling even better than he looked. He noticed, almost as a passing thought, that he smiled more than he used to. So much, in fact, that his face had actually hurt for a small time, as muscles he almost never used had to go into play. The fat boy inside of him quailed, fearing that the dream would end and he’d wake up as heavy and homely as ever. He did his best to ignore the voice of the fat boy, but it wasn’t always easy.

  Fortunately, he could use the fat boy’s defenses against their creator. He simply thought of pleasant things, like Cassie’s sweet kiss and the fact that he would not be moving away from the same and the whispered fat boy terrors faded to an acceptable level of mental background noise.

  He smiled, thinking about the tricks he’d learned to drive away what his mother called “the Blue Funks” and went back to looking out the bedroom window, watching the clear white spectacle of ice fall to the ground. He felt at peace and opted to enjoy the sensation, rather than try to force it away. It felt so good, just to be happy for a change, just to feel accepted and loved.

  And in the quiet recesses of his mind, the fat boy howled his fears and raced wildly in his cage, trying to remind his captor of the first rule of emotional survival: Never Be Happy! Never Let Your Guard Down, Because That’s When They Can HURT You The Most. His cries fell on deaf ears.

  2

  Tony had been considering his predicament for a few weeks: Pete was dead, and Andy was gone as well. That hurt, a lot. They weren’t exactly close friends, but they were all he really had, aside from his uncle, and he was too ashamed of what he’d become to risk staring into the man’s eyes for more than a few seconds at a time. Contrary to popular belief, Tony wasn’t really happy with the decisions he’d made in his own life, nor was he one of the inner click of beautiful people. Despite being reasonably attractive, he bore the same curse that Mark Howell suffered from: He wasn’t really accepted in Summitville. His mother was born in town, sure enough, but Tony, like all of his siblings, was born in Chicago. He was fine to hang with, but few people considered him worth getting to know. He was an outsider.

  The girl he most wanted to be with was now associating with the boy he could most likely call his worst enemy. Certainly he was the only one who had ever stood up to Tony in the hallway, let alone thrown the first punch. All in all, it could be said in complete sincerity that Tony Scarrabelli was a very unhappy person.

  He couldn’t help but wonder about the occurrences that led to his predicament. If he were to be completely honest, he had to admit that he’d brought it on himself to a large degree. He’d never given Howell a chance to prove himself, either as a friend or as a foe. He had simply taken a dislike to the quiet, overweight new kid and started in on him as he had with any person that didn’t make him comfortable. Part of it was simply that he was the new kid and that made it Tony’s right to mess with him. Part of it was that the guy asked for it. He walked as quietly as possible and tried to hide in the shadows with his head tucked between his shoulders; he may as well put a sign on his head in bright pink letters that said, “I’m shy and don’t wish to be bothered by you, please go away.” As open an invitation to abuse as Tony had ever seen. Okay, so maybe he’d been a little rough the day Howell got the balls up to hit him, but he’d also been flying high on the Patrick Wilson Speed-ball Express; maybe if he had been straight that day, things wouldn’t have turned out as badly as they did.

  If he’d been completely honest with himself, he would have admitted that he’d been a prick. Alas, Tony was almost never that honest with himself. Very few people ever really are. So he blamed Mark for a great deal of woe in his life. But, he couldn’t just trash the little shit; he had to be subtle.

  Tony wasn’t stupid, at least not when he was his own boss and not the slave of whatever Patrick’s drug of the week was; in truth, he was really quite crafty in his own way, rather like a stalking panther. Mister Scarrabelli’s only son was very much a predator when he felt the need to be one. Right now, the need was strong indeed.

  So, it was time to make a few changes, fix the rules to his advantage. He’d have to cancel the chemical fun, immediately if not sooner; Cassie hated dope users. Secondly, he had to be nice, to Tyler and even to Howell. He could do that, he was nice to his three sisters, even when he felt like smashing them in the head with his fist for being such snotty little bitches half of the time. (That was okay in his father’s eyes, his father seemed to believe that it was almost the sacred duty of rich WASP girls, to be snotty little bitches and claimed that Tony’s mom was a perfect example of the fact. Tony had little doubt that that was why she had a stud boyfriend in the City. She and his father argued about her lovers often enough, and his dad had a very loud voice.)

  Then, when the time was right, he’d make his move with Cassie and all would be well in the kingdom of Tony. First thing tomorrow, he’d put his plan into action. He smiled at the thought and then grimaced at the loss of the pharmacy he was about to flush: out of sight, out of mind.

  3

  Mark’s built in sonar warned him trouble was coming his way and he whipped his head around, just in time to see Tony coming up on his left. The school day only barely started, and already trouble was brewing. Tyler and Cassie saw him too, all three of them tensed, fully expecting the shit to hit the fan.

  “Listen, uh, Mark, I need to talk to you.” Tony was right in his face and smiling shyly. Mark trusted him and his pearly whites about as far as he’d trust a shark; just because he no longer allowed himself to be prey, didn’t mean his instincts for danger had faded. And Tony Scarrabelli was most definitely dangerous. With a skeptical look on his face, he shrugged his shoulders and forced his fists not to ball up. “Speak away.”

