The Honest Truth

by Dan Gemeinhart

  “Yeah,” I’d said. I’d had shaggy brown hair. Sitting in the restaurant, I slid my hand up under my hat and felt my head.

  “And his eyes,” she’d continued. “One green,” she said, pointing at it closely with a chewed fingernail. Beau squinted and turned his head away from her finger. “Like yours. And one brown,” she finished, trying to point at his other eye. “Like mine.”

  I liked that idea. I liked it a lot. I had laughed out loud I liked it so much.

  “He’s like both of us,” I said through a summer smile. “Together.”

  But at that moment, the phone rang. My mom jumped up to answer it. Fast.

  I watched her go inside. I watched through the window as she picked up the phone and held it to her ear. I looked down at my belly button and the shimmering crystal of water pooled there.

  “You think that’s my mamá calling?” Jess asked, sitting all the way up and looking in at my mom.

  “No,” I’d answered, still looking down at my belly button. I reached out and petted my new puppy, scratched behind his ears and under his chin. He closed his eyes happily. He really seemed to like being scratched behind his ears. He was my dog.

  God, I already loved him so much.

  I saw, out of the corner of my eyes, Jess’s body stiffen.

  “Oh,” she’d said. “Mark. Why’s your mom crying?”

  And that’s where the happy memory stopped.

  I thought of Jessie. Back home. She probably knew by now. She’d probably figured out where I was going. She’d probably figured out why. For some reason, that made me feel a little better. Like Beau and I weren’t all alone. I pictured her brown eyes, how serious and deep they were, how she could look right into me in her quiet way and make me feel better. I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to feel her.

  There. There she was. I smiled, just a little, to myself. That’s the kind of friend she was. We were so together that we weren’t ever really apart.

  I pulled the notebook out of my backpack and started writing without thinking, stopping only for a second to count and make sure.

  Across far, dark miles a friend can still hold your hand and be there with you.

  I read it over, then nodded. It worked. The thought of Jess made me feel better, but I couldn’t shake the memory of my mom crying. I knew she was probably crying right at that moment. My dad, too, maybe. I’d seen way too much of them crying. That’s the truth. My breath started shaking, and I gritted my teeth, pushing their faces away from my mind. Thinking of them wouldn’t do me any good.

  The waitress bumped out the kitchen door with a plate of food.

  “Sorry, Willy, it ain’t for you,” I heard her say to the homeless-looking guy at the counter. “Earl says you gotta have money for food. You’re lucky I’m giving you the coffee.” She slouched over to where I sat.

  “Here you go, honey.” She slid the plate in front of me. The eggs didn’t look anything like the way my mom made them. The crusts hadn’t been cut off the toast like she did, either. “You gonna take your hat off and stay awhile?”

  I looked up at her and her smacking lips. I wanted to yank the gum out of her mouth and throw it across the room.

  “No.”

  She shrugged. “Suit yourself, sweetheart,” she said through her gum, and walked away.

  With a quick look around I grabbed the bacon and slipped it into the duffel bag. Beau’s tongue slapped it out of my hand with hungry licks. I coughed to cover the slurping noises.

  I got both pieces of toast down and still felt okay. I swallowed and looked at the runny eggs and tried to pretend they looked good. I needed to eat.

  The first rubbery bite stuck in my throat, but I got it down. The second bite went down easier, but my stomach started to twitch and wiggle. I was chewing on the third bite when I saw what was on the TV.

  At the top of the screen were the words, Breaking News. Beneath that was a map of the state of Washington, with a blinking red dot right in the middle marked Wenatchee. Where I’d run from.

  At the bottom of the screen, in bold yellow letters, it said, Missing Child Alert.

  My jaw stopped in mid-bite. My stomach clenched like a punching fist.

  As I watched, they highlighted a wiggly line on the map. The line snaked from the red dot of Wenatchee to a new red dot labeled Spokane. The ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. My trick had worked.

