At the Edge

by Norah McClintock

  He nodded. “I took a leave for a while. During the time off, I wrote a book.”

  “He means another book,” James said. “He’s written a dozen of them.”

  Mr. Derrick smiled. “I’m also searching around for a position. I’d like to ease back into the classroom.”

  I asked about his book.

  “It’s hardly a scholarly treatise,” he said with a laugh. “In fact, it’s a complete departure for me.”

  “It’s a history of everyday things,” James said.

  “My publisher refers to it as Everything You Didn’t Know You Wanted to Know about Almost Everything,” Derrick said.

  “He’s not kidding,” James said. “Did you know that the first vending machines were invented in 215 B.C.?”

  “No way,” I said. I glanced at his father for confirmation.

  “James is right,” Mr. Derrick said. “The inventor was a man named Hero of Alexander. A person inserted a coin into his machine, and it dispensed holy water. Unfortunately, the machine couldn’t tell a real coin from a fake one. That problem wasn’t solved until considerably later—the 1880s, in fact. The first commercially successful machines made their appearance in London, England. They dispensed postcards ...”

  By the time Derrick put the salmon steaks on to grill, I was convinced that he must be a highly entertaining professor. Not only did he know a lot, he had a real knack for making even the most ordinary things seem fascinating.

  I asked if there was anything I could do to help, but he told me that my job as a guest was to relax. When I insisted on doing something, he sent me inside with James to set the table.

  “I should wash up,” I said to James when we were finished. He directed me to the bathroom, upstairs to the left.

  As I headed up the stairs, I heard Mr. Derrick say, “Pour some more lemonade for everyone, Dee. And then come out here and give me a hand.”

  After I’d finished in the bathroom, I took a quick look around. I felt kind of guilty peeking into rooms, but the doors were open, and my dad always said you could learn a lot about people from the stuff they surrounded themselves with.

  The first impression I had of Mr. Derrick was confirmed by a quick glance around. The second floor of the house was as immaculate as the first. James’s room, small but bright, was at the top of the stairs, looking out over the back of the house. It was sparsely furnished with only a bed, a desk, a bookshelf, and a wooden trunk—not much stuff at all. I wondered what my dad would have made of that. The walls were completely bare. Maybe James hadn’t had time to decorate yet.

  The middle room was obviously his dad’s study. It contained an enormous desk, a computer, dozens of shelves stuffed with books, and piles of cardboard boxes waiting to be unpacked.

  The front bedroom, which I glimpsed from the hall, was as Spartan as James’s room except for one thing: there were photographs on one wall. Curious, I crept to the door to take a closer look. Several large, framed photographs showed a boy—the same boy—at various ages, from very young right up to the age of nine or ten. At first I thought they were photos of James. But a quick examination proved me wrong. The boy in the photos resembled James, but where James had hazel eyes, this boy’s eyes were clear blue, like Mr. Derrick’s. His chin was different too—more pointed than James’s. Did James have a brother? Where was he now? And why weren’t there any pictures of James in his dad’s room? Come to think of it, there weren’t any pictures of James anywhere in the house—or of his mother. Were they too painful for James and his father to look at?

  Down below, the back door opened and closed again, and I heard low but angry voices.

  “ ... I just want to get it over with,” James was saying.

  Get what over with? Dinner? It was obvious that James had been taken aback by my presence. Was he wishing that I wasn’t here?

  “This isn’t the time or place for that conversation,” his dad said sharply.

  “But—”

  “You’ll do what needs to be done, Dee. We both will.”

  I coughed before I started back down the stairs so that James and his dad would know I was coming. But I was drowned out by a deafening thunderclap. A moment later, the sky opened and it began to pour.

  “The food,” Mr. Derrick wailed.

