I stand up and probably look way too nervous.
“Hot day to cut lawns, huh?” he says, offering his hand.
I shake it and smile, not knowing what to say.
“Were you good friends with Artie?”
“No. He was a year ahead of me.”
“But you knew him, right?”
“Yeah, sure. Everybody knew Artie. Everybody liked him.”
The guy nods in a casual, just-having-chitchat sort of way.
“What would you say about his friends? His close friends?”
“He had a lot of friends. He didn’t have a close group, that I know of.”
“Anything odd about his behavior this past year? Anything you can think of?”
For a second I try to remember anything that stood out. “He had a big part in the musical last year. Not that that’s odd, but it’s odd to someone who can’t sing or act.”
“Do you know anybody who had anything against Artie?”
I shake my head as I glance back at the freshly cut lawn. I wonder if Ms. Middleton is watching us, trying to figure out what’s going on.
“He was seriously one of the most-liked guys at school.”
Detective Passini nods, then studies me a bit. “You know, I’ve heard that about you, too.”
“What? From who?”
“A variety of people.”
I wonder if the variety is Devon, Frankie, and Barton.
And I wonder if he knows anything about Artie’s little side job.
“I just wanted to give you a heads-up,” he says. “To be careful.”
“Do you guys know anything?”
“Here’s my card. If you see anything strange—anything at all—you let me know. I’m giving my name to several students at the school just to try to have eyes and ears everywhere.”
I think of the weirdo guy living in the woods near the quarry. But I don’t say anything about him.
“Make sure you stay in groups, okay?”
His warning seems ominous.
“Do you think this might happen again?”
“We’re doing everything we can to find whoever did this. So any help you might have—anything—let me know.”
I say good-bye and watch him drive away. I glance at the house across the street with its blinds closed. Then I notice the one next to it with the fence around it. And the next house, which has a For Sale sign on it and looks abandoned.
A whole street full of people who could be killers for all I know. Who knows who is living beside you? We still don’t really know the new neighbors who moved in next to us a year ago. It’s too easy to go upstairs and play video games or go on the Internet and check Facebook. It’s way too easy to ignore the obvious.
Maybe that’s why what happened with Artie was way too easy. Maybe ’cause nobody else was paying him any attention. Everybody’s too busy in their own little worlds. Too busy until a dead body comes floating down the river and interrupts everyone’s lives.
“Maybe there’s a secret cult in Appleton,” Barton says.
I look at his round face and shake my head. “You’ve watched too many horror movies.”
“I was telling him that this town is a little odd,” Devon says.
I’m doing my part and hanging out with the guys, since it’s late at night. We’ve made a Sonic run and are sitting at a table outside eating ice cream. And watching Barton eat onion rings.
“Odd doesn’t mean you have an evil cult hiding out somewhere,” I say.
“If there is one I’m in trouble,” Frankie says.
“Why?”
“’Cause,” he answers, “the black dude is always killed off in horror movies. Always.”
This gets a big laugh from all of us.
“Nobody go swimming in any ponds or lakes,” Barton says with his mouth full. “Instant death.”
“Who goes swimming in lakes in the middle of the night anyway?” Devon asks.
“Hot girls who need to skinny-dip,” Barton answers. “At least, in the movies.”
“This isn’t a movie,” I say.
“Yeah, but someone did die,” Barton says. “And died like in a really bad way.”
I told them about the detective asking me questions. I didn’t tell them what he said about my being a likable guy.
“You think someone just spotted Artie and decided, ‘Yeah, I’m going to kill him’?” Frankie asks.
“I think there’s something bigger going on here,” Barton says.
“You’re just trying to freak us out.”
“No I’m not. What? Are you freaked out?”
“I’m going to dream of men in black robes,” I joke.
“That’s so cliché,” Devon says. “Worst plot device you could think of, putting the weirdo townspeople in robes. Please.”
“That would freak me out,” Frankie says.
“You know what freaks me out?” Devon asks. “It’s not knowing. It’s thinking that the woman you’ve seen drive by a thousand times on your street might actually be storing someone in her basement.”
“It’s usually a plain, average white dude,” Frankie says. “Like Brandon.”
We laugh.
“The star quarterback is always the first to go,” I joke back.
“So then I’m doubly gone.”
It dawns on me that we’re making cracks about death while a guy our age was brutally murdered. I want to say something, but I can’t. Maybe we’re joking because it helps us talk about all this.
“I heard Artie’s mother is on suicide watch,” Barton says.
“Where do you get this stuff?”
“I tell you, I know,” he says.
“You’re going to be one of those tell-all online reporter guys when you grow up,” I say.
“The kind everybody hates,” Frankie adds.
We’re laughing when I spot the car. It’s an old black Trans Am with wings on the hood. Its engine seems to shake everything around as it drives by.
That’s the car that picks up Marvel.
The guy behind the wheel of the muscle car looks like trouble. Like Greg Packard trouble. No, actually worse than Greg Packard trouble. He looks like he thinks he’s something special. He also looks mean.
