by Lamar Giles
I worked through the food Reya gave me without much appetite. Dustin sat next to me. He’d located a shirt somewhere.
“We should talk,” he said.
“About?”
“Eli. Everyone’s saying you’re the one who found him.”
I bristled. What kind of morbid freak was this guy? “I’m not trying to be rude—you’ve been cool about inviting me to your parties—but I don’t think Eli’s any of your business.”
I expected him to spaz and get some of his party groupies to toss me from the pavilion. Instead, “You weren’t his only friend. Meet me by the lake in five minutes.”
He left me, and his party, and disappeared through a path in the trees. I sat a moment thinking I’d misheard him. I hadn’t.
Five minutes? Why wait?
I tossed my plate and followed.
Dustin stared across the lake with his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his cargo pants. He didn’t look at me when he said, “Bet you wish you never came here.”
Did he mean his park party, or Stepton? Either way, “I wasn’t given much say in it.”
He wouldn’t look at me and that pissed me off. I wasn’t some airhead girl who sat on his lap and followed him around. Let’s get to it. “Why’d you say I wasn’t Eli’s only friend?”
“Because you weren’t.” He faced me, his green eyes as murky as the lake. “He was my friend, too.”
I said, “Bullshit.”
“What?”
“Bull. Shit. I spent almost every day of the last two weeks with Eli. You know what I never heard? ‘This one time, me and Dustin’ stories.”
His head jerked. “He never said anything about me?”
“Just that you don’t invite him to your parties, which is strange with you two being best buddies and all.” I skipped the part about Eli wanting me to spy on Dustin, though I was starting to rethink the motivation behind that strange, strange request.
I stepped closer, forcing him back so the lake lapped his heels. “What kind of a game are you running, Dustin? Trust me, I’m in no mood to play
“No games, I just—I need to tell someone else about Friday night.”
That hit me like a slap. Friday night?
“What about it?”
“I need to tell someone what happened with me and him in that room where he puts the newspaper together. Where you found him.”
Dustin was there after I left to cover the game. I knew I was among the last to see Eli alive, but that club was getting bigger. Me, Dustin, and a killer.
CHAPTER 20
“YOU WENT TO THE J-ROOM ON Friday night? Why?” I verbalized two of the billion questions I had. All while stepping deep into Dustin’s personal space.
He sidestepped to keep from being forced into the lake. “You need to understand,” he said, “how me and him got to that point.”
“What point?”
“We had precalc together last year, and he was acing it. Me, I struggled, and my dad can be a hard ass about stuff like that. I asked Eli if he could help me and he did. I passed that class because of him. That’s how we became friends.”
That didn’t sound like friendship. It sounded like tutoring. Maybe that’s what friendship was to this party guy, surrounding himself with people who could meet needs at convenient times.
It occurred to me that my definition of friendship might be the same.
Didn’t Eli have info I wanted? Isn’t that what kept me coming back to the J-Room every day? My irritation toward Dustin tapered off.
Dustin continued, “Sometimes it was cool having him around. He always knew the answer to stuff. Like, if you wanted to know just what the hell a Twinkie was made of, he’d tell you. You might not ever eat one again, but you learned something new.”
I agreed. “He was a Jeopardy! champion in the making.”
“I know, right. We hung at my crib a lot this past summer. Whenever it was just us, anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know how it is, home all day, Pops was working. Sometimes the guys would come over. Girls, too. We’ve got a pool, so people like to chill at my place.”
“Eli had a problem with that.”
“Right. Like, like”—his eyebrows rose and I just about saw a lightbulb flash over his head—“someone who played starting QB all of a sudden had to ride the bench.”
“Like someone took his spot,” I said, condensing his clunky metaphor. I wondered if Eli ever tutored him in English.
Dustin nodded bobblehead-style.
I remembered how cold Eli got when I didn’t immediately jump at the chance to be on the newspaper staff. He seemed sensitive to rejection. Needy. But I still didn’t get what any of this had to do with how him and Dustin parted ways. Or Friday night. “What happened?”
“Nothing. Not then. He still came around from time to time, but only when he was sure it would be just me and him. Truthfully, it got creepy.”
“Why?”
“Because he started to say weird stuff. Stuff about how everyone who dissed him was going to be sorry when he was some famous newscaster. He was always comparing himself to guys on CNN and PBS. I guess that’s where they were from. The only news I care about is on ESPN. He had serious delusions of grand hair.”
Delusions of—wow. “You mean grandeur. Delusions of grandeur.”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
Despite Dustin being an idiot, he wasn’t far off base. Eli was sort of stuck on himself when it came to his journalism talents. He did get into that Columbia program, though. Maybe he was justified.
“I started ignoring him,” Dustin said with little pride. “He’d hit my cell and I wouldn’t pick up. If I did, I’d tell him I was busy. I never bothered to invite him to my parties because . . . he was a buzz kill. Okay? The problem was he didn’t take the hint.
“There would be nights when I’d come home and he’d be at the dinner table talking up my dad or watching a ballgame in our theater room. He was like the crazy guys in those Lifetime stalker movies.”