  Tony did a passable job of being apologetic.”I’m here to apologize to you. I’ve been a real asshole and I’m sorry.”

  Mark and his companions stopped dead, stunned by the words that had come out of Tony’s mouth.

  Tyler was the first to recover. “Tell me,” he squeaked, “somebody please tell me, that I misunderstood. It sounded like Tony Scarrabelli apologized to Mark. Tony Scarrabelli doesn’t even apologize to teachers fer Chrissakes.”

  Tony looked over at Tyler and Tyler prepared to die for his acid tongue. “I guess I owe you an apology too, Tyler. I haven’t exactly been nice to you either, since about the third grade.”

  Tyler looked him dead in the face and spoke with great sincerity in his nasal voice. “Doctor only give you a week to live, Tony? Or did the pod people from Planet X replace you with an almost but not quite perfect duplicate?”

  Tony noticed absently, that Cassie was looking offended at what Tyler had just said and was glad that SOMETHING was going right in this conversation; Jesus, what the hell had he done to these guys, to cause such hesitancy on their part? Oh, nothing much, his mind responded, you’ve just been beating the shit out of Tyler since you were both eight. He accepted that voice well enough, but did his best to block out its next comment, almost succeeding and hating himself a little for the cowardice that voice revealed. And who do you think left that huge fucking scar down the side of Howell’s face the last time you and your good buddies tried to pound him through the floor? He tried to grin and actually got embarrassed as he thought about the scar and the half-memories of what they’d done that day. He continued his apology. “Look, I know you don’t have any reason to trust me on this, but I mean it. I’m really sorry for all the shit that came down. I know it was mostly my fault.”

  “Mostly?” came the immediate reply from Tyler, who arched his eyebrows and peered over his glasses, like a teacher in the process of driving home a disciplinary lesson. “Mostly?” he asked again, to insure that he had made his point.

  Tony looked over at him and for the first time in his life, made Tyler uncomfortable with words. “You have a mouth, that could get the Pope after you with a baseball bat, Tyler. As often as not you started in on me.”

  Flustered, Tyler conceded the poin
t with a smile and his usual verbal assault, this time softened by the truth of Tony’s words. “It was strictly self defense. I was just cleaning it, officer, and it went off, BOOM and he was lying on the ground in front of me.”

  Tony held out his hand and waited solemnly for Tyler to accept it. “Can we just forget it, try to work around it? Hell, maybe we could even be friends, I hear you’re an okay guy, when you’re in bed and your hands aren’t under the covers.”

  Tyler laughed at that one and before his hand was even joined with Tony’s, Tony knew he’d won the easy victory. Now came the tough one. After he finished shaking hands with Tyler, he turned to face Mark again. This was where it would get rough. He didn’t have any pat answers for any accusation that Mark might make, they were all accurate. As his Uncle Phil was fond of saying; “Here there be Tygers.”

  He held his hand out again, this time to Mark, and waited. His eyes locked with Howell’s and he realized that Mark was almost as tall as he was; whatever the boy was thinking, he hid it behind cold blue eyes. Tony started reassessing his nemesis, unaware he was even doing it.

  They both stood that way for what seemed to Tony like hours and finally he felt Mark’s hand clasp very firmly around his own. They shook hands solemnly, warring factions ending a long feud. Cassie’s smile made them feel like they had both done the right thing. As always, her smile made just about anything seem okay.

  4

  The sight that greeted Mark as he walked into the Basilisk, would have had him losing his mind only a week earlier; Tony Scarrabelli and P.J. Sanderson were engaged in a warm, friendly, conversation. Beside him, Cassie was just as floored, “Son of a bitch,” she whispered incredulously. “How do they know each other?”

  “Beats the hell out of me,” was Mark’s earnest reply. He pushed the door open and continued with, “Let’s find out.”

  The two of them walked hand in hand, into the sprawling chaos that was the inside of the Basilisk, fully prepared for almost anything. P.J. looked over at them with pure delight in his expressive eyes and Tony looked over with a face that mirrored their thoughts. “Mark, Cassie, how delightful to see the both of you. Mark, have I ever introduced you to my nephew, Tony Scarrabelli? Tony, this is the lad I told you about, the only man I know who can match me and possibly beat me, when it comes to bad monster movie trivia, Mark Howell.” He looked at all three of them, with great enthusiasm and walked over to give Cassie her usual peck on the cheek. “And I imagine you already know Cassie, you both go to school together, if I’m not mistaken.

  “Tony has graciously volunteered to drive us into Boulder for the convention.” A week ago, the news would have destroyed Mark. The man he cared for so dearly, was related to Tony. He found himself oddly glad he’d never revealed who pulped his face at the beginning of the school year. He didn’t think P.J. would have been thrilled by the revelation of his assailants’ identities, not when he was related to one of them.

  Tony was doing the driving and they would be together for several hours, most of that time in a cramped car. My, how the world can turn around, in only five short days.

  Looking at the two of them, in the same room, at the same time, Mark could see the similarities. Same gray eyes, same dark brown hair, even the same twist to the smile on their faces. He’d never even guessed. You could have knocked him over with a feather. “We’ve met , P.J., but I didn’t even know you had a nephew.”