One reason not to try too hard with Marvel.
The car rumbles by. I think maybe the opposite is the case: Maybe this guy is one reason I should be around Marvel. Because she’s got that dude living with her and maybe she needs some help.
You let your own father beat up on you. What are you going to do for Marvel?
Devon and Frankie and Barton are still talking and laughing, and I join in. For now, I don’t have to worry about anybody beating up on anybody unless it’s one of us teasing the others.
I guess the detective was right. There is safety in numbers.
It’s the last week in June, and I’ve made a decision. No more games. No more waiting around. No more maybes. Of course, I don’t think Marvel has played games or waited on me or ever told me a maybe. Nevertheless, I plan on asking her out in an official capacity and showing up at the Teeds’ annual July 4 bash with her at my side.
Every year, Devon’s family has a big party where family, friends, neighbors, and sometimes, it seems, even strangers come to celebrate the Fourth. The Teeds live close to the park that hosts the fireworks, so everybody either stays and watches from their front lawn or walks a few blocks to see them up close.
I can’t remember a Fourth of July I haven’t hung out with Devon since I met him in sixth grade. Sometimes my brothers have come with me to hang out at his house. It helps that they have a pool.
Devon’s parents are an interesting pair. His mother is friendly and a talker, while his father is tall and thin like Devon and always seems busy. Mr. Teed doesn’t say much—he’s always fixing something or cooking something or doing something. Which is far better than my father, who never does any of those things unless he’s trying to fix the face of his eldest son.
With Ju
ly 4 five days away, I’m both looking forward to it and dreading it. Some of the worst things in my life have happened around holidays. For some reason holidays make people like my father even more crazy than usual. Maybe it’s the heat and the fireworks and the fact that everybody is at home trying to celebrate something.
Harry’s having a big weeklong sale, so the record store has been busier than usual. Lots of people wanted me to cut their lawns before the holiday, so my week has been crazy busy. But so far, no teenager has gone missing from home, and I haven’t gotten punched in the back of the head. So life is good. And since it’s good, I’m going to make it better by asking Marvel out.
The album being cranked (and it’s really loud even for the store) is by a band called INXS. It’s called Shabooh Shoobah, and that got Marvel and me joking for an hour. Today she’s wearing a bandanna thing that matches her dress, and wooden-like platform shoes that make her as tall as me. If I didn’t know her I would’ve laughed, but now her outfits are something I wait to see. Harry and I always have to comment on them.
I’m waiting for the right moment, maybe right after we both get off work, or maybe sometime when Harry slips out. I’m trying to think of the right words to say to her.
I know we sorta went out, but I want to go on a real date with you.
Something like that.
I know that you don’t want to get involved, and I respect that, but I’m hoping I can change your mind.
Not something like that. That’s lame.
Look, I’m not trying to . . .
“Brandon?”
I turn around and see Marvel standing in the aisle. I don’t see Harry or anybody else.
“I’m meant to be with you, okay?”
For a second, as the drums and the guitars and the singer all wail away, I stand there and stare at her as if she just spoke in a foreign language.
“No tengo ni idea de lo que acabas de decir.”
Yep, I have no idea.
“So look, it’s fine just as long as you know that there can’t be anything between us, not like that. You know?”
Uh, what?
“Okay,” I say.
“I know, I know, that makes no sense. I’m not making any sense.”
“No, you’re not.”
“But listen—this is what I have to do. What? What is it?”
“What?” I ask.
“Why do you have that look on your face?”
“What look?”
“That . . . that know-it-all smirk.”
I laugh. I don’t know it all. I don’t know anything, in fact. “Do you have plans for the Fourth?” I ask.
“I guess I do now,” Marvel says.
She says it the way I might say I need to mow Ms. Middleton’s lawn. So strange. So very strange. But I’m not going to complain. I’m not going to question her either.
“My buddy’s family has a big party before the fireworks, and I always go.”
“Then I’ll be going too.”
Harry comes back in and heads to the counter. Marvel takes that as a cue that our conversation is over.
That was the easiest asking-a-girl-out ever.
Horror movies don’t scare me. It’s the weekend before July 4, and I go with the guys to see a new scary movie that’s getting a lot of buzz. It’s gross and has a bunch of moments when the audience groans in disgust or everybody laughs because it’s crazy bizarre. But I never get spooked or feel a bit of anxiety watching it.
Afterward we all pile into Devon’s Jeep, wondering what to do next on this Saturday night.
“That part with the father killing his son—now that’s sick,” Barton says.
“Could an ax actually do that?” Devon asks.
“I wouldn’t want to find out.”
“I mean—you’d have to hit it just right to decapitate someone with one swing,” Devon continues.
“Not ‘someone.’ His own son.”
“That was ridiculous,” I say. “The head went flying like a basketball.”
“And his girlfriend catches it,” Barton howls from the backseat.
“I think the new wave of terror is going to be movies where they don’t show anything,” I say. “Not even blood.”
