He guides me out of the car and into Dr. Thermin’s office. I barely hear anything she has to say. I don’t feel the needle when a nurse draws my blood. “Don’t cry,” she says. “It’s only a little prick.”
“It’s not the needle,” I tell her, and I show her the gum.
“We’ll cut it out, Billie,” Papa says. “No one will notice.”
The nurse fills a vial with my blood and smiles. “I’ve got a daughter about your age. Rub peanut butter into it, and the gum will slide right out.” She removes the needle, packs up her equipment, and leaves.
“See, Billie. We’ll stop at the store on the way home for peanut butter. Everything’s going to be all right.”
The box is only temporary.
* * *
I follow Kirby home again, and this time, rather than hiding in my car, I wait until dark and sneak around the side of his house to peek through his bedroom window. The blinds are down, but the slats are open enough for me to see through. His back is to me, though if he turns suddenly, I’ll be caught. I’m fascinated by his bedroom. So tidy. And where other boys might have posters of busty women in wet T-shirts, Kirby has posters of books. Brave New World, Lord of the Flies. Is that what turns him on?
I snap a couple of pictures even though the lighting is all wrong. I hope his sister doesn’t come into his room. She’d see me for sure.
He stands. I move to the side and watch him. He moves to his dresser and opens the top drawer. He stares at whatever is inside. I wonder what it might be. Porn? A love letter? A book of poetry he’s afraid his mom or sister will find? With Kirby, the possibilities seem endless.
As I stand there, my legs trembling, I imagine what would happen if he caught me peeping. Would he invite me in? Show me what he’s working on? Tell me how lonely he is in school and how he wishes he had a friend?
I could be his friend.
A woman’s voice—most likely his mother—calls him from another part of the house. He shoves the dresser drawer shut, grabs a shirt off the floor, pulls it on, and stomps out of his bedroom.
On the drive home, a memory pops into my head. Something I haven’t thought about in a while. When I was fourteen and the bullying was so bad I wanted to drop out of school, Papa took me to see our church pastor.
Father Mike was different. Open-minded. When I asked if God had made a mistake with me—how it was possible that he’d created me so wrong—Father Mike told me that God didn’t make mistakes. That God had a purpose for everything, and that he gave us challenges to teach us lessons about how to be better human beings.
What lesson could God have possibly wanted me to learn? How could being a freak teach me about being a better person?
Father Mike replied that God hadn’t created me to teach me acceptance, but to help those around me learn it.
I held on to Father Mike’s words for a long time. It helped me get through some of the roughest patches. And as I drive home, I can’t help wondering what lesson God put Kirby on Earth to teach all of us.
* * *
We have a pep rally tomorrow. Go Muskrats! Or something.
I stay late to watch for Kirby. Band practice must be running long because of the big game tomorrow. I’m not a fan of football. Football players, yes. Football, not so much.
When he leaves, I follow. He doesn’t walk toward the parking lot, though. He walks toward Mrs. Recupido’s classroom. Thank heavens I didn’t let her hang the photo of Kirby on the field on her wall like she wanted to. I’d die if he saw that.
The lights in the classroom are on, which is weird since Mrs. Recupido hardly ever stays late. Kirby walks into the classroom; I wait a minute before sneaking up to the door and peeking inside.
He’s in there with a girl. Lauren . . . something. She’s a cheerleader. Beautiful and tall and thin, with the smoothest skin. If I could have any body, I’d want hers. I bet Kirby wishes the same. I’ve wondered what kind of girls he likes. Light-skinned girls, or dark? Blondes or redheads or girls with short, kinky hair? Do breasts turn him on, or nice round asses?
No, Kirby likes smart girls. Anyone who says physical appearances don’t matter is lying, but Kirby is more attracted to girls he can talk books with, to girls who can make him laugh. What’s on the inside is more important than what’s on the outside.
I wish I could hear Kirby and Lauren’s conversation. She looked like she was going to cry earlier, but now she’s smiling. He made her smile the way I think he’d make me smile.
