by Crystal Chan
“I was born in this town. I completely belong here.” I looked back at him just as hard.
A gunshot in the distance.
His eyes flicked away. Then they narrowed. “I mean, where are your parents from?”
“You don’t see me asking you where your parents are from. Don’t you think it’s strange that you want to know my genealogy?”
“I’m just curious. What countries?”
“Does it matter?”
“No, like I said, I’m just—”
I smirked. “You mean, what’s my race?”
His lips twitched. “Yeah.”
“I don’t tell that to strangers.”
Sam’s dad looked away, and when his eyes met mine again, they were like steel blades. “So is it true, then, Sam’s been helping you and your dad with your living room wall?”
“No,” I said, smiling, “Sam and I did it ourselves.”
“Right,” his dad said, totally unconvinced.
At that moment I despised the man.
“Sam’s a good worker for his age,” I continued.
“You’re a bit young to be doing repairs by yourself, aren’t you?” he asked, pulling at the cuffs of his white business shirt.
“ ‘Young’ is relative,” I said.
“You’re what, sixteen? Seventeen?” He used his hand to smooth over the hair on his bald spot.
“Fifteen,” I said. My jaw clenched.
“Why, you’re a baby,” he said.
“Ronney got the mold off the living room wall,” Sam piped in. “And we resealed and repainted it all ourselves.”
“I’m sure,” his dad said.
I smiled again. “I could give you some pointers, if you like.”
His dad gave me a hard look. “Well, have a good walk back,” he said. “And watch out for the animals.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m sure they’re busy.”
I swear to God, I wanted to hit something on the way home. In fact, I ended up doing just that: I punched a tree and got my hand all bloody. It didn’t matter—it actually felt kind of good, and for a moment it took my mind off of how much of an ass Sam’s dad was, how much I hate asses, and how they all need to be taken down a notch. You don’t have to be a genius to see why Nick ran away, or why Sam had steel balls: You do what you have to do, and you grow what you have to grow. In a strange way, I felt that I understood Sam better than anyone and that I was looking at a ten-year-old version of myself. Before I knew it, I was swearing that I was going to help Sam find his brother, even if it killed me.
15
THEY FOUND THE CHEETAH THE next morning, roaming through City Park. I guess the folks over there were getting lazy with their trash and also lazy with the electric fence; nevertheless, that cheetah must have been hungry as hell to venture where all those people were. It attacked this woman, and as she was screaming, five guys came out with their guns blazing. Two of the people had semiautomatics and pumped that cheetah through.
So the cheetah was dead. And even though this happened right in front of the gun control advocates, it was obvious that guns saved that woman’s life, so they were pretty quiet about it. Although they did mutter that forty-four bullets for one cheetah was a bit much.
That very same day they found the hyena: I guess it hadn’t turned into a zombie hyena after all and instead had gotten pretty sick from eating the bodies. The hyena had staggered over to the senior center, where there was a hose running on the grass. The hyena was drinking water when Silvia, the oldest member and who was progressing with Alzheimer’s, thought it was her dog come back from the grave, and she started feeding it popcorn and talking to it. It wasn’t long before the hyena died right in front of her, and she, distraught, interrupted Bingo Time shouting that her dog was dead, and of course no one listened to her—the only way they finally did was when she took scissors, cut a tuft off of the hyena’s fur, and showed it to the group.
The next day the cougar made its appearance along the side of the road; somebody got out of their car and started shooting at it and killed it, but not before accidentally shooting a car that was passing by, including a kid who was sitting in the front seat, killing her immediately.
Everyone in town came out to the girl’s funeral and to bring over scalloped potatoes and ham and green bean casseroles. The girl’s family was shaking people’s hands as folks arrived; since the girl’s father was one of the leaders of the gun rights group, a whole bunch of people from the organization showed up too, from several towns over.
