Roland West, Loner

by Theresa Linden

  Roland nodded and dropped his gaze to the bagel. Fine. He wouldn’t stay another night. He’d have to come up with Plan B.

  “Does your father know you’re staying here?”

  Father? Why did he say father? Why didn’t he say parents? What did he know about them?

  “No. He’s out of town.” Roland ran his hand through his hair, glanced at Toby then at the stairs. Peter ought to be coming down them any second now.

  “Does anyone at your house know you’re staying here?”

  “Uh, sort of . . . not exactly. I’m sorry, Mr. Brandt, I—”

  Mr. Brandt touched his arm. “It’s okay. But your family needs to know where you are. I’m sure they worry about you.”

  They worry about me? Huh. Maybe Nanny does, but Papa’s gone. And Jarret wants to squash me. And Keefe . . .

  “I’ll take care of it.” Roland stood just as someone burst through the sliding glass door. Roland tensed.

  It was the tall man who had watched them from the shadows last night. Mr. Reinhard, Peter had called him. He surveyed the room as if looking for someone or something. Then he lumbered to the counter and grabbed a plate.

  “Well, good morning, Mr. Reinhard,” Peter’s aunt said, smiling and smoothing her hair.

  “Charlotte, now you’d better call me Ed. We talked about that.” His deep, powerful voice gave him an air of authority. He chuckled.

  She giggled and glanced away, the color sliding up her neck and deepening the pink of her cheeks. “Well, okay then. Ed.”

  Weird.

  Chapter 22

  Peter sat squashed between his father and Roland in the truck. The low rumble of the engine melded with the quiet hiss of the wind through the open crack in the passenger-side window. Whatever reason Dad had for driving them, he never let on. With the exception of a few comments about the beaming sun, tomorrow’s chance of rain, and the fallen trees that Dad needed to clear today, no one spoke.

  Dad slapped the turn signal on and pulled up behind the row of cars, parents dropping kids off at school. Kids, cars, and buses swarmed the schoolyard like bees on a hive.

  Roland’s right leg trembled the entire ride, and he kept running his hand down his thigh as if he thought that might make it stop. When the truck jerked to a stop, Roland fumbled with the door handle.

  “Hey, wait,” Peter said.

  Roland didn’t release the door handle, but he turned his head. “Huh?”

  “I don’t think you’re in any of my classes.”

  Roland gave his head a little shake as if to say so what?

  “Well, I’m going somewhere after school. It’s kind of a hiding place.” Peter grinned, anxious to share it with Roland. “Wanna come?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Peter frowned. “You got something better to do? I thought you were hanging with me for a few days.”

  Roland glanced past Peter, at Dad. “I’ll let you know.” He pushed open the door and jumped out of the truck. “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Brandt.”

  Dad had no chance to reply before Roland merged into the swarm.

  Peter’s mouth hung open. “Okay, see you,” he mumbled to himself. “Man, what’s the hurry? He’s the strangest kid I ever met. One minute he’s saying—”

  “Don’t judge him, Peter.”

  He jumped at the sternness in Dad’s voice.

  “You never know what someone else is struggling with.”

  “Okay. Whatever.” Peter slid out of the truck before Dad had a chance to go on. He’d heard enough of Dad’s advice about dealings with his brother. It’s not his fault he’s autistic. “See ya, Dad.”

  Dad leaned across the seat. “Hey, we’re testing that transmitter later, aren’t we?”

  “The transmitter . . .” Peter had totally forgotten about it. “Yeah, whenever you get home. Thanks.” He slammed the door and waved as Dad pulled out.

  Hide the box, test the transmitter . . . How could he do both? An idea came to him. He smiled. He could take care of both at the same time.

  He strode down the sidewalk, toward the main doors of the school building, nodding at friends he passed.

  Nearing his destination, a familiar, taunting voice called out, “Hey ya, Cappy. Don’t start rolling too soon. Ya might fall off.”

  Peter’s first impulse told him to keep walking, but the voice of compassion inside him spoke louder. He sighed and turned around.