Kirby opens his sax case and sweeps a bunch of candy bars into it. Was Lauren going to eat all of that? I can’t imagine she stays so skinny eating candy. If I looked like her, I could be on the cheerleading squad. I tried out at my old school, but the girls on the team laughed me out of auditions. I cried for a week.
I leave before Kirby does and hurry back toward the parking lot and sit on a bench in the hallway in front of the bus loop. A couple of days ago, I saw him reading Something Wicked This Way Comes, so I bought a copy. It’s a strange book about two boys and a traveling carnival. Admittedly I haven’t read much of it, but it’s interesting. I dig it out of my purse and pretend to read while I wait for Kirby to pass me on the way to his car.
I spent hours last night deciding on the perfect outfit. A charcoal-gray circle-skirt dress that makes my hips look fuller and my shoulders narrower. I cross my left leg over my right and lean back slightly while holding my book in front of me, trying to appear thoroughly engrossed in the story.
I have this fantasy that Kirby will see me reading it. That he’ll ask me out to a movie and we’ll hold hands through the film. At the end he’ll kiss me before he drops me off at home. In ninth grade I had the biggest crush on Joey Mancuso, who had eyebrows like two furry caterpillars. I even wrote him a five-page note telling him how I felt, but I never gave it to him. It’s different with Kirby, though. It’s more than a silly crush. I feel like I already know him and that if we talked, he’d want to get to know me, too.
When I hear the heavy echo of approaching footsteps, I shake my head, straighten my dress—making sure I look perfect—and angle the book so that he’ll see the cover when he passes. Then I wait.
I glance up from reading when Kirby is directly in front of me, but he stares at the ground and never at me. I clear my throat. He keeps walking. He turns the corner and is gone.
* * *
Papa is watching TV when I get home. I flop down beside him and rest my head on his shoulder.
“How was school, Billie?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Anyone giving you trouble?”
“No, sir.”
“Make any new friends?” Papa stops flipping through the channels and turns toward me.
I told him that the gum was an accident, but I don’t think he believed me.
“There’s a boy.”
“A boy?” Papa’s voice deepens when he says it.
“Not like that,” I say. “He’s just . . . I don’t know what he is.”
Papa eases my head off his shoulder. “Does this boy have a name?”
“Kirby Matheson.”
“Is he the reason you’ve been coming home late so often?”
The answer sticks in my throat. I thought I was careful, only following Kirby home on the nights Papa was working. When I don’t respond, he says, “I drove past the house a couple of times to check on you. It’s all right. I’m not mad. I’m happy you’re making friends.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “I’ll call if I’m not going to come right home from now on.”
Papa nods. “Tell me about this boy.”
“He’s sweet,” I say. “Kind of a loner. Shy, you know? He plays the sax in the marching band and he loves to read.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a crush.”
“Seriously?” I say, exasperated. “I’m not twelve anymore.”
“No. No, you’re not.”
“I think I want to tell him the truth. About me, I mean.�
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“Do you think that’s wise after what happened at Jupiter?”
The last thing I want to do is dredge up those memories. “It’s not like that. Kirby’s different.”
Papa frowns. Worry lines form canyons across his forehead and around his eyes. I’m his daughter, and he takes his job protecting me from the evils of the world seriously. “I trust your judgment, Billie. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
The idea that Kirby would ever hurt me is preposterous. He’s so gentle and kind. Like he was with Lauren earlier. I can’t imagine Kirby hurting anyone.
“I won’t, Papa.”
He nods. “Now, what should we do about dinner? I’m thinking steak.”
* * *
I wake up in the middle of the night. I fell asleep thinking about Kirby. Papa is right to be concerned. If I’m wrong about Kirby I’ll become the joke of Middleborough High.
I need to see his soul.
I spread all the photos I’ve taken of him out on my bedroom floor. I have hundreds. Kirby at band practice, Kirby in his car. At home in his bedroom, wandering the school halls. None of them are perfect. They’re all missing something. Each is a clue to who Kirby is, but none of them tell the whole story.