  My smile dropped, though, at what came on the screen next. At the top of the screen was my name. At the bottom of the screen was a phone number. In the middle of the screen, taking up almost the whole TV, was a picture of me. It was my school picture. My red hat was on my head and I was grinning a big stupid smile. I hated that picture.

  My eyes darted to the other people in the restaurant. No one was looking at the TV. I tried to swallow my bite of egg but it stuck in my mouth. I felt sick. My eyes flashed back and forth between the TV and the other customers. Don’t look up, I prayed. My own smiling face on the TV teased me. You can’t get away, it seemed to say. I ignored it and waited for the image to change. “Come on, come on,” I whispered. How long were they gonna keep my picture up? Wasn’t anything more important happening than some dumb kid running away?

  The waitress walked out of the swinging door from the kitchen, a pot of coffee in her hand. She smacked her gum and walked over to the counter. She was facing right at the TV and my dorky school picture. I held my breath. She walked around behind the counter and set the coffee down, then started counting money from her apron pocket. The TV was right above her head. I was frozen, hardly breathing, with my mouth stuck open and my stomach flopping like a fish in the bottom of a boat.

  She looked up from her money and saw me. I couldn’t help it; my eyes flickered up to my picture behind her. She stopped chewing her gum and turned her head to look. My stomach caved in.

  Just as her head made it almost all the way around, the picture changed back to the map. It still said Missing Child Alert on the screen, but my face was finally gone. I stared, breathless, at the back of the waitress’s head. Had the picture changed before she’d seen it? My fist strangled the empty fork in my hand.

  The waitress turned back to me and cocked an eyebrow. She put her money away and walked over to me, her gum smacking in her mouth. She put one hand on her hip and looked down at me.

  “Missing kid, huh?” She leaned down a bit and lowered her voice. “Tell the truth, honey. Did that scare you?” I looked up at her, mouth still open, unable to speak. All my plans were gonna go up in smoke the first night, over a plate of runny eggs. “Well,” she went on, “don’t let it. There’s more good folks than bad in the world, believe it or not. I bet they find him.” She winked at me, and I tried desperately to smile.

  She hadn’t seen.

  “I know it’s tough,” she added with a roll of her eyes out the window toward the neon bar sign. “Having a daddy who ain’t really looking out for you.” She reached down and patted my hand. “He don’t know what he’s missing out on, sweetie. And you’re gonna be just fine. My dad was a bum, and I turned out all right.”

  She turned and walked away, and I finally started to breathe again. She didn’t suspect a thing. I shook my head and took a shaky breath. People can be so blind. That’s the truth.

  The phone number was still on the TV, below the map. I grabbed my pen and wrote it on a napkin and shoved it in my pocket. I noticed the map had changed. Now, after the word Spokane, there was a question mark. Three more dots appeared on the red wiggly line between Wenatchee and Spokane. They were labeled Quincy, Moses Lake, and Ritzville. Of course. The bus had shown up in Spokane by now, and I wasn’t on it. So they figured I must have gotten off at one of the stops in between. They were still off my trail.

  As I closed my notebook, the nausea hit me: a green, rolling wave of sickness that started deep in my belly and rose up toward my throat. I grabbed the edge of the table with both hands, trying to ride it out.

  It was no use. I knew the f
eeling too well. My mouth went dry, then filled with spit, then went sour. I jumped up and ran for the bathroom. I saw the waitress watch me from across the restaurant.

  I barely made it. I planted my knees in front of the toilet just as my eggs and toast came back up. I tried to be quiet, but there’s only so much you can do. My stomach heaved, and I lost all the food I’d managed to choke down. My eyes watered, and my hands shook. The floor was filthy. The toilet was already disgusting before I got there and it wasn’t getting any prettier. Between heaves I spit and tried to breathe through my mouth and read all the dirty words scratched on the chipped metal walls of the bathroom stall. I thought of hungry Willy at the bar, and me puking up dinner.

  Life sucks. That’s the truth. Here’s what I don’t get: Why does everyone always try to pretend that it doesn’t?