  Foster Masson stood by the special-needs bus, watching the wheelchair lift lower Dominic to the ground. Foster wore a faded black vest over a dingy Colorado Rockies shirt and jeans with shredded hems.

  “You’re back, huh, Foster?” Peter came up behind him. “Decided to show up at school after all? Didn’t you know we started a couple weeks ago? Rumor has it you dropped out.”

  Foster faced Peter and gave him a crooked grin. His buzz cut and freckled face made him look too young for high school. But his eyes . . . If a person’s soul really showed through his eyes then Foster had a split personality. One eye seemed sad, even compassionate, and the other, calculating and devious.

  “Hey ya, Peter. What’s the matter? Did ja miss me?” Foster draped a scrawny arm over Peter’s shoulders.

  The wheelchair lift touched down, and the bus attendant stepped out of the way. Dominic’s thin tan arms had been poised over the wheels, and the second he had clearance, he thrust the chair forward.

  Peter shrugged Foster’s hand from his shoulder. “Hey, Dominic. Have I got something to tell you.” The words came out without his thinking. He always shared everything with Dominic. But maybe . . .

  Straight, dark bangs hung in Dominic’s eyes, giving him the look of a Skye terrier. He tossed them back with a shake of his head, nodded at Peter, and gave Foster a wicked glare.

  Foster stepped in Dominic’s way and planted his foot on the wheelchair, stopping it. “I saw you get outta your daddy’s truck.” He gave Peter a lopsided grin. “Fraid to take the bus again this year? Why don’t you just ride with Cappy?” He faced Dominic. “They’ve got personal assistants on his bus. Ain’t that right, Cappy? They could protect you.”

  “Stop calling him Cappy. His name’s Dominic. You’re the only person I know who would make fun of someone because he’s handicapped. Why don’t you find your buddy Leo and go kick a lame dog or something?” Peter reached for the handles on the back of the wheelchair.

  Foster blocked him and leaned on the armrests. “You still got my football,” he said to Dominic. “And I still want it back.”

  Tossing the hair from his eyes, Dominic backed his chair up and moved to roll around Foster. Foster barred his path with a Superman stance. Dominic backed up again and turned his chair.

  Foster lunged, planted his hands on the armrests, and hovered over him.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Peter said, shaking his head, finding it hard to believe that Foster and Dominic had once been best friends.

  Dominic rolled back, gave an elfish grin, and rammed the wheelchair forward. His legs were paralyzed, but he still had grit.

  Foster stumbled out of the way. He bumped a girl and sent her books crashing to the ground.

  “Hey, dork,” the girl said to Foster, stooping to get her books.

  Foster glared at the girl then at Dominic, as if he wondered who deserved his retaliation.

  “Help the girl, already.” Using two hands, Peter shoved Foster.

  Staggering forward, Foster tripped over the books, and landed in the grass.

  “Later, estupido.” Dominic flicked his chin at Foster and rolled away.

  Peter jogged to catch up. “So, how’d your family thing go?”

  They passed through the open front doors of the school.

  “Aburrido. Boring, man. We had to visit my uncle and aunt. They do nothing but gossip and stop me from having fun.” Keeping pace with kids in the hallway, Dominic wheeled to his locker.

  Peter stopped at his own, a few lockers down.

  “My uncle, he took a
big piece a wood and made a ramp off the back of their house, you know, for my wheelchair. So I decided to make use of it. I was getting good speed. Didn’t stop rolling till I reached the fence.” A smile stretched across his face. “My cousin, he ran me back up so I could go again.” His smiled faded. He yanked books from his locker. “But my aunt said it was dangerous and made us stop. Then we just shot hoops and stuff. Tedioso.”

  “Yeah, well, I wish you could’ve come over my house.” Peter’s conscience pricked him. Not wanting any of the West boys to overhear, he glanced down the hallway.

  The majority of kids in the swarm had migrated inside the school building, and now they flitted down the hallway and around lockers. The pace was slow, relaxed, except for one kid at the far end of the hallway. That one seemed out of place, weaving between groups, practically running. Roland and his brothers were nowhere to be seen.

  “You’ll never guess who—” Did someone shout his name? Peter took another glance at the running kid.