Because no single picture could capture a boy like Kirby.
I sneak into the kitchen for scissors. I stay awake all night cutting up the photographs. I stitch together bits and pieces of many photos into one perfect picture. The real Kirby Matheson.
My alarm goes off as I stand back and stare at what I’ve created. Almost finished. All that’s missing is a smile. Kirby isn’t smiling in any of the pictures I took, and it doesn’t seem right to leave him without a smile. I need one more shot to complete my project.
Exhausted, but more awake than I’ve ever been, I drive to school and stake out a bench on the main hallway leading from the parking lot so that I can catch Kirby on his way to class. All the students will be gathered in the gym this morning for the pep rally.
Usually, Kirby is early to school. He gathers his books from his locker and arrives at class before anyone else. This morning, he’s late. The hallways are filled with students, all babbling excitedly to each other; all ignoring me. I take a couple of shots to make sure the lighting is good. It’s not golden-hour great, but it’s not bad. When the warning bell rings and he still hasn’t shown up, I begin to worry that he’s not going to be in school. Maybe he took a different route to his locker. But no. Kirby is a creature of habit. He rarely deviates from his schedule.
He’ll come.
I’ll wave at him. Tell him everything.
I rehearse what I’m going to say.
“Hi, Kirby. You don’t really know me, but I feel like I know you. I’ve been following you around for a few weeks, taking pictures of you for a photography project, which sounds creepier than it is. Since I know your name, it’s only fair you know mine. My name is Billie Palermo.”
It sounds dumb in my head, but the more I practice, the more my stomach does flips. Backflips and front flips and those side flips that I could never master without falling over. Kirby will probably be confused at first, but eventually he’ll understand. He’ll see me for who I really am, and smile. I’ll take a picture of that smile, cut it out, and paste it with the rest. My project might be complete, but our story—mine and Kirby’s—will only just be starting.
The last bell rings. A few stragglers run to the gym. I wait.
I hear Kirby approaching before I see him. I recognize the heavy stomp of his feet on the concrete. My hands are shaking and bile rises into my throat. He rounds the corner.
This time, he’s not going to walk past. This time, he’s going to see me.
I can do this. I’m going to do this. It’s going to be brilliant.
I peer through the eyepiece. I turn the lens to bring Kirby into focus. His arm is raised toward me, his lips raised in a smile. I rest my index finger on the shutter.
And I take the perfect shot.
THE GIRL WHO SAID NO
Senior year
Weeds have sprouted at the base of the Japanese red maple sapling planted near the gym, tiny green shoots pushing through the circle of dark mulch. The groundskeeper on staff at Middleborough High School usually handles such things, but Morgan notices the weeds in a way only someone who looks at the tree every day would notice, caring as only the person who planted the tree would care. Students stream out around her as they leave campus in all directions, to busses, cars, after-school activities. Morgan is in no hurry to suffer the indignity of being the only senior on the school bus, so she stops to pull the weeds.
The task takes only a minute, but painful thoughts don’t need much time to take root in her brain. This was supposed to be their year: Morgan Castro and Sydney Kemble. Seniors. Cocaptains of the girls’ soccer team. They were going to apply to the same colleges and had Bend it Like Beckham dreams of soccer scholarships.
She misses the two of them kicking the ball around her front yard, making the Border collie next door go crazy. He could easily hurdle the four-foot chain-link fence between yards, but he wasn’t allowed, so he’d balance all four feet at the top of the fence like a tightrope walker before dropping back into his own yard. It cracked Syd up every time. Morgan remembers how they’d sit at the breakfast bar as Morgan’s dad prepared test recipes for the restaurant—cherry clafoutis, poireaux vinaigrette, homard en croûte—the way other people’s parents made macaroni and cheese. Watching Doctor Who at Syd’s house on Saturday nights, making up crazy dances to the old rhumba records Morgan’s grandma brought with her when she fled Cuba in the sixties, going along with the Kembles on their yearly trip to Disney. A tear tracks down Morgan’s cheek and she pushes it away with the back of her hand.
