by Carl Deuker
Richie cocked his head sideways. “I told you I’m not afraid of him. Not anymore.”
We climbed off the bus and walked in the silent darkness toward his house. It wasn’t late—just after ten—but it seemed as if the world had already gone to sleep. We’d made it one block when a dark SUV with tinted windows flew by, its headlights piercing the darkness, the roar of its engine breaking the night silence. The SUV circled the block and drove by again, only this time slowly.
“Do you recognize it?” Richie asked.
“I don’t think so. Do you?”
He shook his head. “No.”
The SUV didn’t circle a third time, but we did hear it speed off into the night, tires squealing. After that, the only sounds were our footfalls on the concrete, step by step.
There was no moon and no stars, and so many trees that—despite the street lamps—the sidewalk was almost black. I kept looking for the headlights of that SUV, dreading the headlights, but the dark street stayed dark.
Finally, we reached Richie’s block. His was the sixth house down. Parked a few houses down on the other side of the street was a dark SUV with tinted windows. “Is that it?” Richie asked.
Was it? I didn’t know. My heart was pounding. “Maybe.”
We both walked at a steady pace as we passed the SUV—careful not to go faster or slower. The SUV seemed empty. We crossed the street and approached Richie’s house. It, too, was dark and silent—his mother asleep, his father asleep, the hospice worker gone home.
And then a light went on in his shed. Richie looked at me. “That’s not my dad. Not now.”
The light went off.
Before I could stop him, he turned and raced toward his shed. I ran behind. In the dim light cast by the street lamps, I could see that the shed door was slightly open. He always kept it closed and locked.
Richie pushed the door fully open and stepped inside; I came seconds behind. He’d flicked the light back on and was staring at the ground.
For a long moment, I didn’t understand what I was seeing. What were all those little things on the floor?
Then I knew, and my breathing stopped.
They’d turned it over. They’d turned it over and then they’d smashed it to bits, smashed it and then stepped on it and then smashed it some more.
“Richie,” I said, grabbing his arm and trying to pull him out. “Richie—”
That’s when the shed door closed.
There were four of them. I couldn’t see their faces because they had balaclavas on—the ones from the Blanchet game. All I could see were eyes and noses and mouths. One of them stepped forward, paused for a long moment, and then pushed Richie hard in the chest.
“Stop it,” I yelled, and the biggest guy grabbed me, kicked my legs out from under me, wrestled me to the ground, and shoved my face down onto the concrete floor. Then he stuck his knee in my back to keep it there.
I couldn’t move, but I could still see. A second guy pushed Richie hard, hurling him back across the shed. “Leave him alone,” I choked out, and then a gloved hand shoved a rag in my mouth, a rag that smelled like glue, and I was gasping for air as they pushed Richie again and again, taking turns. They didn’t speak. Not one of them said a word. But they laughed, a growling laugh, a hyena’s laugh. Richie tried to fight back, but he could never get his balance. After about a dozen shoves, he fell, and then they circled around him and kicked at his stomach. He pulled his legs to his chest and covered his head, but they still kicked, and they still laughed.
Finally they stopped. They stood over him, all three breathing heavily, tense. The guy pinning me down moved his knee and relaxed his hand. I spit the rag out of my mouth, rolled over, and gulped air. I tried to stand, but now another guy’s foot was against my chest, pressing me down to the floor. His eyes darted this way and that. Then, on some invisible signal, they took off—all of them scrambling to get out of the shed, up the driveway, and into the street. The SUV started up, the tires squealed, and they were gone.
Richie rolled over onto his knees, and I helped him to his feet. His face was streaked with dirt.
“Are you okay?” I asked. He nodded and took a step forward, his hand clutching his gut. “Stay here. I’ll get your dad and he can take you to a hospital.”
“No,” Richie said. “Don’t get my dad.”
“You might have broken ribs.”
“I’m okay.”
“How do you know? You need x-rays.”
“I just know,” he said, his voice angry.
He took a step toward the door. I tried to help him, but he pushed me away, so I walked by his side as he made his way to his front porch.
“This isn’t right,” I said as he slipped the key into the lock. “You need to see a doctor.”
“Go home, Brock. Just go home.”
My father had waited up. He was sitting in his chair, a reading lamp next to him, the rest of the house in darkness. He put down his book as I entered. “Tough loss,” he said. “Really tough loss.”
“Yeah, it was.” He wanted to talk about the game, but for me the game had happened a million years ago. I let a few seconds tick by. “I’m really tired, Dad. Can we talk in the morning?”
He nodded. “Sure. I understand.”
“Thanks.” I started toward the stairs.
“Wait a second, Brock.” I turned back, and I saw his eyes measure me. “Is something wrong? Something else besides the game?” My throat went dry, and I could feel my shoulders slump. “Just tell me,” he said, his voice open and honest.
“The guys blame Richie.”
His face relaxed. “Well, the guys are wrong. It was your coach’s mistake.”
I looked at him, confused.
“Think it through,” he went on. “Richie wasn’t going to punt, right? So why have him on the field? With the game on the line, you don’t put the ball in the hands of your least experienced player. Hunter should have been back in punt formation. He knows the rules. Your coach will see his mistake and—if he’s the kind of man you say he is—he’ll take the blame. It’s on him, not Richie.”
