by Heidi Ayarbe
“Okay,” Mom agreed. “Kyle will start on Monday.”
16
Inertia is deadly.
Life is deadly too. Just ask Jason.
After Mom, Dad, and Mel had gone, Dr. Matthews said, “The disposition was pretty tough.”
“It was okay.”
“Do you really think you deserve to be sent away for what happened?”
For killing another person? Yes. “The judge didn’t.”
“But do you?”
“I dunno.”
“Can you tell me why, then, you reacted the way you did at the disposition?”
I unclasped the watch, then clasped it again. “I guess I was surprised.”
“What surprised you?”
“It’s not like I expected to go home, you know.”
She pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Were you disappointed that the judge didn’t send you to a juvenile detention center?”
“Yeah,” I said, then caught myself. “No. I mean, I dunno.”
“Can you explain?”
“I killed Jason.” I picked at a hangnail. It started to bleed. I sucked on it, letting the copper taste coat my tongue.
“Did you mean to?”
Since tenth grade started, I had eaten lunch alone in the cafeteria most days; the only time Jason called was to see if I could hang out with him and Chase. So really, it was probably just Chase who wanted to see me. Jason had only hung out with me alone one weekend, and he ended up dead.
Did I mean to?
Is not sharing lunch a motive for murder?
It would make the perfect film noir, like The Maltese Falcon. An old black-and-white detective movie with high-contrast photography and over-the-top acting.
Mark, the tough and gritty PO, moonlighting as a private eye, sits behind a desk. Smoke curls up from his unfiltered cigarette while he pours himself another stiff drink from the half-empty bottle of whisky. Sirens wail and a neon sign blinks in the background.
He hears the sound of high heels clacking on the stairway. The door flies open and in walks Dr. Matthews, clad in fishnet stockings and a dress that probably cuts off her oxygen supply. She bats her eyelashes. “Did he mean to? Will you help me, sir?”
Mark looks up at her and tips the brim of his hat.
Dr. Matthews throws herself into a chair, sobbing uncontrollably.
Mark coolly hands her a handkerchief and a piece of paper. “Here are my rates. I’ll find out. I’ll find out if he meant to. But know this: I won’t play the sap for you!”
“Kyle?” Dr. Matthews tapped my shoulder. “Are you listening?”
“Yeah. Sure.” The only problem with that movie is that Sam Spade never had a tan. Maybe I could convince Mark to stay away from the tanning beds on Fifth Street before shooting.
“Was there something you wished you could’ve said to the Bishops?” Dr. Matthews asked.
I’m sorry.
But I didn’t say it, and now it’s too late—just another scene I screwed up and can’t edit. What a fucking mess.
“Okay. Let’s try it another way. Are there things you would’ve liked to say to Jason but didn’t?”
Why did you ditch me for Alex and the guys?
Why didn’t you want to hang out with me anymore?
Do you know what happened?
That’s what I especially wanted to ask him: Do you know what happened?
“Maybe you can write those things down. Write them when you think about them. You don’t have to show me,” Dr. Matthews said.
I leaned back and stared at the water stain on the ceiling. “Okay.”
“Your first day back at school will be tough.” She handed me a card. “You can call me if you need to talk.”
I hesitated.
“Take the card. You don’t have to call. I just want you to know that you can.”
The minutes slipped away. I lay in bed and listened to the house, its walls moaning in the wind, the familiar creak of the third step. Every evening the sun dropped behind the mountains, only to come back the following morning, streaming light into my bedroom. Every goddamned morning.
That Sunday, I sat by the front window and watched Chase run up and down the street with one of his kites. There was no wind, but the kid didn’t give up. He was out all day long from morning until evening. Nobody helped him at the Bishops’ house. Jason would’ve. Jason was always there for Chase.
My stomach ached, watching Chase drag the tattered kite across the asphalt. His cheeks and nose turned red, flushed from the cold. Once in a while I saw him look toward my driveway.
Help him out, dude. Don’t be an asshole and just watch him like that.