For the eulogy, the girl’s father went up to the podium to talk but couldn’t—he just stood there, ashen faced, looking down at his notes, his hands gripping the sides of the podium. Every time that it looked like he would say something, he would lower his head again, and finally he ended up covering his face with his hand. A full minute passed by, and then Rockfeller stood up and said that while the girl’s death was tragic, we should also remember the bravery of the five people who killed the cheetah and the man who killed the cougar, whose courage and actions would prevent other children from dying such needless deaths. That was when a group of gun control people shouted that it was because of guns that the girl was needlessly dead and everyone was at the funeral in the first place. Rockfeller waved his hands to quiet them down, but it was too late—the fighting had started—and the funeral wrapped up early. That whole time, the girl’s father was still there at the podium, silent, his hand covering his face.
Since the whole town was there, of course George and Jello were there too, with their families, and they took up a whole goddamn pew. I got there late and sat a couple rows behind them, so they didn’t see me as they held hands, or as Jello rubbed George’s back when we all stood and said prayers. They looked so comfortable together, like they were really happy, even at a fucking funeral. The only thing I could do was stare at them and imagine that it was me in Jello’s place, and what it would feel like to have my arm around her shoulders, her navy blue dress beneath my fingers, and what it would feel like, her lips on mine. Then I got pissed, and then I wanted to run out of there and never come back, and then I wanted the earth to swallow me up and for me to never return to this shitty hellhole, because whatever shitty hellhole was at the middle of the earth, it was better than the shitty hellhole it was watching Jello and George together. And it was as pleasant as dog vomit when they saw me as the congregation was filing out, and how almost faster than I could blink, Jello took his arm from George’s shoulder, and they both turned into cardboard right in front of me.
• • •
So the only animals left were the tiger, the python, and the camel. There almost came a sense of normalcy to Makersville, although there were whispers that if that tiger had eluded folks for so long, it must be one cunning creature, maybe even superhuman, which goes to show you how lame-ass stupid people can be, since a cat can’t be superhuman—it would be supercat—but that’s what people said, and no one questioned it.
Mina did not hold up well with all this news. Our TV was still unplugged, but everyone, everywhere, was talking endlessly about the killing of the girl, who ended up being in the class behind Mina’s, and if the person would be prosecuted, since it was in self-defense and he had been aiming for the cougar. They also talked about the downing of the cheetah, and how much blood there was, and what kind of bullets were used: Everyone talked about all of this, from the schoolkids to their parents to the grocer. Mina grew quiet and more than once crept into my bed to sleep with me. She didn’t cry, and she didn’t want to talk about it either. She’d just shake her head and make a little mewling sound at the back of her throat until I stopped asking questions.
It didn’t help that some nearby farmers had started reporting that their cows had been mauled to death, their throats and intestines ripped out, legs and whatever strewn across the field. People went out en masse, of course, but they couldn’t find any trace of the tiger. With those cows taken down, though, I’m sure that tiger had a fu
ll belly and lots of energy to play hide-and-seek.
There were more guns now in Makersville than ever. People who owned a gun went out and bought another one—more tiger-worthy, I suppose—and people who hadn’t ever owned a gun got one for when they took their kids to school. The gun control folks, recognizing defeat when they saw it, packed up their RVs in City Park and went home, and the animal rights activists did the same thing. Almost all their animals were dead, anyway.
I was worried about Mina. I grew even more worried when I saw that she wasn’t studying her spelling words anymore. That was when I talked with Mom.
“I think it’s fine for Mina to take a break from studying so hard,” Mom said, leafing through her magazine.
“I don’t,” I said.
“She’s just a kid,” Mom said.
“This is Mina we’re talking about,” I said.
“I’ll talk with her,” Mom said.
Mina shook her head and didn’t say anything to Mom, but she did crawl into my bed that night.
As worried as I was about Mina, I didn’t have too much time to spend with her because I had started looking for Nick. Sam sent me a picture of him, and I started going to every liquor store in Makersville, showing shop owners Nick’s picture and asking if they’d seen him. Which they hadn’t. This was no easy feat for me either, because it’s not like a bunch of liquor store owners would take kindly to a fifteen-year-old kid like me walking into a place with tons of booze. A number of them ran me out of the store before I could even open my mouth.