  Low and behold, a redheaded girl tore through the swarm.

  “Don’t tell me,” Peter mumbled, staring, horrified. Was she headed for him?

  A group of glamour girls stood in her path. She swerved to pass them, but at that exact moment a blonde laughed. The blonde laughed so hard that she tilted her head back, and the running girl’s arm whacked it.

  Peter shook his head in disbelief. Caitlyn. What possessed her?

  Caitlyn didn’t slow. She looked back, raised her arms, and shouted, “Sorry.” The narrow-eyed blonde spit back a reply. Peter couldn’t make it out, but it amused him nonetheless.

  Caitlyn was nearly upon him, coming in at full speed.

  Peter flattened himself against the lockers and shielded his body with his arm.

  Inches to impact, she threw on the brakes. Her tennis shoes squeaked. Red curls flew in his face. Her hands latched onto his arms. His back smacked the locker door with a bang, and his Language Arts book fell to the floor.

  “Peter,” she said, breathless.

  “Wow,” he said in disbelief.

  “Hi . . . Dominic,” she said between breaths. “I had a dream about you. How’s your therapy going?”

  Dominic’s face crinkled up, and it took him a full second before he replied, “What do you mean?”

  “Girl, you need to chill out.” Peter shoved her back, straightened himself, and brushed a strand of her hair from the front of his shirt. “What is your problem?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She squatted and fetched his book. “It’s just . . .” She handed him the book, shook her hands out, and gulped air.

  “Any day . . .” Peter said.

  Caitlyn latched onto his shirt at the chest and pushed him against the locker again. “Guess what?”

  He groaned and rolled his eyes. “Really? Do I have to guess? I mean you’re tearing down the hall, screaming my name like bloody murder—”

  “Oh, don’t exaggerate. I have something to tell you. Remember that man from your house? Oh . . .” She bit her lip. “What was his name?” She let go of his shirt and shook out her hands again.

  “That man?” He used the most annoyed tone he could, but even as he asked, he knew what man she meant. His cocky grin faded.

  “You know, one of the guests. Big guy . . .”

  “Mr. Reinhard.” The name put a bad taste in his mouth.

  “Yes!” She exhaled. “He’s here.”

  Peter made a quick glance in either direction down the hall. “Here? What do you mean here? Why would he be here?”

  “He is here. I saw him. I’m sure of it. Come, I’ll show you.” She seized his hand and yanked.

  He wrenched his hand free. “I can’t go anywhere. I need to get to homeroom. Just tell me.”

  “He’s in the history classroom.” She spoke in a hushed voice, her eyes so wide the whites showed all around her jade irises. “The substitute history teacher. It’s him.”

  “History teacher,” Peter whispered. Could it be true? In stunned silence, he watched Caitlyn dash down the hall, back the way she came.

  “Vato, that girl is loco. I cannot believe she is your girlfriend.” Dominic slammed his locker shut and turned his chair to face Peter. “What were you saying before she stormed over here? I’ll never guess what?”

  Peter broke free of the trance and reached into his locker. “Caitlyn is not my girlfriend.”

  Dominic laughed. “Okay, whatever. So I’ll never guess what?”

  “You’ll never guess what? Oh, yeah, I was saying, you’ll never guess who I met over the weekend.”

  “Okay, so who’d you meet?”

  Peter checked both ways down the hall again. He didn’t need to feel guilty about sharing something with his best friend. It wasn’t like he planned to reveal Roland’s secrets. “One of the West boys.”

  “Those new kids?” Dominic tossed the bangs from his eyes.

  “Yeah, the youngest one. He’s in our grade. His name’s Roland. Do you know him?”

  “I’ve seen him. He’s in a couple of my classes. But more than see him, I’ve heard about him.” Dominic’s dark eyes gleamed while his brain, no doubt, sorted through various salacious rumors. “Haven’t you heard?”

  “Everything I know I got from you. I ignore most of what you say.” Peter yanked his algebra book from his locker, slammed the door, and peered down at Dominic. “Heard what in particular?”

