Marina elbows him. "Don't be gross," she tells him before turning to me. "So how is Elzie? Obviously she got your message, but is she okay?"
I tell them what she told me about how the police rousted the homeless people under the freeway overpass, looking for Wildlings.
"They shouldn't be allowed to do that," Marina says. "That's just wrong on so many levels."
"No kidding," I say.
"Is that where she lives?" Desmond asks. "Under the overpass?"
"I have no idea. I never seem to get around to asking her where she lives or what she does when she's not with me."
"That's kind of weird."
"I usually have other stuff on my mind."
Desmond smiles and gives me a push. "No kidding, stud-boy. You had so much of that other stuff on your mind today that you forgot your board. Now we all have to walk."
I realize he's right. I did kind of float out of the house in a happy cloud.
"Where does Cindy live?" I ask, to change the subject.
"She—uh. Okay. I don't know yet. Point for you."
"We'd better get going," Marina says. "Des, can I stash my board in your garage till after school?"
"Sure. Man, I should've never sold my old board," says Desmond. "Walking is way too slow."
"Suck it up, baby," says Marina. "I think we humans were meant to walk occasionally."
They put their boards in the garage and we all head down the street. It doesn't take long before we realize we've got company several houses behind us.
"I really hate those guys following you," Marina says. "Following you and staking out our houses. Doesn't the government have better things to do than harass a bunch of kids?"
"Apparently not," Desmond says. "Hey, did you ever figure out who your secret blogger is?"
Marina looks over as I shake my head. "No, but I read some more of her blogs before Elzie came over last night. I like the way she thinks. I'm going to try private messaging her some time."
"Don't bother," Desmond says. "She'll never respond. She'll think you're either a cop or some perv."
"Yeah," Marina adds, "and unless you've picked up some mad computer skills to hide your identity, the FBI will be able to trace your email right back to you."
"You think they're monitoring her blog?"
"What do you think? If they're disappearing Wildlings and following you around, wouldn't they be doing that, too?"
Desmond taps my shoulder to get my attention. "Hey, what's going on at the school?"
There's a crowd of kids gathered on the walkway at the school entrance. There are so many of them that they spill over onto the lawn on either side. That's unusual enough, but when we get closer, we see another bunch of kids clustered right up at the front doors arguing with Principal Hayden. It takes us a moment to realize that they're all wearing bits and pieces of animal costumes. There are lots of perky cat ears, drooping rabbit ears, insect antennas and various animal tails. One girl's wearing a faux leopard-skin jacket. Another has a striped black and yellow sweater that makes her look like a skinny bumblebee.
"This is insane," Desmond says. "What is this, a Fuzzies convention?"
"I think you mean Furries," Marina says.
"Whatever."
He taps the closest guy on his shoulder and Terry Seals turns around.
"What's happening, dude?" Desmond asks.
"You didn't hear?"
"Why do you think I'm asking?"
"Dillon Harner killed himself this morning. He hanged himself in his dad's garage."
"Oh, crap," Desmond says. "Really?"
I hear what they're saying, but I can't quite process the words. They don't make sense. Dillon would never do this. He has too much to live for. He's one of the best musicians I know. We hang out in the music room trading guitar licks a couple of times a week when we have the same spare. He plays his classical guitar and I use one of the school's cheap Strat knock-offs. He's taught me Segovia and Gilardino on the electric, while I've turned him on to The Ventures and Dick Dale—both of which sound surprisingly cool on a classical guitar. At least, they do the way Dillon plays them. He loves music as much as I do and he's brilliant at it.
Weekends he's in Long Beach with his mother and the rest of the time he lives with his dad here in Santa Feliz. His dad's a guitarist, too. He seems to overcompensate for the breakup, filling all their evenings with father–son jam sessions, which is why I only see Dillon at school. Except for his dislike of Wildlings, Dillon was a happy guy. Nothing fazed him.
How the hell can he be dead?
"That doesn't explain what's going on with the costumes," Desmond is saying to Terry.
"Are you okay?" Marina asks me.
I shake my head. The day's already warm, but I can't shake the chill that's crawled up into my chest.
Susie Wong, who's standing beside Terry, turns then. Her eyes are red from crying and she's holding a cloth shopping bag.
"He sent texts to a couple of people," she says to Desmond, "telling them he was a Wildling. That he couldn't take what was coming."
"He was a Wildling?" I say.
He hated Wildlings. How could he be one? And how could I not have known? We were just working up a version of The Astronauts' "Baja" last week. We even talked a bit about the mountain lion in my house business—although I didn't tell him the truth. We played more than we talked.
Where the hell was my Wildling radar? I could have talked him out of doing something this stupid.
"What did he think was coming?" Marina asks.
Susie shakes her head. "I don't know. I didn't get the text—Nancy Hajjir did and she told me. She said he was afraid he was going to be outed."
"Would he really have been scared enough to kill himself?" Marina says.
"Are you kidding?" Terry says. "It'd be a freak show. You've seen how the media goes for the throat whenever they get a lead on a new Wildling. There haven't been many recently, so they're hungry for fresh blood. Rehashing old stories doesn't sell ads."