Again, I couldn’t deny the truth in his statements. Eli never came close to creep status with me, but I remember all too well the day he showed up at my house uninvited and got cozy. It didn’t bother me, but if he made a habit of it? I said, “Your dad was cool with him just popping up?”
“Yeah, because Eli was a computer whiz and he fixed my dad’s machine one night when it was like crapping code. Dad needed to access files for an important call. He thought Eli was his digital savior. He didn’t know what Eli really did to his computer.”
That sounded weird. “What did Eli do?”
“He installed some sort of spyware on it. Like, whatever my dad did, Eli had a way of tracking it.”
Whoa. Eli was spying on Dustin’s dad? “When did he do that?”
“A few months back. He told me, at the school Friday. That’s how we started fighting.”
I tilted my head toward him, made sure I heard him right. “You two fought?”
“It was crazy, I—”
My phone rang, interrupting.
I checked the display. It was Mom’s cell. Anyone else I might’ve ignored, but it was the first time she’d called me since we moved here. This couldn’t be about the conference call; that was over an hour away. What was this about?
“Dustin, hang on a sec.”
“What?”
“Hang on.” I pressed Talk. “Hey, Mom.”
The alarm in her voice hit me. “Tony, get home now.”
I took a step away from Dustin, afraid he might’ve heard my true name. “What’s wrong?”
In the background Dad yelled something I didn’t catch.
Mom yelled back, “I told you not to test me. Me and my son will not sit by and let your selfish schemes destroy us.”
Dad was closer, clearer. “Donna, put that suitcase down.”
Uh-oh. “I’m on my way.”
I ended the call, turned away from Dustin. “I needed to be home five minutes
ago. My parents . . .”
“You’re leaving now?!” He grabbed my arm, roughly. Almost earned a right hook for it. I shook loose and faced him, aware of a sort of mild panic in his eyes. Was this about to be a thing? Seconds passed as we sized each other up.
He exhaled. Seemed to shrink. “Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to do that. Let me put my number in your phone. You’re going to want to hear the rest of this.”
I handed my phone over. Dustin stabbed it with his thumbs, his aggravation at being put off for later apparent. He was right; I wanted to hear the rest. But he was going to have to wait. Mom came first.
He gave my phone back and faced the lake, in his own world. I swear to God he looked like he wanted to walk into the water until he disappeared beneath it.
What in the world happened the night Eli died?
“I’ll call you tonight,” I said, more as a comforting gesture than a promise. If things had really hit the fan—and that’s what it sounded like—come nightfall, Nick Pearson might be a fading memory.
CHAPTER 21
I RUSHED HOME BUT TOOK THE porch steps slowly. The front door only opened partway, impeded by two pieces of heavy luggage in its path. I muscled the bags aside, closed the door behind me. There was no yelling like I’d heard on the phone. In the quiet, my mind went to dark, dark places.
“Mom?!”
“In here.” She sat in the living room. An umbrella and hat rested across her lap, even though it wasn’t raining. “Pack a bag. Fast.”
Dad rushed in from the kitchen. “Tony, your mother is overreacting. Go upstairs and let us talk.”
“I don’t talk to liars,” Mom said. “Not anymore.”
He said, “I should’ve told you what I was really doing on those late nights. I’m sorry, you know that.”
“You mean you’re sorry your boss let it slip that there are no late nights at your office. ‘We lock the doors at six every day, Mrs. Pearson.’ His words.”
“I shouldn’t have lied to you. I’m really into my league and I got carried away.”
Mom huffed, “Again with the fantasy football? Tony, go get your things like I told you.”
Fantasy football? You’re going to ride that one out, Dad?
“Donna,” he said, using his calm voice, indistinguishable from his condescending voice. “Where are you going to go?”
“It would defeat the purpose if I shared that information.”
“That’s not what I mean. You won’t last on your own.”
She popped up, defiant. “I have friends. You’d be surprised how many!”
Dad waved her off. “Sure you do. Are they good enough to keep you safe once you’re out there alone? Remember what Bertram said about witnesses on their own? You willing to stake our son’s life on your great friends?”
“You make me feel like a fool every day I’m with you. You’re not going to make me feel like one for leaving you.”
“I’m not playing you for a fool.” Dad’s voice had a high rasp I’d never heard before. It was as close to pleading as a man like him was capable of. Instead of actual begging—something that may have worked here—he resorted to that stupid excuse: “You can’t do this to me after all we’ve been through, not over me hiding a silly little sports thing from you.”
“After all we’ve been through? No, Robert. After all you’ve put us through. It’s always been about your plans, and your dreams. Even when they went sour. We’ve lost everything, and every year, you feel the need to put us through it all over again. But I don’t know if I blame you or myself more for letting it continue to happen.”
“Baby, it’s just football.”
“STOP LYING TO ME!” Her calm was gone.
“I’m not. I can prove it. Ask Tony. He followed me to my league meeting the other night.” Dad turned to me. “Tell her, son.”
“What?”
“Tell her about the other night, when you saw me.”