  5

  The trip to Boulder was pleasant and Tony came across a startling realization as he drove his uncle and the others: Mark Howell was a nice guy. He was funny, energetic and obviously very close to Uncle Phil. Suddenly, plans of retribution started fading away, like a foul stench will fade when forced to meet fast flowing air.

  Unknown to Tony, Mark’s thoughts were actually quite similar. He hadn’t thought Tony capable of smiling without having his foot planted squarely on someone’s throat. The world was simply too full of surprises. He looked over at Cassie, who was involved in a discussion of Stephen King’s Dark Tower series with P.J. Again he was caught by how beautiful she was, the way her hair was highlighted by the sun and the way her skin had of almost glowing when she was involved in anything that made her happy.

  Mark had been saving his money almost since the first day that he had started working, just for today. He was looking forward to blowing the whole wad on Cassie. He knew just what to get her too. There were bound to be at least three or four stands that dealt exclusively with autographed novels; he’d get her a copy of the book of her choice and get himself a few as well. The list of authors he wanted signatures from was immense.

  He felt the car turning and pulled himself away from his other thoughts. There it was, the Imperial Hotel, hosting the Third Annual Screamicon, with special Guest of Honor, P.J. Sanderson and a list of guests that stretched across three sheets of paper.

  It was the biggest convention he’d seen since the last one he’d attended in San Diego. All around him were the lines of people preparing for one or another show, or waiting to buy their tickets for the convention. Mark had followed P.J.’s advice and they’d purchased tickets in advance (P.J. of course, didn’t have to worry about that, he was a guest this year); the line they had to wait in was less than a twentieth the length of the one for those without the sense to pre-register. In only twenty minutes they were eagerly looking over the scheduled listings and seeking out the various attractions.

  After the first hour the noise, the people and the entire building all seemed to blur. There was too much to see and too much to do. The time fairly flew by.

  6

  True to his word, Mark managed to blow every penny he had before the end of the convention. He was broke and delirious and weighted down with hard back copies of a dozen authors’ novels. The only sad part for him, was that he couldn’t find a hard back copy of Stirrings for P.J. to sign; he’d had to be happy with a paperback on that one.

  Possibly the highlight of the convention had been when P.J., as the Guest of Honor, along with a few comic writers, had been on a two hour panel on breaking into the field; it changed Mark’s life. By the time the panel was over, Mark had decided to write a novel and try to break into the field himself. P.J. applauded his enthusiasm and recommended not getting his hopes too far above his possible goals; he cautioned pessimism when it came to actually selling a story and warned that it had taken him almost four years to get his first story sold. Mark was undaunted and pointed out that he had a solid inside connection, in his stepfather. “Don’t think that an inside connection alone will get you in,” warned P.J. “If the company doesn’t see you as a viable risk, they’ll just say no and not all the whining and wheedling in the world will change their minds.” Upon seeing the first signs of doubt crease his young friend’s forehead, P.J. scolded himself quietly and remembered that Mark was essentially a mass of insecurities. “But, I have faith in you, Mark. If you really want it, you’ll get it. It just might take a lot more work than you want to think about. I’ll be of any assistance that I can, you know that, just don’t expect miracles.” Mark smiled again and P.J. knew that what he had said was true, he would help in any way he could. He’d grown to love the boy like a son.

  7

  By the time that Christmas had come and gone and the New Year had passed, Mark had learned the truth about writing a novel; it just wasn’t as easy as it looked.

  By Easter, his first novel had been submitted and accepted, by Ali Hathaway. Truth be told, the novel would have never been possible without the diligent and energetic P.J. to help him through the rough spots. Mark tried to insist on P.J. getting half of the credit, but the man would have none of it. “You wrote the story, you came up with the story and you should get credit for the story. I just cleared away a few thousand run-on sentences and helped you stay in the proper tense. If you want, you can mention me in the dedication and give me a signed copy of the book,” was the only answer he would get from the author and nothing could change the man’s mind.

/>   The dedication was another story entirely and he spent long grueling hours working over who should and shouldn’t be considered, before coming down to Cassie, Joe and his Mom, Tyler and of course, P.J. Sanderson. As an afterthought, he threw in Tony.

  The novel, called “When Stalks The Scarecrow,” was short by the standards of those he idolized, it was only three hundred and fifty pages, but it was, by Mark’s standards, one hell of a lot of work. And he was damn proud of it. It was due to be published in September, just in time for the Halloween rush. At Joe’s insistence, the advance payment was immediately put into the bank, for college (minus four hundred dollars, which was promptly blown on various books and dinner for a small herd of celebrators).

  Mark felt that life was going very well indeed. He’d sold a novel; he was going steady with the most beautiful girl he’d ever met; he was now on good terms with Tony, who turned out to be a nice guy after all, his family was staying where they were and his mentor had now officially called him a writer. Not much was wrong with the world in Mark’s eyes. Sadly, that he’d forgotten the Fat Boy’s number one rule, it could have prepared him for the events that were yet to come.

  It could have prepared him for the murder.

  8