by Josh Berk
I close my eyes tightly and try not to think of anything. A blank haze fills my mind, and then I feel the car swing to a soft stop. We are in my driveway. Had I told either Smiley where I live? As if emerging from a dream, or maybe stepping into one, I get out and thank Team Smiley for the ride with a nod and salute. They return the gesture.
“Why didn’t you call?” Mom is standing in the foyer signing angrily, then waving her pager like a foil in a jousting match. “And why are the police bringing you home?” Dad must be confused too, but he simply stands next to her, eating a handful of something.
“That’s Devon, a … guy from school,” I explain. “His father works for the police. He brought us home.”
“Is it true what they are saying on the news?” she signs. “A boy from your school is …” Either she has forgotten the sign for “dead” or just can’t bring herself to form the word.
I flip my hands over, finishing her sentence. “Dead” is an odd sign, because it’s very morbid yet somehow it makes you look like you’re dancing. Dance move completed, I head straight for the TV.
My field trip is headline news. The first person I recognize on the screen is Marie Stepcoat, her eyes welling up at the memory of a guy who wouldn’t bother to spit on her if she was on fire. Mrs. Stepcoat comes over and puts her arm around her daughter. Marie looks embarrassed at her mom’s presence, like being cool is important even at such a moment.
Then the newscaster comes back on. The closed-captioner has to work fast to keep up with the breaking news. “Tragedy here in Carbon County. A teenage boy from Carbon High is dead after a ball at a lime.” Poor Pat, victim of a citrus-themed dance? An imperfect art form, closed-captioning. It has been a Halpin family joke from happier times to laugh at weird captioning goof-ups on live TV. Once, the captioning for a live broadcast of an evacuation said people were “ejaculating from their homes.” We go back to staring at the screen. The next person to show up on the screen is, to my surprise, Chuck Escapone. His normally sleepy eyes are fully alive, darting manically around like flies. “Sad day for everyone. … Big P will be missed. … Sad day.”
Then, a split second before they cut to commercial, Jimmy Porkrinds leans into the frame, his head popping over Purple Phimmul’s shaking shoulder. He grins. And then he blows the camera a kiss. Nutcase.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
It is very early. The gloom of night hangs like a curtain over the town. I am vaguely, inexplicably, afraid. In the dazed instant between sleep and wakefulness, I feel I truly know what it is like to die. For Pat there will never be any of this. No more mornings. No more nights. High school is supposed to be something we all look back on and laugh about. Or maybe we look back and cringe. But we are supposed to look back—that much I get. It’s not supposed to be all there is. …
Poof. He’s gone.
Trying to chase the ghosts from my brain, I trudge to the kitchen to stuff my stomach. There is a bowl of chicken wings in the fridge. I eat every bit and then proceed to lick the bottom of the bowl. This doesn’t make me feel better, so I fire up the computer.
Hello, world.
Online, the story has spread like a virus, reaching around the entire world. CNN, already interested in all things Chambers, gives Pat’s death third-highest billing. Among all the events on the whole planet, only a nuclear scare somewhere and a massive bloody train crash in India rank as more important.
Principal Kroener, who I suddenly feel very bad for, is quoted a hundred million times with the same line. “We will look into this very seriously,” he says.
Searching for more information, I find that TheTruthIsNot.com, a popular conspiracy page, has an article on the story. I had spent some time on their message board a while back, arguing passionately that the site itself is a government-run conspiracy. Man, did that get people mad. What TheTruthIsNot has to say this morning is this:
Another Republican Cover-up?
We are not heartless here at TheTruthIsNot. We are saddened whenever tragedy strikes, be it a village burned in Iraq or a death on a school field trip. We do not wish to make light of the death of Carbon High School student Patrick Chambers Jr. on his class trip to the (unfortunately named) Happy Memory Coal Mine.
We do, however, know the malodorous stench of foul play when we smell it.
Rumors are flying around Washington this morning that Pat Chambers Sr., the businessman under heavy fire for his involvement in the Laufman scandal, was about to reveal more information in the casino bribery and cover-up scheme. What kind of information? What did he know? What would people do to stop him? How high does this thing go? Can anybody say CIA hit man? POTUS?
Suddenly the light in the hallway flickers, and that weird sense of fear comes rushing back. I whip my head around like an attack dog staring down an intruder. It is just Mom. Of course.
“Time to get ready for school,” she signs, tapping her watch. “Getting late.”
I quickly shower, dress, and give Ace a few pats. My books seem pointless as I toss them into my bag. Who cares about any of this stuff? How can the world keep spinning no matter who falls off?
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
As I walk through the halls, I see half-teary whispered conversations. Several phrases are repeated, mostly “messed up” and “I can’t believe it.” There are other words too. Words like “suspicious” and “pushed.” But I don’t see anyone mouth the conspiracy theorist’s favorite acronym. The only initials I see are A. and J. Everyone knows Fischels was furious about getting humiliated and uninvited. Is he responsible for Pat’s death?