As my dad spoke, I realized he was one hundred percent right but that it didn’t matter. “It’s too late,” I said.
It was his turn to be confused. “How can it be too late? The game ended two hours ago.”
The clock on the mantel ticked. A car drove past the house.
“They beat up Richie after the game. They were in the shed behind his house. We saw a light and went back there, and they were waiting for him.”
“Who did it?”
“They had balaclavas on, so I couldn’t see their faces. And they didn’t say anything, either. But it was Hunter and Colton and a couple of his friends. I’m sure of it.”
“How bad?”
“Richie was wearing a heavy coat, and they were wearing gloves and didn’t hit him in the face, but they knocked him around pretty good. And they smashed up his model.”
He went quiet for a while, and then he spoke. “How about you? Did they do anything to you?”
“No, they just held me down.”
“Nobody hit you?”
“No.”
My dad folded his hands in front of him. His breathing was deep and slow. Finally, he looked up at me. “So what are you going to do?”
I shrugged. “Richie doesn’t want to tell anybody.”
“Brock, I didn’t ask what Richie was going to do. I asked what you were going to do.”
My chest went tight. I hadn’t thought of it in that way. I looked at my dad, and his eyes held mine. He didn’t say anything more; he didn’t rush me. Thoughts swirled around in my head, and then things came clear. “I’ll tell Coach on Monday. I’ll tell him everything.”
“You don’t think you should call your principal or vice principal tonight? Or email them?”
“No, I tried with Mr. Spady before when Hunter and those guys hassled Richie, and he didn’t do anything. But Coach won’t let it ride.”
&
nbsp; “What about the police?”
“What can they do? I didn’t see anybody’s face. I didn’t hear anybody’s voice. And Richie doesn’t want a bunch of police in his house asking questions, not with his mother sick like she is. I know he doesn’t.”
My dad thought for a while. “Is it safe to wait until Monday to talk to your coach? What if they go after Richie again?”
“They’ll hassle him some at school on Monday, but they won’t do anything more.”
In my room, I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking about what had happened. I saw those guys pushing Richie back and forth. I heard their laughter. I saw his model flipped over, the pieces strewn on the floor. I didn’t think I’d ever fall asleep, but then the room started whirling around. My thoughts got jumbled and turned into bad dreams, and the next thing I knew it was late morning and a hard rain was pounding against my window.
“Are you okay?” my mom said when I made my way downstairs. She was sitting at the kitchen table. I could tell from the tone of her voice and the look of concern in her eyes that she knew everything.
“I’m fine,” I said.
She stood and kissed me on the forehead. “You need to eat something,” she said.
“I’ll eat later,” I replied, heading for the door. I looked around. “Where’s Dad?”
“He’s at the bank. The manager called and said they needed him. They haven’t called him on Saturday for a long time.”
Ten minutes later, I was at Richie’s house. An unfamiliar car was parked in front—probably the hospice person’s. All the curtains were pulled closed, both upstairs and downstairs. Two newspapers sat in their plastic covering on the lawn, untouched. In the misty grayness, the whole house looked sick.
Part of me wanted to turn around and go straight home. I had to wait a long time before Richie’s father answered. “He’s still in his room. That football game very rough. He’s very sore.”
“Can I see him?”
“No. He not see anyone. He rest.”
I nodded. “Tell him I’ll come by tomorrow. Okay?”
His father shook his head. “No, don’t come tomorrow. Richie’s mother is very, very sick. He spend Sunday with her. You are a good friend to Richie. Thank you.”
The door closed.
On the walk home, I took out my phone and texted Richie. You okay? I typed. I waited, staring at the screen, but no text came back. I put my phone on vibrate, shoved it back in my pocket, and zipped up my jacket.
I started thinking about Monday. I wanted to believe Coach Lever was different from Mr. Spady. But was he? Would Hunter deny it all, and then would Coach Lever look at me and shrug? Was that how it would end?
I closed my eyes and tried not to think of anything, but it didn’t work. The balaclavas . . . the gloves . . . the smashed model . . . Richie huddled on the ground . . . his mother bowing as she handed me strange desserts. A new image would crowd out an old one, stay a second or two, and then be crowded out in turn.
As I walked to Richie’s on Monday morning, my stomach was in a knot. He’d have a parade of reasons why I shouldn’t say anything to Coach Lever. I tried to plan what I’d say back to him, but who was I kidding? I wasn’t going to win an argument with Richie. I’d just have to do what I needed to do no matter what he said.
I turned the corner, looked down the block toward his house, and knew. Cars were parked up and down the street and in his driveway. The front door to his house was open, and a small woman was walking up the porch steps, a bouquet of white flowers in her hand. Another car pulled up, and an Asian man and woman got out.
Richie’s mother was dead.
I stopped fifty yards from the house, wondering what to do. With so many people in the house, would his father want me—a white kid—inside? Would Richie want me?
I could come back another time, I thought. But Richie might never return to Crown Hill, and I needed to tell him how sorry I was. I didn’t want to do that with a text or an email.