  I started down the stairs and arrived in the kitchen just in time to see James, soaking wet, dash back into the house with the foil-wrapped vegetables and salmon steaks. He set them down on the table and peeled off his sodden T-shirt. Even from where I was standing, I couldn’t help but stare. A huge scar ran diagonally across his back, deep reddish-purple. Then I heard his father’s voice, hard and sharp.

  “I told you I never wanted to see that thing again,” he snarled. “It’s bad enough that he’s dead and that it’s your fault—you don’t have to flaunt that thing. Go and put a shirt on.”

  Dead? Who was dead—the boy in the pictures upstairs? And what did Mr. Derrick mean when he said that it was James’s fault? What had James done?

  James turned to leave the room. He paused when he saw me. His face was red. I don’t know whether he suspected I’d overheard his dad or not. As he pushed by me, I got a clear look at a tattoo on his upper left bicep. It was an airplane with a single word—a name—in the middle of it: Greg. James looked back and saw me staring at it. His eyes hardened, and he ran upstairs.

  I wished I could go home. Instead, I went back into the kitchen and asked if there was anything I could do.

  “Everything seems to be under control,” Derrick said in an eerily calm voice. “James rescued our food from the barbecue. Please, have a seat. We’ll eat as soon as he gets into some dry clothes.”

  James returned a few moments later in fresh jeans and a dry T-shirt. The tattoo was hidden under his sleeve. He and his dad glowered at each other for a moment, and the meal got off to an awkward start. I tried the salmon and the vegetables and exclaimed how good they were. James’s dad turned his disapproving eyes from James and thanked me, but it seemed as though he was forcing himself to be a gracious host. He began to tell us both about the importance of fish and how it, more than anything else, had led to the colonization of North America and the opening up of the New World. I listened with interest, but James was quiet through the whole meal.

  After dessert—an excellent raspberry torte that Mr. Derrick had made—and more conversation, I said that I should be getting home. James surprised me by offering to drive me. I thanked Mr. Derrick for dinner and said goodbye. James was already on the front porch. It had stopped raining. He used his remote to unlock the car doors.

  “Dee!” his dad called from inside the house.

  James sighed loudly.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” he said. “You can wait for me in the car.”

  I went out to the driveway and got in the car. As I settled in, I glanced at the piece of paper that James had thrown onto the driver’s seat when he’d arrived. A drawing of some kind? I picked it up and looked more closely. It wasn’t a drawing after all. It was a map—of one of the largest cemeteries in the city. Someone had drawn an X through one section of the map and, underneath, had written, “Plot XI, Lot 333.” I wondered who was buried there. James’s mom, maybe. But why would he need a map to find her grave? And why had he thrown the map into the car when his dad and I surprised him at the door?

  I heard the front door slam and looked up to see James coming down the porch steps carrying a brown paper bag. I put the map facedown on the driver’s seat. James opened the door, picked up the map, and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans. He handed me the bag.

  “It’s a piece of torte,” he said. “My dad wants you to take some home.”

  “Thank him for me,” I said.

  James turned the key in the ignition. “I’m really sorry, Robyn.”

  “For what?”

  “For my dad. For him calling you and dragging you over here.”

  “He didn’t exactly drag me, James. He invited me, and I accepted.”r />
  “Knowing him, he asked you and then refused to take no for an answer.”

  “I was glad to come, James. I had a good time. Your dad’s really interesting. He sure knows a lot.”

  James backed the car out onto the street, and we drove in silence for a while. He seemed lost in his thoughts.

  “Is everything okay?” I said finally.

  “Yeah.” His voice was flat. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. You seem preoccupied.”

  “I’m fine. Really.”

  This was followed by more silence. It stayed that way until we pulled up outside my dad’s building.

  “Thanks for coming,” James said. “And thanks for being so nice to my dad. I think he enjoyed having someone around to listen to his stories. It’ll be good for him to get back in front of a classroom. He’s at his best when he has an audience.”