Arterberry announces that “we (something something) very special visitors today.” He starts sending people one by one down to Principal Kroener’s office.
When my turn comes, Arterberry waves in the overly showy way he always uses to communicate with me. Note to all: being deaf doesn’t usually make one blind. As I head toward the door, Arterberry smiles encouragingly at me, and for a brief second, I see that he, like me, like the rest of us, is truly rattled by what happened. I realize—just for one second—that he is only a guy doing the best he can. I smile back at him, and he pats me on the shoulder.
A detective from the county boys in blue has taken over Kroener’s office. He’s a large man with a tiny black notebook and a very official look about him. A no-nonsense police mustache is apparently standard issue along with the badge and gun. A Carbon High School tie tack is pressed into his sleek black tie. A former student? An alumni booster club member of our historically mediocre football team?
Kroener is there too, looking awkward on a folding chair under a surveillance camera that was, rumor had it, installed to protect students from his famous temper. Used to being the big dog, he is now relegated to the corner like a secretary.
Another person is there too. A lady cop. Mmm, sexy. Very young and very blond. She stands next to Hulk Mustache Man—a natural beauty in this unnatural setting.
“I’m Detective Hawley,” he says to me. The interpreter signs it like she’s not even there. Just like it’s supposed to happen. Some people talk directly to the terp and talk around the deaf person in front of them, which is like the most annoying thing in the world. But I’m so stunned to see this beautiful interpreter in front of me that I do something bold. I hold up my index finger to Hawley—why do I already know that name?—indicating that he should give me a minute. I address the interpreter. But then I feel a little less bold.
If you’ve ever wondered if a deaf person can stutter in sign language, well, we can. I’m normally Mr. Fluent but get stuck on “I—I—I—I,” until I blurt out, “I am pleased to meet you, my lady.” My lady? Damn you, Devon Smiley! But she doesn’t mind and instead signs her name—Melody—bestowing a luminescent smile upon me.
“I read lips pretty well, Melody,” I sign. “You did not have to come all the way out here just for me.”
“Would you like me to leave?” Melody asks, adding a little pout (with her lips, not her hands).
; I am considering the possibility that she is flirting with me—a thought that is interrupted by Principal Kroener waving his hand and blurting out something like, “You guys going over signs like baseball players?”
“Something like that,” she says. Then, signing to me: “Is he always like this?”
I nod my head yes and feel a warm glow. Yes, indeed, he is.
Kroener waves again and asks Melody, “Are you telling him to steal third base?” He thinks this is hilarious.
Melody and I simultaneously make the sign for “bastard” and crack each other up with swirling fingers. I am pretty sure no one else understands, but the men look disconcerted. Melody composes herself quickly, smoothing her crisp white blouse and resuming her “all-business” face—except for a tiny wink.
A wink! She is flirting with me. Unbelievable! Then the official questions start coming fast. What do I remember from that day? When was the last time I saw Patrick Chambers alive? Did I see anyone unusual hanging around our class? Melody and I don’t get to flirt anymore, although we do share a subtle eyebrow raise when Detective Hawley asks if I saw or heard anything, anything at all, that was unusual.
His final question comes with a little preamble about how they don’t suspect anyone from class and they don’t want us to start getting suspicious of our classmates, but … who was my buddy, and can I account for his presence?
I sign to Melody that my buddy was Devon Smiley.
“Smiley?” she asks. “There is another Smiley?”
I nod and break into a totally over-the-top smile, crossing my eyes for effect.
She laughs blatantly at this and then offers a quick apology to Detective Hawley and Principal Kroener.
I don’t want to admit that I was separated from Devon, so I say, “We were together most of the time.”
“What time was this?” she asks.
The return question “What time do you get off work?” comes into my head, but I don’t say it. I try to remember what stuff happened and answer as best I can, feeling my blood run cold. I don’t exactly say that I was with Devon the whole time, but I don’t exactly say that I wasn’t either.
“Thank you,” she signs. “You’ve been very helpful.” Detective Hawley shakes my hand with his giant mitt. And then Kroener shakes my hand too for some reason. I have to leave. But I don’t want to, not just yet. I can’t let her go. I sign—not real sign language, just the sort of offhand sign language that everybody knows—to Detective Hawley that I would like him to tear a piece of paper out of his notebook and let me borrow his pen. He probably thinks I want to draw a map or something. I write my e-mail address down and fold the paper. I am so nervous that I fumble it and almost knock Melody over as I hand it to her on my way out. Smooth. I don’t look back to see her reaction and am glad I won’t know if anyone is laughing at me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Ah, the weekend. Sleeping in late, avoiding the world, catching up on rest denied me by the inhuman hours of high school. Eating a box or two of doughnuts. The deep-fried pleasures that Saturday morning is intended for. I am denied all of these delights when Mom flicks on the lights at 9:30 a.m. Is she insane?