  “There are many rumors about the West family. So how did you meet him?”

  “I met him, uh . . .” Peter cemented his commitment. He would not betray Roland. “I don’t know. Let’s get to homeroom.” He strolled next to Dominic. Sometimes he hated how kids talked and how gossip fueled them, and he liked how Roland was sort of his friend now, but . . . It wouldn’t hurt to see what Dominic heard. “What do you know about them?”

  Dominic flipped his bangs and stopped his chair. “Well, I heard that their mother was a witch.” He spoke fast. “I mean a real one: spells, cauldron, broom. The works. And she cast spells on the whole family, that is why no one ever saw them before. They never came out. But over the summer, something went wrong, and the spell she cast got her.”

  Dominic paused, his eyes growing wide. “She vanished or died or something. No one knows. People think it’s not real. Witchcraft, you know. But it is. It’s the work of the devil. So when she died, it broke the spell on the rest of the family. So, that’s why the West boys are now in school. They hadn’t been to school for so long, and they didn’t want to go. But their dad, he made them go.”

  Peter had unintentionally screwed his face into an incredulous sneer. “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. Their mother’s a witch? Give me a break. Are you telling me you believe that?”

  “No, I am only telling you what I heard.” He started rolling again, pulled into homeroom, and parked at his desk.

  Most students sat at their desks already. A few stood by the windows, talking.

  Dominic stretched his arms across the desk and leaned toward Peter. “I’ll tell you what I do believe. I heard that Mr. West buys and sells things.” He stuck out his lips and nodded.

  “So?” Peter settled back in the chair and tapped his pencil on the desk. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Not just any things.” Dominic lowered his voice. “Illegal things. And their mother did, too, but she’s in jail now. You see, they got caught, but she took the rap. No charges stuck to Mr. West. And the boys never came to school before because they don’t stay long in one place. But with their mom in jail, you know, they’ve kind of settled down. At least for now.”

  Peter glared.

  Dominic grinned and nodded.

  “Ah, what a load of crap. Who tells you this stuff?”

  The school bell rang, kids moaned, and the stragglers dragged their feet to their desks.

  “You don’t have to believe it,” Dominic said. “But I do. Someone heard it from the principal.”

  “Oh, for real.”

  “I
do not lie.”

  Peter leaned toward Dominic and whispered, “So, what’s the illegal stuff? Drugs?”

  “No. Artifacts.”

  “Artifacts?” Peter jerked back. Roland had said his father works with antiques but . . . Peter shook his head. “There’s nothing illegal about buying and selling artifacts.”

  “Unless they’re stolen.”

  Chapter 23

  Roland fumbled with his locker combination for the third time. It didn’t open. He always got it on the first try. Of course, the day he’s in a hurry, the day he wanted to avoid—

  What’s the matter with me? He slammed his palm against the locker.

  The boy next to him peeked around his open locker door and gave him an odd look, probably weighing up some stupid rumor.

  Roland spun the lock a few times and tried it again. The locker popped open. He exhaled.

  The boy closed his locker, gave him an even stranger look, and backed away.

  Roland flung open the locker door and reached for his books. When he had them half out, the door slammed shut and nearly clipped his hand. He jerked back. The books crashed to his feet.

  There stood Jarret. He leaned against the locker, thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans, designer shirt hanging half open. He thought he was so cool.

  Roland’s stomach sank. Couldn’t he have avoided him for at least a couple of hours?

  “Good morning, little brother.” He gave Roland an invasive once-over, his gaze lingering on his fingertips. “What, no pretty nail polish today?”

  Roland gritted his teeth.

  Jarret grinned. “We’ve missed you.”

  Keefe stood behind Roland, probably charged with making sure he didn’t run. He wouldn’t run. What could they do to him at school?

  “You missed me, huh?” Roland folded his arms.

  Jarret twisted the Greek helmet pendant on the black leather cord he wore around his neck. “So where’ve you been? Who’s your . . . friend?” He waved his brows as he said the last word, as if he couldn’t believe Roland really had one.

  The bell for homeroom rang. Tennis shoes squeaked on the shiny floors. The halls emptied.