Caleb Graham finds her clutching a handful of weeds. Today his otter-brown hair is loose and Morgan’s heart turns a little cartwheel in her chest when he tucks a bit behind his left ear. Caleb always looks a little sleepy, like his mind is elsewhere, and when he talks, it’s like coming back to reality surprises him. Syd called it his stoner face—even though he is not a stoner—and perfected an impression that would crack up the whole girls’ locker room after practice.
Last year (and the year before that) she would have given anything for Caleb to have asked her to a Middleborough dance, but this year . . .
It’s not that Morgan doesn’t like him anymore. She does. She always has. His smile makes her insides go twisty and she loves the way his hair is long enough to pull into a little knot at the back of his head. Man bun is what Syd called it, which sometimes made Morgan snort when she giggled. She also likes the way his butt looks in varsity blue soccer shorts. It’s not a skinny white-boy butt, even though Caleb is about as white as it gets.
“Hey.” He sounds surprised now as he greets Morgan, and she holds back a laugh that manifests itself as a smile that makes him respond in kind. Excitement, sadness, attraction, and regret form a knot in her stomach. “I’ve been trying to track you down all day. What, um—what are you doing?”
Morgan unfurls her palm. Dirt clings to the roots of the weeds. “Just—nothing.” She drops them on the grass and wipes off her hand on the thigh of her jeans. “It’s stupid.”
Caleb squats beside her, his threadbare jeans drawing tight at the knees. He uses the side of his fist to brush the dirt off the plaque in front of the tree.
IN LOVING MEMORY OF SYDNEY ROSE KEMBLE.
Morgan’s heart feels so big when he does that, like it could crack right through her chest. If Caleb understands how much the gesture means to her, he pretends not to know. “Feels like people are forgetting, huh?”
“Sometimes.”
The school enacted a policy of kindness after the shooting, and for several months it was easy to follow. Middleborough was bound by loss, the belief that something like this could never happen here ripped away. Candlelight vigils for the victims were held at school, at churches, and in the park. Memorial trees planted around town. C
asseroles cooked for the families of the dead. People were nicer to each other because they were all united by fear. Until, invariably, the weeds began to sprout. Kindness is impossible to sustain.
Morgan and Caleb stand at the same time. He clears his throat. “Um—”
“Hey, G. Hi, Morgan.” Chris Buzzeo, a.k.a. Buzz, interrupts, offering up his fist for Caleb to bump as he passes. They play varsity soccer together, Buzz at defense, Caleb at midfield. They’ll be cocaptains this coming season, the way Morgan and Syd would have been. The way Morgan would have been if she hadn’t quit the team.
“Bunch of us are going to the football game tonight,” Buzz tells Caleb. “You in?”
“Maybe,” Caleb says, as his friend keeps walking. “I’ll text you later.” Then, when Buzz is out of earshot, to Morgan he says, “You and Sydney used to come to our matches.”
Her face gets warm. “We didn’t think you noticed.”
He laughs, but not in a mean way. “Usually only our families show up, so trust me, we noticed. We spent the entire season arguing about who you were coming to see.”
“Who did you think we were there for?”
“Luna.”
Gabriel Luna is Middleborough’s superstar. He lives in Morgan’s neighborhood, the one everyone calls Little Mexico, even though not everyone who lives there is Mexican. Gabriel is from Argentina. Morgan and Syd used to joke about how much work it would be to date him. Gabriel is painfully good-looking and his ego is bloated from being the leading goal scorer in the league last year.
“Ew. No.” She shakes her head and crinkles her nose. “We were there to see you.”
“For real?” Caleb sounds more surprised than usual. Morgan and Syd used to drive past his house over in Birdland all the time, sometimes when he was outside shooting baskets in the driveway or washing his old Cherokee. They screamed their heads off at games whenever he did anything good. How could he not have known?
“For real.”
He jams his hands in his pockets and looks down at his Sambas. “So, um—was it you who came to see me, or Sydney?”
Violent Ends Page 11