Easy for you to say. Your parents don’t hate you.
Get over it. His kite’s gonna get torn to shreds, and you know Mom and Dad won’t get him a new one.
I got out to the porch but then I saw Mrs. Bishop, wrapped in a thick sweater. She called Chase inside. His kite hung limp. He dropped his head and went in just as the sun slipped away.
Don’t forget about Chase, man.
I sometimes wished I could shut off the Jason in my head. Especially since he talked to me more often dead than when he was alive this past year.
Mark came by that evening. “Just wanting to check in.”
No. He definitely couldn’t pull off Sam Spade.
“You’re a smart kid. It’s time to get back on the bike, Kyle.”
I nodded. He loved to talk about bikes. I wondered if he’d ever seen The Great Escape, but then figured a PO isn’t likely to watch a movie about escaping prisoners, regardless of the cool motorcycle stunts.
“Every action has a reaction,” he continued. “Everything we do or say has an effect.”
No shit, Sherlock. I bit my tongue.
Mark glared at me, like he knew what I was thinking.
“I’ll see you Friday. Time to move on, Kyle.” Mark left the house, his motorcycle rumbling all the way down the street. I had to be the only kid with a PO who looked like he belonged on the set of Easy Rider.
That night I listened as Mom and Dad argued. The wind rattled the windows, and birch tree branches scratched up against the house.
Time to move on, Kyle. Yeah, right. I thought about stopping time. And I only knew one way to do it. Everybody would be better off. Dying couldn’t be so terrible—so hard to do. Besides, maybe then I could be with Jason.
Dawn came when I wanted it least, when I had finally found a quiet moment to escape my thoughts. Mel’s alarm clock beeped. Dad had finished showering; his electric razor buzzed across his face. The smell of coffee drifted upstairs and turned my stomach.
I picked Jason’s watch up off the nightstand and put it on. It would keep me where I needed to be until I could work up the guts to get there myself.
17
“Kyle, come down for breakfast.” I looked up to see Mom peeking in the door.
Mel thundered down the steps. “I can’t do this, Mom. Brooke doesn’t even talk to me. Everybody whispers when I walk down the hall. They all stare at me because of—” Mel turned and saw me at the top of the staircase. She looked away.
Mom gave Mel one of those another-word-and-you’re-toast looks.
“Well, I’m not showing up with him at school today. It’s just too weird. It’s too—I dunno,” she whispered. Like I wouldn’t be able to hear her. Cheerleaders definitely don’t have volume control. And Mel had freakishly developed vocal cords; she was the only one on the squad who never used a megaphone.
“That’s fine—I’m riding my bike.” They stared at me.
“Kyle, it’s late October. You can’t ride your bike.” Parents always come up with arbitrary shit like that. What does October have to do with riding bikes?
I didn’t hear what else Mom had to say, because I walked into the garage, got on, and rode, taking Elm Street down to Crain to get to Fifth. I didn’t want to pass Jason’s house.
I checked in at the front office. Mrs. Brawn jump
ed up and grabbed my shoulders. “Oh, Kyle! How great to have you back!” It was weird to have her happy to see me. Mrs. Brawn was about ninety years old, and she had been the school secretary since Charlie Chaplin’s silent-movie days.
Supposedly, Mrs. Brawn had once stapled a kid’s tardy record to his forehead and made him walk around all day with it. I figured it was a rumor and told Jason it was impossible. “Plus,” I said, “it’s illegal for adults to staple things to body parts. That’s abuse.” Though it would make for a wicked scene in some kind of horror flick.
Jason had shrugged and said, “In the old days, teachers and secretaries could beat up kids. Believe what you want, but I’m not gonna piss off Mrs. Brawn.”
I always felt a piercing pain in my forehead when I saw her. Jason had told me it was psychological. I supposed I could check with Dr. Matthews about that one.
That morning, walking in through the school doors, I wondered if the knot in my gut was psychological, too.
Mrs. Brawn patted my hand. “You don’t want to be late, now. Not on your first day back.”