I couldn’t believe the man’s nerve. Bastard. What could I say other than I saw him downtown with a guy I didn’t know? I couldn’t get into the juked crime stats, or Eli. He’d spin that into whatever he wanted.
Also—as much as I hated to admit it—Dad was kinda right.
Mom hadn’t thought this through. She wouldn’t last without funds and a plan. I knew because I’d run the same scenario in my head plenty of times. Saving her from a short, hard life on the road—from her pride—was part of my reasoning for doing what I did next.
The other part, the bigger part, was my pride. If we left Dad to whatever twisted game he was really playing, I’d never know the truth about all this Whispertown stuff, or what it had to do with Eli’s death. Dad won by forfeit.
I needed to know.
“I don’t think he’s lying, Mom. I tailed him Friday, after the Portside game. Him and two dudes went into this sketchy coffee shop. I snuck in with a crowd from the game and overheard them talking about stats and lineups before he saw me.”
She glared. I counted my heartbeats. Keep Quiet.
“And you didn’t feel the need to mention this?” Mom asked.
Dad said, “I told him not to say anything. A man’s got to have some privacy.”
“Fantasy football’s big with some of the guys at school,” I said, holding his gaze. “I’d love to talk some strategy with you later, Dad. It can be like, I don’t know, bonding time.”
Mom’s eyes bounced from me to Dad, her face unreadable. “Glad to know you two have so much in common these days. Guess I’ll have to find myself a hobby, too.”
She stepped past me, kicked her luggage aside, and left the front door gaping as she disappeared into the day.
I said, “What were you doing at city hall?”
“We’re late for Bertram. Come on.” He retreated to the kitchen like he cared about that stupid call. Anything to avoid the question.
“Dad, I lied for you. The least you can do is—”
He’d already dialed the number and passcode, put the phone on speaker. Bertram’s voice came through. “My father had this saying, ‘early is on time, and on time is late.’ Since we’re ten minutes past our scheduled meeting time, I wonder what he’d call that?”
“I’m sorry, Bertram,” Dad said. “I just had an argument with my wife and she left. It’s my fault, and I didn’t mean to waste your time because of it.”
Only static on the line. Bertram was likely having the same reaction as me. My dad—usually hostile—apologized. And it sounded sincere.
Bertram cleared his throat. “So I understand, she’s not present for the call?”
“She’s not, but please don’t hold it against her. Like I said, my fault.”
Now Dad was accepting blame for something. I peeked through the window, making sure I hadn’t missed nuclear Armageddon. The world didn’t appear to be ending, so I was tapped for explanations.
“Are you two all right?” Bertram asked.
They said things about marriage I couldn’t relate to, those conversations where people tell half the story and cap it with “you know how it is.” I zoned while they cultivated their bromance. Then Bertram said something I missed, forcing me to snap back. “What?”
“I said I’m done with your dad, Nicholas. I’d like to spend a few moments talking with you. In private. Would you mind taking the phone off speaker?”
I grabbed the handset off the base. “Yeah?”
“I’m sorry about your friend.” Papers rustled. “Eli Cruz?”
My jaw tightened. “Yes, that’s his name. I can spell it if you want to make sure you’ve got it right in your files.”
“I think I’ve got the spelling. Thanks.”
Dick.
He said, “I want you to know that the Program offers counseling services. I recommend you take advantage of them. I already spoke to your mother about this when she informed me of the unfortunate situation.”
“I’m not crazy.”
“Counseling doesn’t mean you are. It’s talking
with someone objective, and it helps.”
For the first time since we started this conference call business, Bertram wasn’t a robot rattling off his preprogrammed questions. He sounded decent. It didn’t last.
“How’s the rest of your acclimation going? Do you have any other friends?”
Welcome back, RoboBert. “You mean to replace the dead one?”
“I need to gauge how you socialize. You can answer the following questions using the one-to-ten scale. One being . . .”
We went through the routine, a half-dozen questions, like every week. When we were done, I planned to ask Bertram the point of it all. But I realized that, aside from the sound of me droning numbers, the house was quiet.
Dad was gone.
He’s got to come home sometime, I thought, amused in spite of myself. This is what adults must feel like when a kid sneaks out. But the amusement diminished the longer I waited for one of my parents to return. I stomped around my room like I wanted to kick holes in the floor. Dad wasn’t the only source for information in town.
I dialed Dustin on my cell. The phone rang four times before going to voice mail. Faint music and girlie laughter tinkled in the background. “Hi, this is Dustin, as you can tell”—a girl screamed joyfully—“I’m a little busy. Leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you. If I’m still standing.”
I threw the phone at my pillow like a pitcher aiming for the batter’s head. I tried to walk off the frustration, noticing all the breakable things. The lamp. The TV. The camera.
The camera.
I’d forgotten about it. I picked it up, clicked through all my pics from Friday’s football game in reverse order, rewinding time. Abruptly, the images switched to random stuff around the school, Eli’s art for the last, unpublished Yell. A dozen more clicks and I came across another of my shots, the earliest one.
