The Nightworld

by Jack Blaine

  the nightworld

  Jack Blaine

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  I’m watching the clock, watching the second hand tick-tick-tick silently toward home, waiting for that sweet, sweet sound of freedom. One . . . more . . . sec—ah!

  There it is. The final bell. The rest of the class bolts, stampeding out the door. At last junior year is over. I don’t have to hear that stupid bell again for three long months. Don’t have to study, don’t have to figure out new ways to skip chem lab, don’t have to watch all the hot girls ignore me and only pay attention to the jocks.

  “What are you waiting for, Nick? I figured you for the first student out of the classroom, not the last.”

  For an English teacher, Mrs. Martin isn’t bad. I even liked some of her assignments this year. She stands at the front of the classroom, looking a little sad behind her smile.

  I smile back and stand up. “I’m going. See you next year.”

  “Wait a minute.”

  When I turn back to her, she’s holding out a book. “Some summer reading.”

  “Oh, man.” I can’t help but groan a little. All year long Mrs. Martin has thought I’m one of those kids she can fix by focusing a little individual attention on me. I’m not dumb, but the phrase “does not work to potential” is what they’ll put under my senior picture in the yearbook.

  “Oh, it won’t kill you. And yes, I do expect a book report in the fall.” Mrs. Martin waits for me to take the book.

  “Lord of the Flies?” I turn the book over.

  “You should have read it two years ago.” Mrs. Martin shakes her head. “It used to be required reading for the ninth graders, but they replaced it with some—”

  She stops, but I could swear she was about to say a nasty word. I look at the front cover of the book again. It has a guy looking straight out from what seems to be a jungle. The stems of some leaves look sort of woven into his hair. He looks . . . pissed? No, more like he’s sad. There are big old houseflies all over his shoulder.

  “Uh . . . what’s it about?” I’m not digging the idea of spending any time on reading this summer. Maybe I can get out of it. “I’m going to be so busy over break—”

  “I expect you to tell me what it’s about when you come back in the fall.” Mrs. Martin assumes her teacher face. “And I’m holding your final grade in English this year until I get your book report.”

  Crap. There is it—the power play. I skipped a few too many of Mrs. Martin’s classes, too, along with chem lab. She could give me a righteous D for the year if she wanted. I figured there would be some sort of makeup work to do over the summer, but I was hoping for some vocabulary words, not a novel about flies.

  “Well, thanks, Mrs. Martin. I’ll do my best.”

  “If only you would, Nick.”

  The disappointment in her voice should make me feel bad, but it’s officially summer now and I can’t bring myself to care. I shove the book in my backpack, give Mrs. Martin a wave, and leave. The halls already look deserted. I was hoping to run into Lara Hanover before everyone split, so I’m disappointed. Lara is the hottest girl in the junior class. She’s not a cheerleader or anything stupid like that, either. All year long I’d been working up the nerve to ask her out. I actually managed to talk to her a couple of times when we had to do group reports in English. She’s smart, but I was never able to concentrate on her reports because every time she talked in our group all I could do was watch her mouth move. I’d finally decided that today, the last day of junior year, was a make-or-break moment—either get her number and call her over the summer, or forget about it. Looks like I’d missed my chance.

  I push out the double doors to the front of the school where the buses pick up the suburbs. That’s what they call those of us who have to bus in to school and bus back to our sleepy neighborhoods. I’ve been a suburb most of my life, so I’m used to being part of the lame crowd. I have my favorite seat, and I know to avoid getting jacked for lunch money or homework, and my buddy Charlie Bradley is usually along for the ride, so it’s not that bad.

  The sun is glinting off the buses, and the heat is nice after the air-conditioning inside. I squint at the sea of tank-topped students looking for Charlie. A surprise is waiting for me there. Lara is standing in front of the bus with Charlie. Lara Hanover, who doesn’t take the bus and who doesn’t talk to Charlie. He’s just a little lamer than me, which puts him right over the edge of too-lame-for-Lara-to-notice.

  I have no idea how to react to this unlikely scene. Lara’s wearing a red tank top and blue cutoff jeans. She looks, well, like she always looks. Beautiful. Her hair looks like gold in the sunlight and her shoulders, bare in the light breeze, look smooth and soft. I can’t count how many times I’ve watched her from afar, knowing full well she’ll never notice me. And then, as though she’s being filmed in slow motion, she turns, and sees me, and ooooooh sooooo sloooowly smiles at me. Charlie turns too, equally slowly, and makes an incredulous face while he points at Lara, as though to say “Duuuuude, do you seeeee this?” All I can do is nod, dumbly.

  “Nick!” Lara is making actual sounds.

  “Ummm.” I stand there for an additional two brainless seconds, and then I lope over to her.

  “Hi, Lara.” I’m trying for cool. Her lips look so soft. And pink. And soft.

  “Listen.” She tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

  I listen.

