All Good Children (32 page)

I get up and walk to the door.

“Who is it?” Dallas calls out in a girlish voice; then he laughs hysterically, listing to one side and kicking his feet. His face pulls into a grimace as he runs out of breath. His mouth gapes, but he's silent except for his heels banging the floor and his laughter clicking quietly in the back of his throat.

“It's Coach Emery! Open up!”

I obey. The coach glares from the trailer steps. “Why is this door closed?”

“Mr. Graham closed it.”

“Mr. Graham? What on earth was—?” He walks inside and falls silent. He stares at the principal, sprawled on the floor, and Dallas, curled up and quivering.

“Hey, Coach,” Dallas squeaks and heads into hysterics again, slapping his knee.

The coach rushes to Mr. Graham's side, checks his pulse, turns him over and gasps at his bloody face.

“He hit his head,” I say. “Dallas and I were fighting and we pushed him into the wall accidentally and he fell into the bench. He's been unconscious for a few minutes. He needs a doctor.”

Coach Emery looks up at the security camera.

“We panicked,” I say.

“What's wrong with Richmond?”

“He's exhausted.”

“Not treated?”

“No, sir.”

“And Mr. Graham knows that?”

“I don't think so, sir. He knows I'm not but I don't think he suspects Dallas isn't.” I tell the coach what happened and how it's conceivable that the principal's injuries are accidental.

“You need to leave now,” he says.

I nod. “We have a plan.”

“I don't want to know it.” The coach looks at Mr. Graham and shakes his head. “You can't leave the country if there are charges against you.”

“It was an accident, sir.”

Dallas sighs and wipes his eyes. “I did it.”

“It was an accident,” I repeat.

The coach looks from one of us to the other. “I should never have sent you out here.”

“It's not—”

He silences me with a hand, reassesses the situation— me, Dallas, the disabled camera, our disabled principal—and comes up with a game plan. “Can you pull yourself together?” he asks Dallas.

Dallas shakes himself like a dog and stands up, tall and vacant.

“All right,” the coach says. “You and I will go into the school and get security.”

“No. We have to get out of here,” I say. “We have a plan.”

“Shut up, Connors,” Coach Emery says. “This is the plan. You're leaving tonight.”

“I'm not going without Dallas.”

“He'll meet up with you.”

“He won't. I'm taking him now or he'll chicken out.”

Coach Emery swears. “All right. Both of you go then. I'll get Mr. Graham to a hospital. I'll say I walked in and saw you two fighting and you accidentally knocked him into the bench.” He looks at Dallas. “I'll tell your father you went somewhere. Where would you go if you were treated?”

He shrugs. “The library, maybe. Or Christmas shopping.”

“That'll do for an hour or two. But where would you go
for the next few years? Do you have any friends in other cities?
Anything you ever wanted to do, like join the military?”

Dallas shrugs.

“If you disappear tonight, your father will go straight to
the Connors,” the coach says. “He'll go wherever they go and
take you back unless he has another trail to follow.”

“I guess I always wanted to be an actor,” Dallas says.

Coach Emery nods. “Good. Write your parents to say you're going to California to work in the trade that best suits your skills. Then get rid of your RIG so they can't trace you. And find a way not to be there when they come knocking on Connors's door.” He looks at Mr. Graham. “How long has he been unconscious?”

“Several minutes,” I say. “We didn't mean to hurt him, sir.”

“I did,” Dallas says. He looks at Graham with disgust.

“Thank you for doing this, Coach,” I say.

“Just go. I'll give you five minutes before I take him out. You have to leave town tonight. Right away.” He starts tugging the tape off Dallas's coat. “Do you want to take this?” he asks me.

“It's mine,” Dallas says.

The coach looks at him in surprise. Everyone always blames me for everything.

“It's the only thing I own now,” Dallas says. He grabs his coat, and we turn our backs on the camera, walk outside into the sights of another camera.

“Good luck wherever you're going,” Coach Emery says.