“You have a friend to see you,” she says. I haven’t talked to my friends lately. Who would visit me out here? I look confused. Mom smiles a huge smile.
“Why are you so happy?” I ask. But then I realize she is not smiling out of glee but is improvising a sign.
I scramble around my messy room for some clothes, settling on a particularly attractive pair of tan sweatpants and a Philadelphia Phillies shirt practically free of stains. I come up the basement steps to see Devon Smiley looking thrilled about something, rocking back and forth on his toes in the foyer.
Mom says something like “I’ll let you two (something something something) carry on.” Thanks, Mom. So how is this going to work? Then he hands me a small, slick black object. A Crony. Why is Devon giving me his favorite gadget? Then he reaches into his pocket and takes out another. He gestures that I should open it. I do, and he immediately starts texting. A message pops up on my screen.
I remembered you had envied mine. Here you go, my good fellow!
I am truly stunned. Devon continues before I have a chance to answer.
They can go online too! We can do IM rather than texting all the time, which does get expensive. We don’t know who’s getting the bill for yours, but I have to pay for mine!
It feels really weird, standing there in the foyer with the early-morning sun warming the cool air. I am having a conversation with my public school friend. It feels really normal, and pretty darn good.
After a minute of figuring out how to maneuver my fat fingers around the tiny keys, I deftly log on to my IM account. Devon follows me into the kitchen and sits down. We have milk. I chow on fistfuls of cereal straight out of the box. We’re chatting!
HamburgerHalpin: u really didn’t have to get this for me
Smiley_Man3000: It’s my pleasure. Besides, it’ll help with our investigation. With all the inside info I get from my dad and your big brain, we can solve this Chambers thing!
HamburgerHalpin: what r we–the freakin’ hardy boys?
Smiley_Man3000: Yeah! I’ll be Frank. I think he was the one with dark hair.
HamburgerHalpin: good. u b frank. now which one was the fat one?
Smiley_Man3000: I don’t think either was fat. You stay pretty fit searching for hidden gold and climbing Skull Mountain and all that.
HamburgerHalpin: well which one was mad at everybody all the time?
Smiley_Man3000: The Hardys were always good-natured, optimistic, and charming lads.
HamburgerHalpin: i knew there was a reason i hated them
Smiley_Man3000: Oh, wait! I just remembered: they did have a husky friend named Chet! He was always eating Aunt Gertrude’s cooking.
HamburgerHalpin: u r a giant dork
Smiley_Man3000: What the hell was his last name … ? It’ll come 2 me. …
I notice that Devon Smiley is cursing more and using overly correct grammar less. I take pride in this. But the Hardy Boys? Who reads detective books from the thirties? I mean, besides me. He continues.
Smiley_Man3000: Got it. Chet Morton! He was, like, football-player fat, but still. It’s a pretty good code name. You can be Chet, and I’ll be Frank.
HamburgerHalpin: u didn’t actually remember that. u opened a search while we were talking. that thing must have a browser
I feel a slightly awkward pause pass between us.
HamburgerHalpin: see–i’m already a hell of a private dick
I look up to see Devon’s smiling face and crack a smile of my own. Then he turns serious.
Smiley_Man3000: It is really sad what happened to Pat.
HamburgerHalpin: yeah
Smiley_Man3000: Who do you think it was? Do you think it was someone who was mad about not getting invited to the party? A.J.? Do you want to help me find out?
HamburgerHalpin: why? u hated pat right? he flushed your suit
Smiley_Man3000: Smileys have been cops for three generations. Solving crimes is in my blood. Plus, I spent my childhood wearing out those Hardy Boys books from the library. I think I can take a crack at it!
HamburgerHalpin: aunt gertrude’s cookin’ better be good
Smiley_Man3000: So does that mean you are in?
HamburgerHalpin: let’s do this frank
Smiley_Man3000: Great! Maybe if we figure this out, I can tell my dad what we’ve uncovered, and then he can get his promotion back.
HamburgerHalpin: howz that?
Smiley_Man3000: He got bumped down when they decided to promote some idiot yes men. They have him cataloging evidence. And you should see the way the old guy left the evidence room! It’s a mess!
By the way, don’t ask where that Crony came from. It would’ve just sat in a box for years anyway.;)
HamburgerHalpin: hey thanks again for “lending” it 2 me
Smiley_Man3000: I got myself a gift too:
an ancient pistol that probably was used in some crime in 1930. Pretty sure it still works! But, yeah, glad to be of service, my good man.
HamburgerHalpin: dude stop with the devon-speak. it gets stuck in my head! i called a hot chick “my lady” yesterday
Smiley_Man3000: What?!?
HamburgerHalpin: did u see that blonde in kroener’s office?
Smiley_Man3000: Yes. I assumed she was a newish detective? Or a student from the academy or something?
HamburgerHalpin: she was a sign language cop chick. she was there just for me
Smiley_Man3000: Lucky you.
HamburgerHalpin: i know right? and she was real flirty with me