I moved closer to the house, staying on the opposite side of the street. The curtains were pulled back for the first time in months. Eight or ten adults were standing in a group, talking. Richie’s dad was one of them, but I didn’t see Richie.
I walked across the street to get a better look, and that’s when Richie’s father looked out the window and spotted me. A moment later, he rushed out of his front door, motioning me to come closer to him.
“You. Richie’s friend.”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“His mother has died.”
I nodded again. “Can I talk to him?”
“No. He’s not here. You come with me.”
Before I knew what was happening, he grabbed my elbow and pulled me around the side of the house and toward the shed. When we reached it, he threw open the door and motioned for me to look. Richie’s model was still in pieces on the floor.
His father turned to me. “Why would Richie do this?”
I was confused. What was he talking about? And then I understood. Richie had told his father that he’d destroyed his own work.
Before I had to answer, his father spoke again. “I asked him if he did it out of sadness or anger. He wouldn’t answer. Do you know why he did this? You are his friend. Why would he do this?”
“Where is he?” I asked, ignoring the question.
His father threw his hands up. “He went to school. His mother is dead and he goes to school. I tell him to stay home and to grieve, but he says he must go one more time, and then never again. He has something important to do, he says. I say, more important than to grieve for your mother? He says he owes someone something. He is angry when he speaks. I never see him angry like this. Never.”
“How long ago did he leave?” I ask, my heart pounding so fast, I could feel my pulse in my temples.
“Five minutes.” His father motioned to the floor again. “Why would Richie do this?”
My eyes rose from the destruction on the floor to the shelf that held the mahogany box.
I looked at his father. His face, his eyes, everything about him, was confused.
Five minutes.
I turned, pushed past Richie’s father, dropped my backpack, and started running.
Five minutes.
I ran—remembering how my father used to run—at a steady pace. My eyes scanned the area in front of me, hoping to see Richie around the next corner, or the next.
When I reached the large parking lot in front of the main entrance to the school, I stopped and looked around, breathing heavily, sweat dripping down the side of my face. Everything seemed normal. But then I heard something that sounded like a car backfiring.
Seconds later, kids came racing out of all the exits, heading in all directions, just running out and away. I took a few cautious steps toward the school, weaving my way through. I grabbed a kid from my English class. “What’s going on?” I shouted.
He looked back over his shoulder. “It’s that Fang kid. He’s got a gun, and he’s got Hunter and Colton and some other guys trapped in a bathroom. He’s going to kill them.”
I was fighting to get into the school, but moving forward was hard because so many kids were rushing right at me. A teacher grabbed me. “Get away from the building,” she screamed.
I shook her off and plunged forward. Now fewer kids were in front of me so I could move more easily. As I reached the steps to the main entrance, I heard, in the distance, police sirens. They sounded far off, but they were only minutes away.
I opened the doors to the school and looked left and right. The main hallways were deserted. Where was he? How would I find him? Then I heard Richie’s voice. “Lie down!” he was screaming. “You hear me? Lie down!”
His voice was coming from the hallway leading to the boys’ gym. I ran toward his voice. I’d taken about twenty steps when I heard a gunshot that echoed repeatedly down the long hallway. I stopped. “Don’t! Don’t! Don’t!” someone screamed, and then I heard sobbing.
I ran
again, but slower, my knees weak.
And then I was there.
Three thin metal garbage cans were lined up side by side like shiny soldiers in front of the entrance to the boys’ bathroom. There was no way to slip past them without making noise—they were Richie’s warning devices.
The police sirens grew louder, and below their high-pitched wail I could hear Hunter and Colton and the rest of them, sobbing softly and mumbling words I couldn’t make out. I reached out to the closest garbage can and rattled it loudly.
Richie’s voice filled the silence. “You come in here and I’ll shoot them. I’ll shoot them all.”
“It’s me, Richie. It’s Brock. I want to help.”
Silence.
“I want to help,” I repeated.
“I don’t want your help. I don’t want anybody’s help. Go away.”
Police cars pulled to screeching stops at the main entrance. I heard doors opening and then slamming shut. The sounds were muffled, distant, but I knew what was coming. At Columbine, the cops had waited outside and kids had died inside. The cops didn’t wait anymore. They’d be coming in fast, and they’d be coming after Richie. If the police saw him with a gun in his hands, they’d kill him. They’d fire and he’d be dead. Was that what he wanted?
“I’m coming in, Richie.”
He fired another shot. I jumped back as the sound reverberated off the tile and the porcelain and the metal, echoing and echoing until it sounded like twenty shots.
Terrified voices mingled with the echoes. “Don’t!” . . . “I’m sorry!” . . . “Stop!”
From down the hallway, I could hear heavy footsteps approaching. Time was running out. I pushed the garbage cans aside and stepped into the bathroom.
Hunter and Colton and two other guys whose faces I couldn’t see were lying on their stomachs. Richie was standing over them, holding his gun with two hands but still shaking violently. He looked at me, and then he looked back at them.
“Richie,” I said softly, “it’s over. Give me the gun.”
The footsteps kept coming toward us, closer and closer. It wasn’t a matter of minutes; it was a matter of seconds.