  I wondered if I should ask him about the photographs of the boy that I had seen in his dad’s room. Or about the tattoo that had made his dad so angry. No, I decided. It was none of my business. If James wanted to tell me about those pictures or about what had happened to his family, I should let him do it in his way, in his own time.

  I reached for the door.

  “I really did have a good time, James,” I said.

  He smiled at me, but it seemed forced. As soon as I climbed out of the car, he squealed away from the curb. I stared helplessly after him.

  I stopped on my way up to my dad’s loft and knocked on Nick’s door. Orion barked in response, but no one answered.

  . . .

  Morgan looked surprised when I met her at her locker the next day after school. I’d just offered to go with her to the pet store so that she could buy some treats for her dog, Missy.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be tutoring James this afternoon?” she said.

  “He blew me off. Is there something wrong with me, Morgan? I feel like I’m being punished. First Nick keeps saying that he’s too busy to see me, but he always has plenty of time for Danny. Then James asks me to tutor him because he says he wants to do well this year, but he’s been avoiding me all day—and he didn’t seem too thrilled when I showed up at his house for dinner yesterday.” Was I the problem? Or was it something else? I’d been hoping he might open up to me a little after our tutoring session.

  “Maybe he’s embarrassed that his dad invited you,” Morgan said. “Or ...” She hesitated.

  “What?” I said.

  “Maybe he likes you, but he doesn’t know how to deal with it because he knows you have a boyfriend.”

  “Maybe have a boyfriend,” I said gloomily. “Wait, what do you mean, he knows I have a boyfriend? I never told him that.”

  “No, but Billy did.”

  “He did? When? Why?”

  “It happened sometime last week,” Morgan said. “But Billy didn’t tell me about it until the weekend. James asked about you, and Billy told him that you were seeing someone. That was what you wanted him to say, right? I mean, you don’t want James chasing after someone who isn’t available, do you? Besides, Britt Anderson has been making eyes at him.”

  “She has?” Britt was in my French class. Guys drooled over her because she was super attractive, with pouty lips and perky breasts and a reputation for, well, knowing how to have a good time.

  “I saw her talking to James in the library during my spare,” Morgan said. “I told you, Robyn. He’s cute. And that shy thing really works for him. It makes him seem vulnerable. It was only a matter of time before someone decided to sweep him up.”

  “Great,” I muttered.

  “I thought you weren’t interested.”

  “I’m not.” At least, I didn’t think I was. “It’s just that everyone seems to have someone—except me.”

  We walked down to a downtown shopping street and headed for the pet store. We were about to go inside when I stopped short.

  “Maybe you got it backwards,” I said. “Maybe Britt wasn’t hitting on James. Maybe it was the other way around—he was hitting on her.” And maybe that was why James had been less than enthusiastic about my presence at dinner. Maybe he’d been wishing Britt was there instead.

  Morgan frowned. “Why? What makes you—” She turned to look where I was looking. “Oh,” she said.

  James was coming out of a florist’s shop a few doors down from the pet store. He was carrying flowers.

  “Well, they’re not for Britt,” Morgan said, “unless she’s into the whole Goth thing and no one told me.”

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “Look.”

  I looked. Then I turned back to her. “I don’t—”

  “Those aren’t date-type flowers, Robyn—unless you’re dating a vampire. Calla lilies and white roses? That’s something you’d see at a funeral.”

  Or on a grave. I stared at Morgan for a moment. Then I turned and watched James get into his car and drive away.

  . . .

  There were dozens of things I could have done after Morgan and I split up. I could have gone home and done my homework. I could have cleaned up my room. I could have stopped by Nick’s place to see if he was home. I could have gone for a run to let off some steam—and I seriously needed to let off steam.

  Maybe Morgan was right. Maybe Nick wasn’t the best person for me. But if that were true, why was I so miserable whenever I thought about losing him? Or maybe that was Morgan’s point. Maybe when you really cared about another person, it wasn’t supposed to make you miserable and afraid. Besides, if I cared so much about Nick, why was I thinking about James? Why wasn’t I tracking Nick down and trying to have a heart-to-heart with him? Why had I decided to go looking for James instead?