“It’s like playing a video game,” Frankie says. “You see a head spinning and it’s like, ‘Okay, whatever.’”
“What if that really happened?” Barton says.
“Then you’d be dead.”
“No, I mean, could you imagine seeing a real human head spinning by you?”
It’s a pretty ludicrous conversation, but then again the movie we just saw was pretty ludicrous. Barton makes us laugh describing what people would say if they caught a human head that’s just been decapitated.
“You were a lot prettier stuck on a body.”
We all howl.
“It’s so nice to snuggle with you.”
“Sick,” Frankie says.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” Barton says in some old person’s voice.
“Mrs. Gabhart!” That’s the hundred-year-old librarian at our high school.
We’re passing close to Maxwell Park, which is right across from the school. We’re still laughing when we feel the car hit something and then drive over something metallic. Barton curses, and Devon slows down.
“What was that?” he asks me.
My window is open and I look out into the darkness. I see something on the side of the road that shines from the reflection of the taillights.
“It’s a bike,” I say.
“I drove over a bike?”
“Was there someone on it?” Barton asks.
“I don’t see anybody.”
Devon stops the Jeep and waits as I get out and check out the bike. The one tire looks flattened like a pancake. I look toward the side of the road where a small street heads toward Maxwell Park. In another few days this place will be mobbed with people as they pick out places to sit to watch the nearby fireworks.
“Anybody around?” Devon asks.
I tell him no and try to prop up the bike, but it won’t stand.
“Did my car get damaged?”
I go to the front and examine the bumper, then check out the tire. I hear crickets in the background along with Barton’s voice in the car. I’m starting to sweat from the humidity.
“Hhhhhhhhheeeeeeeeeeee.”
I jerk around and stare into the darkness. That voice didn’t come from the Jeep but from out there, out where I can’t see anything.
“Hey guys, help me,” the voice calls.
For a second I wonder if a head is going to go hurling past me. I can feel goose bumps covering my skin. I’m about to get back in the vehicle when a figure pops out of nowhere and starts walking down the street into the glare of the headlights. The figure is bony and white and naked. In his hands is a tattered shirt that he holds over his privates.
“I need some help.”
As the figure gets closer, I recognize Seth. His nose is bloody and his eyes look swollen from crying.
“What happened?” I ask as I walk his way.
The guys in the Jeep are quiet now. I hear them getting out to see what’s happening.
“Is that your bike?” Devon asks. “I think I might have hit it.”
I don’t think it dawns on Devon that he’s talking to a kid who’s not wearing any clothes and looks like he was just beat up. When I actually notice the white-as-chalk skin, I see there’s writing on it. Lots of words I’d get in trouble for saying, and I live in a house where Dad curses all the time.
“Aw man, who did this?” Frankie asks.
“You’re naked,” Barton says.
“Here,” I say as I take off my polo shirt and give it to him. “Devon, you got anything in your car?”
“Sweatpants are in the back in the bag,” he says. “They need to be washed.”
“Can you get them?”
“Who did this?” Frankie asks again.
“Football guys,” Seth m
umbles.
“Like who?”
“I know who,” I say.
“Four or five of them.”
“Same guys as before?” I ask.
“I don’t know—maybe. I couldn’t see. I was riding my bike and fell off when they ran me off the road.”
“Those guys are screwed,” I tell Frankie.
“You don’t know who did it,” he says.
“Oh, I know. The same morons who slashed the tires of my bike.”
Seth is breathing heavily, hoarsely. Devon gives him the sweatpants, and he puts them on.
“They were drunk,” he says in a whimper.
“Of course they were,” I say.
“So they stole your clothes?” Barton asks.
“They were coming from a party.”
“And they just spotted you riding your bike?” Frankie asks.
“I was meeting someone here,” Seth says, still out of breath, his eyes barely staying open. “I was totally set up.”
“Meeting them for what?” Barton asks.
I tell him to shut up.
“Are you okay? Did they hurt you anywhere?”
Seth shakes his head.
“Seriously, I know who did this,” I tell Frankie.
“Why are you making it sound like I’m part of it?”
“’Cause you play on the football team.”
“With a lot of good guys.”
“And a few jerks,” I say.
“I just want to go home,” Seth says.
“I say you go to the cops and make a statement,” I tell him, looking at the bloody T-shirt he was wearing before it got torn off of him. “Where’re the rest of your clothes?”
“They took them.”
Something about this makes me furious. “Let’s go find those guys.”
“We’re not ‘finding those guys,’” Frankie tells me. “Use your head.”
Barton curses as he gets close to Seth and checks out his face. Frankie tries to fit the bike in the back, but it’s too big.
“Leave my bike here,” Seth says. “I just want to go home.”
“Look, this is gonna keep happening,” I tell him. “You gotta do something.”
He gives me a detached and scary look, then shakes his head. “Please take me home.”
I nod, then look at Devon. We all pile into the Jeep with Seth sitting up front. He guides Devon to a dead-end street I’ve never been down, toward some run-down homes.
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