I inhaled the soupy school smells: rusty metal, musty carpets, greasy food, sour sweat. I swallowed and rushed to first period, stalling in the doorway. Almost everybody had settled in. The desk between Catalina and Tim was glaringly empty. I wondered if Mrs. Beacham had erased Jason from her seating chart.
Catalina Sandina XXXX Tim Tierney
Was it that easy to do? Just a line through a name and he’s gone? I backed up, figuring Mom and Dad could home-school me. Then I wouldn’t have to see that empty desk every day. Or maybe I could get out of first period. It was the only class we’d had together.
“Hello, Kyle!” Mrs. Beacham squealed, walking up and squeezing my shoulder. “I’m delighted to see you back in class.” Her nicotine-yellowed nails dug into my back as she nudged me into the room.
Everybody stared, then went back to their little gossip circles.
“Uh,” I muttered to Mrs. Beacham and shrugged her claws off my shoulder. “Thanks.”
I walked past Jason’s desk, running my fingers across it, feeling the bumpy etchings other students had carved. Jase liked graffiti. He said it was an art form, rebellion against the establishment. I found my seat between Judd and Marcy. Marcy stared at me, and when I looked up at her, she pretended she was reading.
Judd grunted, “Hey, Kyle.” He slumped over his English book and picked his nose.
Jessie Martinez came up to me after third period. “Kyle?” She looked around. “Do you think they’re gonna make a movie about this? I, uh, wouldn’t want to look bad on the day they film.”
“Yeah, Michael Moore’s coming this afternoon,” I muttered.
“What? Did you say…” She flipped her hair and globbed on some sparkly lip stuff that smelled like grapes.
“What’s the deal with chicks and fruity-smelling lip stuff?” I’d asked Jason one day.
“It’s for hookin’ up. Don’t be a moron.”
“Yeah, like you’d know.”
“You’ve gotta be joking. You’ve never hooked up? Not even once?”
I hadn’t really thought about it much, except for in the bathroom. “Well, yeah, but she didn’t have a whole bunch of strawberry shit all over her lips.”
Jase grinned. He knew I was lying but didn’t call me on it. “It’s better with the lip gloss. Try it sometime,” he said.
God, I hope Jason had sex. I mean, I hope he didn’t die a virgin. I hadn’t thought about that before.
I thought about Dr. Matthews’s “things to ask Jason” list. Can people who are dead talk to other people who are dead? That’s another one.
In gym, we played handball. It felt good to throw the ball as hard as I could. Coach Copeland came up after class. “Kenny—no, Karl—no, excuse me, Kyle! You ought to think about indoor-track tryouts.”
What a tool. He couldn’t even get my name right.
“I don’t know, Coach Copeland. I’m kinda busy lately.” I went into the locker room to shower and change.
A group of guys, Jason’s new friends, hung out by my locker. Jase used to be like me, kind of a loner. But since high school had started, he had friends from all over the school.
“Hey, Shadow.” Alex Keller shoved Pinky and Troy out of the way. He came right at me.
The locker room cleared out. I was left alone, trying to get dressed with six assholes staring at me.
Then I thought about Chase. Who made sure nobody messed with him? Who watched out for Chase now that Jason was gone? How could I not have remembered about those kids? The ones who bullied him?
I told you. Don’t forget about Chase.
I didn’t. I just—
Alex pushed me against the locker. “Kenny—no, Karl—no, excuse me, Kyle, I’m talking to you.” Alex and his friends snickered.
“Yeah, what?” I pushed him off.
Alex stood in front of my locker and pushed me back. “You’re a freak, dude. We saw you at the funeral. You’re a freak. And nice fuckin’ shoes.”
That was it? That’s the best he could do? I’m a freak with bad taste in footwear?
Alex blew a bubble and it popped, smack, in my face. He chomped his gum. “You weren’t even friends anymore. Why was he over at your place?”
That stung. I felt blood rush to my face, and my lip quivered. I replayed the last two sentences.
“You weren’t even friends anymore. Why was he over at your place?”