  She stares at me for a full ten seconds, waiting for some sort of appropriate response, but I am lost in her aura. Finally she frowns slightly and speaks again.

  “I’m having a little thing, Nick.”

  She knows my name!

  “A thing?” I’ve managed to form words.

  “Yeah. A sort of inaugural bash for summer.” She peers into my eyes, trying to see if I understand.

  “An inaugural bash, huh? Sounds pretty fancy.” I see Charlie making desperate motions behind Lara’s back, beseeching me to stop acting like such an idiot. I have got to snap out of it.

  “Sounds cool.” I cock my head at Lara and slouch a little. “Where and when?”

  She smiles at me and giggles. But she’s not laughing at me. She’s just amused.

  “My place, this weekend.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “My parents are in Europe, so the place is all mine.”

  “Sounds way cool.” Charlie’s panting like a happy puppy.

  Lara and I both turn to stare at him. He’s practically drooling on her. I give him a look, the look I give him when he’s being lamer than usual. He closes his mouth.

  “Anyway.” Lara hands me a scrap of paper. It’s pink. “See ya.”

  She walks away while Charlie and I stare after her.

  “Huh.” Charlie is astute, sometimes. This is not one
of those times. But I can’t blame him. I can’t even muster a huh.

  “You boys want a ride or not?” Mrs. Snelling, the bus driver, is leaning out toward us from her seat behind the wheel of our bus, her hand on the lever that closes the bus door.

  We both clamber on, sliding into our customary seats near the back of the bus.

  “What was that?” I doubt Charlie will know, but I have to ask somebody.

  “Dude.” He shakes his head back and forth, as stunned as I am.

  Chapter 2

  Lara Hanover. Inviting me to her . . . thing. My high lasts the whole bus ride home. But as soon as I open the door to my house: buzz kill. It’s absentee father time again.

  I can hear the hum of the generator, which means Dad’s still in the basement. Of course. He promised he’d be up for dinner tonight, but I know from experience that if he’s still down there by the time I get home from school, I won’t see him until the next morning.

  Dad’s a consulting research scientist for the government. He works in development, specifically in particle physics. I don’t really know what that means, but the two words have rolled off Dad’s tongue for as long as I can remember, whenever people ask what he does. All I really know is that he’s supposed to be finding a scientific explanation of mass or gravity or spacetime curvature or something that sounds ripped from an episode of Battlestar Galactica.

  He used to go to the lab in the city, but then he started some classified project, and overnight forty-two van loads of equipment got hauled down to the basement. For about a week, technicians scrambled around like ants, setting up a state-of-the-art lab where we used to have a saggy couch and a foosball table. There’s a generator down there, too, because Dad says the guys in charge are pushing for fast results and don’t want the project to go offline. He won’t say much more about the project besides that I’m not supposed to go around advertising it.

  He’s always been a little absentminded and absorbed in his work, but lately it’s getting bad. He forgets to shave for days, and I can hear him mumbling stuff about the Higgs mechanism and other things I can’t even pronounce. It’s almost as bad as it was right after Mom died, when he was drinking. But it’s bad in a different way—there’s a worried look on his face that I’ve never seen before, like there’s something he can’t figure out how to solve. Dad always knows how to solve everything. I’ve asked him a couple of times if everything’s okay and he always says it’s fine, but I know it’s not. I know something is wrong.

  Here’s another thing I know. My pacifist dad, the guy who constantly lectures me that turning the other cheek is the only appropriate response to violence, has a gun.

  It’s hidden in the back of the china cabinet, where he keeps his bottle of single malt scotch. When Mom died, Dad lost it for a while. He tried to stay in control for me, I know he did, but he just couldn’t handle it. He started drinking, way too much. He stayed up late at night and slept through the mornings when I was supposed to be getting breakfast and going to school. Once I’d missed the bus a few times, the school called, and then my aunt Becky had to come out from California for two weeks. Once she came, it gave him the chance to pull it together, and he’s never done that again, but it scared me. I was only seven when Mom died, and I thought I was losing him too.

  That’s how I found the gun. Like I said, he’s never acted that way again, but I still check the level of his latest scotch bottle every once in a while, just to see. I was checking last week and I found the gun, partway under a cloth place mat behind the scotch bottle. It’s heavy and cool to the touch and deadly looking. Finding it there was like walking into my bedroom and discovering a coiled, hissing viper in the middle of my down comforter.

  I have to talk to him about it, and I was planning on doing it tonight. I had thrown the ingredients for a stew in the Crock-Pot before I left for school this morning, because I thought we’d be eating together, and I can smell it—spicy, tomato-y goodness. I put together a pretty good stew. It looks like I’ll be eating alone again, though.

  I throw my backpack on the couch and go through to the kitchen. Sure enough, the lightbulb over the basement door is on, which means “Don’t come down here.” It’s the arrangement we made when his work got moved home—Dad says he can’t be disturbed when he’s in the middle of his research. I’m not sure why we need the lightbulb; it’s not like he’s ever allowed me down there since the equipment got moved in; the door stays locked if he’s not using the lab.