I find myself nodding, even though I somehow managed to sidestep most of that attention myself.
Susie touches the cat's ears on the hair band that she's carrying. "Nancy says we should show our support for Dillon and all the Wildlings by wearing animal ears and stuff. To honour Dillon's memory. But Principal Hayden says we can't wear them on campus."
Terry nods. "Anybody who does is going to get a suspension."
"So we're trying to get everyone to wear something. He can't suspend the whole school, can he?"
I still can't get past the idea that Dillon was a Wildling and killed himself because of it. I glance to the street, where the FBI agent who was following us should be. For a moment I can't see him, then I spot him beside a dark car parked down the block, leaning in the window of the passenger's side. As I watch, he gets into the back seat and the car takes off.
My mountain lion hearing lets me in on the conversation that Hayden and some of the students are having by the front door. He's telling them that this can all be discussed in the special assembly he's called for first period. Everybody's supposed to go to the auditorium.
I can't do it. As the rest of the kids take off their bits of animal costumes and start to file inside, Marina gives me a tug on my arm.
"We have to go inside," she says.
I shake my head. "I'll be along. I just need a couple of minutes."
"Josh, I'm sorry. I know he was your friend, but you couldn't have known."
"No? If I'd just recognized him for what he was, I could have talked him out of it."
"I don't think suicide is ever that simple," Marina says.
But maybe this is. He hated Wildlings, so I guess he hated himself, too. Except that couldn't be the whole story, could it? If I could have just talked to him. If I'd told him I was one ...
"Well, we're not going to know now, are we?" I say.
"Josh … please don't go there."
"Don't worry. I'm not going to do anything stupid."
I want her to say something like "I know you won't," but she only nods and says, "Okay."
"What's going on?" Desmond asks when he sees we aren't following him and Terry and the others.
"Nothing." Marina tucks her hand into the crook of his arm when he returns to where we're standing. "Come on, let's go."
"What about you, Josh?" he asks.
"He's coming in a minute," Marina says before I can. "Now let's go."
She gives his arm a tug and Desmond lets himself be led away.
I'm alone now except for the few stragglers hurrying for the front door. They give me curious looks, but nobody stops. I look up and down the street. There's no sign of the dark car that the FBI agent got into. I don't see any of them anywhere.
I need to talk to another Wildling, but I don't know where to find Elzie or Cory and I don't know any others. Or maybe I do, but just like with Dillon, I'm unable to recognize them. I feel utterly useless. I could call Elzie, but talking on the phone about this doesn't seem right. Besides, what could Elzie say to make any of this better? She doesn't even know Dillon. Didn't. As in the past. I can't believe this.
My gaze drifts to the picnic tables under the palm and eucalyptus trees. I do know one other Wildling. Chaingang.
I doubt he wants to talk to me again. I remember him saying how we weren't going to have meetings or hang out together. But he also said if I needed a helping hand, he'd be there for me. This probably isn't the kind of thing he was talking about, but what have I got to lose? If he was serious, it's not like he's going to beat me up or even have one of his gang do it for him.
He looks up as I approach his table. I can't get a take on his mood because of the shades and the stillness of his face. Up close, he seems bigger than I remember.
"Can I talk to you?" I say.
"Well, at least you waited until the Feds drove off. Wonder what spooked them?"
I shrug.
He nods as if I said something. "I'm guessing something else came along to turn their crank. Or maybe they don't want to be so obvious with this many kids outside looking around. Losers. They haven't exactly been invisible."
"Did you hear about Dillon?" I ask. "Dillon Harner."
"Yeah. Not the greatest news to start the day."
"I just don't get it. Someone said he killed himself because he was a Wildling."
"I heard the same thing. But I also heard he got in touch with the Feds and admitted he was a Wildling. You know, followed what those stupid PSAs have been telling kids to do. Then he found out they were planning to take him away this morning."
Could this morning get any weirder?
"Why didn't he run?"
Chaingang takes off his shades and regards me. "That kind of life, bro—it's not for everybody. I don't know if I could live on the run, cut off from everything and everyone I know."
"You? But you went away to juvie."
"Yeah, but with my connections, it was like a holiday. Meals, a bed, Internet. I had pretty much anything I wanted, except for girls. This'd be different."
"I don't understand."
"I can do my time," Chaingang says. "The judge lays down the sentence and they put me away, but I can see the end—you know what I'm saying? Sooner or later they have to put me back on the street. This Householder crusade is revving up and the Feds seem to be running with it. Who knows what weird-ass shit they'll do to you, or if you'll ever see the outside again?"
"Some guys rescued a bunch of Wildlings the other night. The FBI had them locked up at the old naval base."
"Yeah, I heard about that, too. Now the Feds are in everybody's faces."
"But not yours."
Chaingang shakes his head. "Not yet. But that doesn't mean it's not coming."
"This is so messed up."
"Tell me about it. Word of advice. If the Feds pull you in, don't let them see you change. Not even if they lock you up. Don't ever change where anyone can see, and that means watching out for traffic cams and shit like that, too."