Then Sam told me that Nick really liked sports, and maybe he went to parks around town, so we did the same thing at all the parks in Makersville and ended up at the largest one, Rogers Park.
There was a woman watching her little kid on the jungle gym. I went up to her. “Excuse me,” I said politely.
She looked at me warily, her eyes scanning my face, my dark skin. She leaned away. “Yes?” she responded.
I held out my phone with Nick’s picture on it. “I’m looking for a missing guy. Nick Caldwell. Have you seen or heard of him?”
She didn’t even look at my phone. A hand went to clutch her purse, and she called her kid over to her as they walked away.
I tried not to roll my eyes.
None of the other moms with strollers had seen him either, but at least they weren’t as jackwad-y.
“He’s gotta need money,” I said as we sat on the swings. I took a swig from a can of soda I’d bought and passed it to Sam.
“He took some of Dad’s money when he left,” Sam said, taking a swig too.
“How much?”
Sam passed the can back to me, twisted his swing up, then let it unravel. “He told me a couple hundred.”
“But that was over six months ago,” I said. “He has to be running out.”
“Maybe he got a job,” Sam said.
“Maybe he’s stealing it,” I said.
Sam’s eyes grew wide. Then he recovered. “Nick wouldn’t do that.”
I snorted. “If you’re hungry, you’re hungry. Or in Nick’s case, thirsty.”
Regardless, we went to all eighteen fast food restaurants in town and asked about Nick. No one had seen him.
At some point during the afternoon I could have sworn that George’s car was trailing behind us. I got so curious that I told Sam to stay put and started biking toward it; that’s when the car quickly pulled a right-hand turn, and I caught a glimpse of George’s beautiful hair. I gripped my bike handles and raced after her like a beast. The great thing was that she needed to stop for the stop signs, and she totally saw that I wasn’t giving up. In fact, I was maybe fifty feet from catching up to her when a train slowly rolled through town; she gunned the car and hopped over the tracks right before the railroad arms went down, leaving me panting and my shirt wet with sweat. I was both pissed and pleased: Here she is, so guilty that she’s following me. Good. Let her be guilty. But I guess that means I matter to her, I thought. A lot.
Anyway, it took Sam and me two days to go to every park and fast food restaurant in town. On the second evening, after visiting our last burger joint, we went back to my place and collapsed on the front porch.
“I don’t know, Sam,” I said.
Sam didn’t look at me.
A foghorn went off in the distance.
“He might not have even stayed in town,” I said.
Sam’s skinny face somehow looked smaller.
I went silent. I felt awful, but what could I do? Snap my fingers and make him come back? Put a Batman light in the night sky asking Nick to kindly come home? What could I possibly do?
Sam placed his elbows on his knees. “We’ll just have to ask around in Algoma.”
Algoma was the next town over, about five miles away.
I sighed. “Sam, who’s to say that he went to Algoma? He could have gone to Pickett instead.”
“Then we’ll try there next.”
“That’s not my point,” I said. I was frustrated and tired and yet couldn’t help but admire him. “He could have gone to Utah. Alaska. Florida.” I waved my arm. “Anywhere.”
Sam nodded mournfully. “That’s what the police said.”
I paused. “And the police have given up?”
Sam nodded again.
I fought a sudden, strange urge to give Sam a hug. Instead, I picked at the laces on my shoes. “I don’t know, Sam,” I said again.
Sam sighed. “I know.”
• • •
With all this running around looking for Nick, Dad noticed I was gone more.
“Where have you been?!” Dad said. He walked right up to me as soon as I came inside and started raiding the refrigerator. Dad’s face was flushed and he was in his pajamas, which he’d probably worn all day. I ignored him as I pulled out some cold pizza. Damn, my feet were sore.
“It’s nine o’clock at night!” Dad ran his hand through his hair.
I didn’t have the energy to say much at that point, so I just grunted. It sucked that I hadn’t had money with me and that Sam and I had to smell those burgers and fries all day long. I stuffed the pizza into my mouth.