  I rummage through the utensil drawer until I find a wooden spoon, and then I take the top off the Crock-Pot. Steam bathes my face and I inhale. It’s good stuff; too bad Dad will miss out. Another hour or so, and it will be ready to eat.

  I kill the time online. Charlie has some new photos of his latest dorky T-shirt finds on his Facebook page. I leave comments on two of the worst ones. I notice a new friend request and when I click on it, my heart almost stops. It’s from Lara! I confirm it before I even take another breath.

  Ahh. I have access to her wall and her photos now. I spend the next hour just clicking, from photo to photo to photo: Lara in a car, laughing; Lara in a formal dress with some guy I don’t know; Lara and one of her many friends from school, I think this girl’s name is Barbara, building some sort of science project thing on a dining-room table. Her photos all show her laughing or smiling, and she seems to be having a great life. I wonder what she’ll think if she bothers to click through to my page. My photos are all of me and Charlie doing stupid stuff like blowing up a mail-order rocket in his backyard, or planking in various places. We went through a phase last fall where we planked everywhere. There’s one of Charlie planking in the frozen food aisle at the Food Lion. Real smooth.

  The stew smells ready to eat. I set out a bowl and a spoon on the breakfast counter and go to the fridge to get the milk. I’m just about to take a swig from the carton when the basement door opens.

  “Get a glass.” Dad locks the door and flicks the switch on the wall; the hum of the generator stops. He gives me a noogie on his way to the sink to wash his hands.

  “Are you joining me for dinner?” I can’t help but let a little snark into my tone.

  “I said I’d be here, didn’t I?” He gets another bowl and two glasses from the cupboard. “Did you wash your hands?”

  I put the milk on the counter and head to the sink. When I come back, Dad has two bowls of stew ladled out and he’s poured us each a glass of milk. He’s even put out a couple of paper napkins.

  “Smells delicious, Nick.” We busy ourselves with eating for a few minutes. When I look up from my bowl, Dad is giving me what I call his visual assessment. Mom used to do this too. Checking to see if I was too tired, or coming down with something. Dad’s visual assessment is much more scientific, and I think he’s checking to see if I got high or something. Still, at least it shows he cares.

  “How’s school?”

  “Over,” I say. “Today was the last day.”

  Dad raises his eyebrows. “Wow.”

  “Wow, what?”

  “Wow, time really got away from me.” He shakes his head. “Sorry, Nick. I know I’ve been . . . distracted.”

  It’s my turn to raise my eyebrows.

  He nods. “I know, I know. Listen, what if we plan a camping trip? We haven’t gone camping for so long. What do you think?”

  What I think is that he must be feeling really guilty. Camping used to be our special time together—I loved going with him.

  “When would we do this?” Camping with Dad used to be fun. We haven’t done it in a long time.

  He looks at some inner calendar. “Hmm, maybe this weekend? I think I could hustle on a few things tomorrow and Friday, and we could go Saturday.”

  I picture the scrap of pink paper in my backpack. The scrap of paper with Lara’s address and a little heart—a heart—that she drew herself. I want to go camping with him, but I want to go to Lara’s party too. “I sort of have plans for this weekend.”

  “P
lans, huh? What sort of plans?”

  “There’s a party.”

  “Well, there will be other part—”

  “I want to go, Dad.” It pisses me off that he’s been buried in that lab for months and the minute he wants to remember he has a son, I’m supposed to rearrange everything for him. Still, I try to soften it for him. “There’s this girl.”

  He smiles. “Ahh. I see.” He picks up his spoon again, ready to eat some more stew. “Well, maybe next weekend then, what do you say?”

  “Sounds good.” I pick up my spoon too, and we eat the rest of our dinner together in a companionable silence. I don’t bring up the gun. It just doesn’t seem like the right time.

  Chapter 3

  I wake up late on Saturday—it’s almost noon by the time I roll out of bed. My body clock has already adapted to a summer schedule. It’s sunny, one of those warm, breezy June days that make you glad to be alive and out of school for the summer. When I get downstairs, the light above the basement door is on. I don’t think it’s been off for the last two days. I know Dad’s still alive because he leaves dirty dishes in the sink, but I haven’t seen him since we had our stew dinner together. He’s left me two sticky notes on the fridge. One, left yesterday, said Plz p/u milk and had a ten-dollar bill attached to it. He likes lots of milk in his coffee. I walked down to the corner mini-mart to get it for him and spent the change on chips. Today’s note says Don’t frgt to mow with a smiley face drawn under it.

  The lawn is my job. I mow it once a week during the summer, and I get ten bucks a pop. Keeps me in Twizzlers. And Dad thinks it teaches me about responsibility. Who knows, maybe it does.