  If Morgan was right about those flowers, then I had a pretty good idea where James had gone—the cemetery, the one he had a map for. A map that, for some reason, he hadn’t wanted his father to see. Maybe James was acting the way he was because of whoever was buried in Plot XI, Lot 333. Maybe it had something to do with what his dad had said to him yesterday. Maybe he needed someone to talk to. Maybe I could help.

  It took me two buses and forty-five minutes to get to the cemetery—which turned out to be even larger than I had expected. Just inside the cemetery gates, on a large display board, was a full-color version of the map that I had seen in James’s car. Plot XI was on the far side of the cemetery, down a path in what turned out to be a lovely green valley. Lot 333 was tucked away against a hedge. I recognized it instantly by the fresh calla lilies and white roses that had been set into a metal vase in front of the headstone. I looked around. No sign of James. I approached the stone and read the name on it: Gregory Paul Johnson.

  Greg—like the tattoo on James’s arm.

  I looked at the dates on the tombstone. Gregory Johnson had been nine years old when he died—exactly five years ago. I thought about the photos I had seen in Mr. Derrick’s room. That boy looked about nine. Were they pictures of Gregory Johnson? Who was he? What role had James played in his death? And why did that name sound vaguely familiar?

  . . .

  “Have you guys seen James today?” I asked Morgan and Billy when I caught up with them the next day at lunch. “He wasn’t in homeroom this morning.”

  “I haven’t seen him,” Billy said.

  “Maybe he’s sick,” Morgan said.

  “Maybe.” But I was pretty sure he wasn’t. He had been at the cemetery yesterday, delivering flowers on the fifth anniversary of the death of a nine-year-old boy—a boy whose death James might have been involved in. “I think I’ll go by his place after school and see how he is.”

  “Good idea,” Morgan said, winking at me. “Get over there before you-know-who gets her claws into him.”

  I thought about telling her that wasn’t the reason I wanted to check up on him. I also thought—not for the first time—about telling her what I had seen and overheard at James’s house. Usually I let Morgan in on everything. But something stopped me. James was so shy, so vulnerable, and so ob
viously unhappy. It just didn’t seem right to be saying things about him when, really, I had no idea what was going on. Given how Morgan had reacted to the pictures in James’s phone, I decided to keep my mouth shut. I would respect James’s privacy and get my facts straight before I said a word.

  . . .

  It was a warm afternoon, and the windows of the Derrick house were open, which was how I heard Mr. Derrick before I even got to the porch.

  “Pull yourself together, Dee,” he said. “I’m counting on you. Your brother is counting on you.”

  Brother? Those pictures I had seen in Mr. Derrick’s room ...

  “You can’t mess up this time, Dee. This is your last chance. It has to be done right.”

  “It will be,” James said. “I did exactly what you told me to do. I know where to find him. That’s the most important part, isn’t it?”

  Where to find who? Was he still talking about Gregory Johnson and the cemetery? I thought about the strange pictures that Morgan and I had found in James’s cell phone.

  “The most important part is that you get it right this time,” Mr. Derrick said. “That you focus. Concentrate. Remember every single thing I told you. The most important thing is that you don’t let me down this time, that you don’t let Greg and your mother down—again.”

  “I won’t let them down,” James said. He sounded upset. “I told you that, didn’t I? I promised.”

  I backed away from the porch steps. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to drop by. Maybe—

  The front door flew open, and James burst out. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me. Then he thumped down the steps and ran past me.

  “James, wait!” I said.

  He was at the car already and was opening the door.

  “James!”

  He paused and looked evenly at me. “What?” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  “You weren’t in school today. I was worried.”

  “Worried? Worried about what?” He was angry now. Once again, I wished I hadn’t come to this house.

  “You skipped tutoring yesterday.”