  I rinsed my mouth in the sink and hurried back to my table. Beau, thank god, was still in the duffel. I’d been afraid he’d try to come and find me. I scratched him quick behind his ears and was zipping the duffel back closed when the waitress came up behind me.

  “You okay, honey? Do you want some 7Up or something?” Her voice was all sweet and worried. Like a mom’s. It only made me madder.

  “No,” I said without looking at her. “I just need to pay.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wad of cash.

  “Are you sure? I could get you some more toast, or go get your dad, or —”

  “I’m fine,” I snapped, and this time I looked at her. I could feel the anger in my eyebrows. Her eyes widened in surprise. “My dad gave me money for the food. Just give me the bill so I can go.”

  “You know what, honey, don’t worry about it. Keep the money and don’t tell your dad. Maybe it’ll be helpful later.”

  “I don’t need your help. I’m fine. I just need to pay and go. Tell me how much.” My voice sounded angrier than I wanted, but my stomach was still gurgling and my legs were weak and the smell of coffee and bacon was making me feel worse and Beau was still stuck in the duffel. I wanted to get outside into the darkness so I could hug my dog and smell nothing except his fur. I wanted to get away from the TV.

  The waitress snapped her gum a few times, then nodded. “It’s eight bucks.”

  I pulled a ten and a twenty out of my handful of bills and dropped them on the table.

  “That’s enough for mine,” I said. “And for whatever Willy wants.” The world was starting to spin again and the taste of throw-up in my mouth wasn’t making me feel any better. I shoved my notebook and pen into my backpack, grabbed Beau’s duffel, and brushed past the waitress toward the door. I swallowed and breathed tight little breaths to keep from puking again.

  The waitress followed me to the door.

  “You’re an angry kid,” she said to my back as I pushed the door open. “But maybe you got reasons.”

  “Maybe I do,” I answered, and the door closed behind me.

  Outside, in the darkness, the cool air cleared my head. My stomach started to settle down. But I was still mad. Mad at the TV. Mad at my stomach. Mad at the waitress. I wasn’t even sure why.

  I walked out to the edge of the parking lot, to the end of where the light from the windows reached. I counted my stack of hard-saved money one more time, then slipped it back into my pocket. I turned around and looked at the restaurant. Dribbles of rain sprinkled down onto my neck. Somewhere not too far away in the darkness a car alarm started screaming. The restaurant looked warm and cheerful, its yellow light spilling out like a runny egg yolk into the darkness. It looked safe, a place to come in from the cold. I could see the waitress clearing the dishes from my table, talking over her shoulder to the old couple. It was a place with sound and people, a place where life just kept going on. I hated it. I was standing outside, weak and tasting like vomit. Alone, again.

  I lifted the camera from around my neck, framed the lighted windows of the restaurant right in the middle with the night’s blackness all around, and snapped a picture.

  I didn’t see the gang of guys watching me from the shadows.

  When I turned and walked away through the litter and broken glass of the empty, middle-of-the-night street, they were following close behind.

  His family waited.

  Silent and still by the phone.

  Wanting their boy home.

  Jessie waited with them. In plenty of important ways, she was a part of their family, too. They sat in the living room, faces pale and hands nervous and mouths tight. Silence was all around them, the phone most of all. Mark’s mom was almost never not crying, though she cried without making a sound. She’d gotten very good at crying quietly.

  Eight o’clock had come and gone, the time when the bus was supposed to arrive in Spokane. The cops were certain Mark was on that bus, and they were ready to greet it in the station. But the phone hadn’t rung. It should have. It should have rung, and then a strong voice should have told them that they had Mark and that he was safe. But it didn’t ring. Not until 8:15. And then a troubled voice had told them that the bus had pulled into Spokane, but Mark wasn’t on it. He was gone, again. Mark’s mom had dropped her face to her hands. His dad swore under his breath and pressed his fingers into his eyes.

  Jessie had frowned, and squeezed her hands together, and wrestled with an idea. It was an idea that had started to whisper in her head the moment she’d heard that Mark was gone, but she’d ignored it. Mark had gotten on a bus to Spokane, after all. Her idea didn’t make sense.