"What if you don't have a choice?"
"You're not listening to me," he says. "Let them lock you up and wait it out. Because when it all falls apart—and bro, it will fall apart— you'll be in the right and the whole world will see that they're on a witch hunt. Public opinion will see them as the bad guys instead of us.
"But change on camera, or anyplace they can see you and it's game over. Then you're the freak and there's no denying it."
I nod, mostly because he expects it.
I'm still trying to come to terms with what Dillon did. He took the only way out that he thought would allow him any control over his life.
There were other choices. If only I'd known. If I could have just talked to him.
"We used to play music together," I say. "In the band room during our spares."
Chaingang nods. "And?"
"I never even knew he was a Wildling. If I had, I could have done something."
"The kid was messed up," Chaingang says. "He was like some closet gay going out bashing gays, you know what I'm saying?"
"Yeah, I see that now. But maybe if I could have talked to him ..."
"You need to let this go," he tells me, his voice firm.
"I can't."
He shakes his head. "It's not on you, bro—don't you get that? It wasn't your decision to make. It was his."
"You don't really believe that."
"Yeah, I really do. You can honour his memory. You can regret the choice he made. You can bang your head against a wall. But it's done."
"Can you teach me how to tell if someone's a Wildling or not?"
"You already know," he says.
"I didn't know Dillon was one."
"It's complicated if you knew someone well before you changed. They're going to smell and seem the same, the way they always did. With strangers you can catch the high wild scent that sets a little something off in your head like there's a signal ringing in the distance."
"So somebody like my friend Desmond could be a Wildling?"
"He's not."
"No, of course he's not. We're best friends. He'd have told me."
The school bell rings. Everybody's gone into the auditorium so that Principal Hayden can give his speech about what a terrible loss this is and how there'll be counsellors for those who want to talk about what we're feeling. Just like last week's special assembly for Laura.
"Go inside," Chaingang says.
"I don't feel like it."
"Yeah, except the Feds' car is just coming around the corner and I don't want them to see you talking to me."
"Oh, right," I say as I dart for the front door. The mountain lion has me move so fast that my hand's almost on the doorknob before the words are out of my mouth.
"Careful, bro," Chaingang says.
Though his voice is soft, I hear it clearly. I look back, but he's got his shades back on and he's sitting there on the picnic table staring off into nowhere just like always.
I open the door and slip into the school before the Feds can see me.
I try to sneak into the auditorium, but Principal Hayden immediately notices me from where he's standing behind the podium on the stage. His gaze tracks me as I ease the door shut and take a seat at the rear. He keeps right on talking the whole time. Nobody else seems to notice me coming in late except for Marina, who turns in her seat as if she's got some kind of Josh-radar. She flashes me a sympathetic smile, then faces the front.
I do my best to pay attention to what Principal Hayden is saying, but it all sounds like the same platitudes as last Monday's assembly. After awhile Hayden starts to talk about how wearing bits of animal costumes sends an inappropriate message to the community—trivializing the very real problems that Wildlings face—and suggests that we wear ribbons or armbands instead.
I shift in my seat, waiting for him to finish telling us that counsellors are available if we want to talk to someone about Dillon. One thing's for sure. No counsellor can bring Dillon back.
> I doubt I'm the only one who's relieved when we're finally dismissed to go to our classes.
"So where'd you disappear to, Saunders?" Desmond asks when he and Marina catch up to me after the assembly.
"Nowhere. I just needed a moment to think before I came in."
Marina touches my arm softly. "Maybe Dillon had some bad habits, but he had a good heart. I didn't know him as well as you, but anybody could see that."
She's being nice, not coming right out and saying anything about how he was always badmouthing Wildlings, but maybe she didn't see it. Lots of people don't see crap like that unless they're on the receiving end.
Desmond looks like he has something to add, except he's restraining himself.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing, man."
"Come on. I know that look."
Desmond sighs. "I don't want to come off like some big jerk. The thing is, I get what you're feeling and what happened with Dillon is a real bummer, but I have to say, I don't understand why he did it. Being a Wildling would be so awesome—like the total opposite of wanting to kill yourself."
"I don't know how he felt about being a Wildling," I say, "but we know how he hated them. That had to be hard. And someone said he found out that the FBI was coming to take him away. That's what he couldn't face. Being locked away and studied and never being free again."
"Disappeared," Marina says quietly.
I nod.
"That sucks," Desmond agrees. "But why did he stick around for as long as he did? I'm not trying to get rid of you, Josh, but why do any of you stick around? If it happened to me, I'd be so gone. I'd just take off. I'd go as far as I could from Santa Feliz and start my life over."
I nod. "And never see your mom and dad again? Or your little sister? Because to be safe, you'd have to cut all ties with them and your friends and everything you care about."
"Yeah, but—"
"And what would you do for identification? How would you get a job, a car license, a bank account?"
"I don't know. I guess I'd have to go underground and buy those things."
"Using what? Meanwhile the FBI'd probably still be trying to track you down. So you'd be on the run on top of everything else."
"Dude, you make it sounds like a curse."
Under My Skin (Wildlings) Page 13