“You weren’t even friends anymore. Why was he over at your place?”
Just because I wasn’t a tool and didn’t want to ride along in Alex’s dumb-ass truck to make Taco Bell runs, that didn’t mean Jase and I weren’t friends. So they’d shared a couple of taco pizzas. Big fuckin’ deal.
I came back to the scene. Alex and Pinky were laughing about something. I looked down to see a glob of slobbery chewing gum slide down my leg.
“And you just walk around like nothing happened.” Alex leaned in closer. “Well, I won’t forget what you did to my friend.” He shoved me. “Ever.”
Yeah, neither will I, I thought. Then I realized that it was a lie, since I couldn’t remember to begin with.
I went back to that moment: My pajama pants were wet. I kneeled down to squeeze out the dew. Then Jase was dead. The end.
A crushing pain ripped through my head when Pinky flicked my temple. “See you in math,” he said.
Alex sneered. “Like I said, fucking mental.” Then they walked out of the locker room like some B-movie bounty hunters.
If I concentrated hard enough, would I disappear? I squeezed my eyes shut.
“Kyle?” Ricky Myers tapped me on the shoulder.
I jumped. Not invisible. “Yeah?”
He looked around. “What’s it feel like, you know?”
“What’s what feel like?”
“What’s it feel like”—he looked around again—“to kill somebody?” Ricky swallowed hard, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, bulging out of his neck.
“I don’t know,” I muttered, and left.
18
The hallways hummed with that prelunch electricity. I walked into the cafeteria. Everybody sat in the places they had staked claim to at the beginning of the year. Plastic trays banged on tabletops. Students ripped into their utensil packs, dropping the plastic bags on the floor beside them. The smell of greasy synthetic cheese permeated the air.
I scanned the tables, looking for a place that looked safe. Kids stopped eating. They whispered. They stared at me until I looked over, then they pretended that I wasn’t there. Backpacks filled empty chairs, and guys spread their stuff out, marking territory like dogs pissing on trees.
Alex slammed into me. “Sorry, Shadow. Didn’t see you there.” Pinky and Troy laughed. “Doesn’t look like there’s any place for you here.” He said it loud.
Everybody looked up and focused on me, the one-man freak show. It was a classic scene, starting with a shot of me holding my lunch bag and a libra
ry book. The camera swish-panned the cafeteria, and all I could see was a blur of faces. Then the camera swiveled back to me for a closeup.
Sweat trickled down my temple and back. My face felt flushed.
Fade out. Fade out. Fade out.
That’s what I wished I could do. Fade out and go away. Forever. I couldn’t handle this anymore.
But the cafeteria stayed the same, with all those faces looking at me. Everyone knew that I wasn’t the one who should be standing there. The wrong guy had died.
Rewind, then. Back up. Get out. I reversed into the hallway.
“Hey, kid. Where are you going? Lunch is that way.” The hall monitor pointed to the cafeteria doors.
“I, um, I forgot I have to return a library book. And I don’t have time after school.” I pulled The Metamorphosis out of my backpack. “I can’t return it late. Mr. Cordoba will have my head.”
The monitor laughed like he understood. Nobody returned books late to Mr. Cordoba. “Okay. Go ahead.”
I exhaled, not realizing I had been holding my breath, and hurried away. I stood outside the library in the empty hallway, opening the door a crack. Scarface sat hunched over the newspaper. Rumor had it he was in the Witness Protection Program; the Feds wouldn’t let the school get rid of the guy.
Some seniors had told Jase that when Scarface was young, he worked with one of the largest cartels down in South America smuggling drugs and shit. That’s where he got the nasty scar that ran from his left eye down to his jaw. He was offered a shitload of cash and lifetime protection to testify against the patrones.
“Yeah, but why’d he become a librarian? Man, Jase, they’d never give a guy like that a job with teenagers. That’s, like, well…Couldn’t happen.”
“I don’t know, but that’s what I heard,” Jason said. “Some seniors said they saw five passports hidden in his office.”