  But with the bus in Spokane and Mark not on it, her idea got louder. It tugged on her sleeve and elbowed at her thoughts.

  The cops were scrambling now. The bus had stopped in three towns between leaving Wenatchee and arriving in Spokane. The driver, tired and bored, hadn’t paid attention to who had gotten off. They’d called the police in all three towns, and in all three towns every cop on duty was driving and looking, trying to find a small boy traveling with a little spotted dog. He had to be in one of those towns, the cops said. They’d call when they found him. Try not to worry.

  Mark’s dad was quiet. He looked exhausted. Mark’s mom was crying again.

  Jessie looked out the window. The idea inside her cleared its throat and poked her.

  She didn’t know it all yet. She hadn’t learned what Mark had learned, hadn’t discovered the secret that had made Mark pack his bag and disappear into darkness. If she had, the idea inside her would have kicked and stomped and grown into a rock-hard truth.

  But then another idea came to her. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before now. As soon as it came to her, she knew. She knew Mark would never leave without telling her good-bye.

  “I’ve gotta go,” she said, and was up and out the door.

  She ran down the street, through the blowing wind and drizzling rain and darkness to her own house. She ran past the front porch and around the corner to the bricks beneath her bedroom window. Even in the darkness her hands had no trouble finding the loose brick, the one with the secret little empty space behind it. They’d been using it for years, her and Mark. A secret place only they knew about, a place they used to share secrets and pass notes.

  Her finger poked back into the hole. Instead of brick, it felt paper. She bit her lip and pulled out the folded note.

  A secret message.

  Unfolding papers whisper.

  A friend’s last good-bye.

  I heard their footsteps behind me. It was more than one pair of shoes, and they were following me in the dark. I’d planned on letting Beau out of the duffel as soon as I was away from the restaurant, but I kept walking.

  I snuck a look over my shoulder. There were four or five of them. In the dark, they were just shadows following me. There was a low voice, some laughs. By the way they moved and sounded, I could tell they were teenagers.

  The direction I’d chosen was dark. The bar — the one my fake dad was at — was the other way, and ahead of me were only boarded-up buildings and vacant lots. My anger was gone now. I walked faster. />
  I heard a voice again, close enough this time that I could almost hear the words. There was an ugliness to the voice, half growl and half laugh. It was a voice that sounded like it was licking its lips. Beau wiggled in the duffel. I switched him to the other hand and tried to go faster. The pills had taken the edge off my headache but they’d left my brain foggy and my stomach sick. I took deep breaths of the cool air to try and clear my thoughts and calm my belly. It didn’t work.

  I got to another street, as empty and dark as the one I was on. To my left, a couple of blocks down, I could see some lights, some traffic. I turned and made my feet move faster. I was almost running. I looked over my shoulder, not bothering to be sneaky about it. They’d turned, too.

  Ahead was a lone streetlight, casting a yellow circle of light onto the cracked sidewalk. It was only a good baseball throw away, but it looked like forever with darkness all around and wolves behind me. I kept my eyes on the light and ignored my heaving lungs, my queasy stomach. I heard another laugh. It sounded like it was right behind me.

  You’ve just got to make it to the light, I told myself.

  It was a stupid thing to think. That’s the truth.

  “Hey! Where you going?”

  The voice was scratchy and taunting. I didn’t stop, didn’t dare look back.

  “Why you walking so fast? We can’t keep up!” It was a different voice, just as ugly. They all laughed. Beau growled.

  “We’re talking to you, punk!” There was a little grunt, and a rock whistled over my shoulder and bounced down the sidewalk. It rolled to a stop under the streetlight. I closed my eyes and kept walking. I knew, already, it was no use.

  I was fifteen feet from the light when the footsteps started running. I knew from the shakiness in my legs and the burning in my lungs that I couldn’t run. And that they’d catch me, even if I could.

  They got me just as I stepped into the streetlight’s yellow circle. An angry hand spun me around and another one grabbed my shirt. I dropped the duffel.