“It’s not that late,” I said with my mouth full.
“Where’d you go?” Dad said, his voice still tense. Twice through the hair.
“Out,” I said. I took another bite. God, I was hungry. I was worried about Sam, too. And Mina. Maybe that’s why I added, “Sam and I are asking around for Nick.”
Dad did a double take. “His brother?” he asked. I guess that somehow calmed him down, because his shoulders relaxed.
I shoved another bite of pizza into my mouth and nodded.
“Any luck?”
“Not yet.”
“Nick could be anywhere,” Dad said.
I slumped into the chair at the kitchen table. “That’s exactly what I told Sam,” I said, propping my head up with my hand. I let out a long, slow breath. “But nothing can replace a missing person, you know?”
That question hung in the air. Then Dad silently turned and went back to his room.
• • •
Later that night I saw that George had texted me. My breath caught. Then I got mad at myself for caring so much.
Ronney, listen to me.
Are you still with Jello?
Ronney, I’m still your friend.
One hell of a friend, I’d say. You should join the CIA with the way you lie to people. And stalk them.
I didn’t know how to tell you.
You’d make good money.
You want to go for coffee tomorrow after school?
Are you asking me because you want to or because you want to feel less guilty?
No response. Then ten minutes later my phone buzzed again.
Hey, R-Man.
What the fuck is this? How lucky am I that you two are taking a break from making out to text me! Very sweet to be remembered.
You’re being a dick. Listen to us.
I’M being a dick? Well now, if you wa
nt to talk about dicks . . . Some dicks are prettier than others. I wouldn’t try out for any beauty contests right now if I were you.
Ronney.
Go blow yourself, Jello. Or get some help from a particular CIA operative. There are some good ones out there, I hear.
I turned off my phone and felt like a jerk, especially if I had made George cry just then, but she had Jello’s shoulder to cry on. Who knows, they were probably together right now, talking about me, and she was crying, and he was holding her and had her tears on his fingertips—
I slammed my pillow onto my bed. The John Lennon poster looked back at me. It was a chill poster, Lennon looking right into the camera, right at you, and it seemed like whatever you had that was going on, he got it, he really did. Somehow he got that Jello and George had dicked me over, and he got that Nick was out there somewhere.
Nick.
“Hey, John,” I said to the poster. I put the pillow down.
Lennon looked back.
“So, do you know where he is?” I asked. “Because I got a kid who really wants his brother.”
Lennon looked back.
“Couldn’t you give me a hint?” I asked. I peered into Lennon’s face. It was a calm, serene face—knowing. Like the guy had a shitload of secrets. “Well, any time you want to tell me, go ahead,” I said. “I’m not going to stop you.”
Lennon looked back.
I sighed and crawled into bed. I still had on my jeans, and I was tired, even though it was early. It had taken a lot of energy to be hopeful for Sam, more energy than I thought it would take; there were so many things that we just didn’t know. For a moment I really wished I had those jeans I’d bought—Nick’s jeans, with all the question marks. I’d bunch those jeans up into a ball and use it as my pillow. Sleeping on questions, literally. Then I thought, Nick was a freaking genius for painting those jeans like that. Because that’s what life is: One big-ass question mark. Or rather, a tangled mess of them.
I was happy when I was Sam’s age. Not really happy, mind you, but when I think back on those times, it wasn’t bad. Mom was still taking her pills back then, but Dad was different. He worked on the car a lot, and he belonged to this bowling league, which he went to every Saturday. He would take me with him and give me money to buy three loads of fries to eat while I waited for him to finish bowling. That was pretty sweet, eating three loads of fries. I got to watch Dad bowl, which isn’t as lame as it sounds, because he was pretty good, and whenever he had this string of strikes going, he would pump his fist, and even the guys competing against him would pat him on the back or nod respectfully or whatever. And I would watch Dad turn into a different person out there—fucking chill—getting strike after strike, and I would pile my three loads of fries into one big french-fry hill, drench them with ketchup, and eat them with ketchup-y hands, watching my dad, proud as hell.