Little Jack Horner

Sat in a corner

Eating his Christmas pie.

He put in his thumb

And pulled out a plum

And said, “What a good boy am I!”

    Eighteenth-century nursery rhyme

PART THREE
REJECTION

SEVENTEEN

At six o'clock I leave Dallas at my kitchen table with Celeste and head for Kim's Trims. It's dark and the temperature's dropping, but sweat drips down my ribcage beneath my coat. I walk quickly, careful not to draw attention. The library closes at eight, and after that Dr. Richmond will come looking for his son.

Halfway down Fairfield Road I get a message from Coach Emery. Mr. Graham is awake, confused, suspicious. The police are accessing the school surveillance data to corroborate the coach's testimony that the principal's injuries were accidental.

I break into a run. This is how it happens in Xavier's old movies. The hero embarks on his escape and there's the bad guy waiting for him, snickering, right behind him all along. Dallas was right—living with hope is like rubbing up against a cheese grater. It keeps taking slices off you until there's so little left you just crumble.

Kim is alone with the lights dimmed when I enter her shop. “All set?” she asks.

“Do you have the keys?”

She shows me a picture of a fat green car. “It's a station wagon, two thousand and twelve, legally registered.”

“Two thousand and twelve? That's ancient. It still runs?”

“It runs fine. The tank is full, and there's two cans in the trunk in case you run out.”

“Is that possible? It doesn't tell you if it's about to run out of fuel?” I picture us stranded on the highway at midnight, hunkered in the backseat under our leather coats, staring through tinted glass at some flat moonlit landscape writhing with drug-crazed freaks and freebies.

Kim laughs at my expression. “It doesn't speak, so you have to watch the dials. It's perfectly safe. Your mom knows how to drive it.”

“You spoke to my mom?”

She nods. “She came in for a cut. I did what I could. You got lucky on hair.”

I run my hand over my head self-consciously. “So where's the car?”

She holds up her RIG and projects a map of the city.
She zooms in on the southwest quadrant, then slides the
safe streets of New Middletown out of view to display
the makeshift world beyond the walls, a sprawling shanty
town I've been warned to stay away from my entire life. “You
know the car park where I live? Just past that, on the south
side-don't go north to the old strip mall, you don't want to
take any valuables that way-but south of the carpark, along
the old two-lane highway, you'll find my son with your car.” She shows me a picture of a white man in his twenties. “This is Churchill. He'll be there all evening.”

“He's just standing there?”

She rolls her eyes. “It's a car full of gasoline. What do you expect him to do? He has a second key in case he has to move it.”

“Why would he have to move it?”

“Don't worry, kid. He won't. I told him you'd be there at seven.” She checks her watch. “Is that still your plan?”

“Yeah. Thanks. I have to run. Are you coming back with me to see the apartment?”

She shakes her head. “I'm going out to celebrate. But I'll take your keys.”

“There's a code for the stairwell—”

“Got it.” She stares at my keys like they'll open the gates to heaven. “I'm so excited I can't tell you, kid. Don't change your mind.”

“I won't.”

She smiles. “You're a good boy, Max. I'll miss you.”

I can't say the same, but you never know what you'll miss about your life after it's gone.

Back at home, my dad is sitting at the kitchen table.

“Told you I was top of my class,” Celeste says.

Dallas smiles. He beams. He radiates joy that pierces through all the makeup Celeste has packed on his face.

I can barely speak I'm so impressed. “I can't recognize you.”

“That's the idea.”

“How'd you get so blond?”

“It's a wig,” Celeste says. “A woman's wig, but I cut it into shape. Do you like it?”

“Yeah. I should have gone to you for haircuts all these years.”

“He's right, Celeste,” Dallas says. “You could have been doing us regularly.”

“That's just damaged now that you're middle-aged,” I tell him.

“Keep it down,” Mom calls from the living room.

“Ally's upset,” Dallas whispers.

“You have to work on your voice,” I tell him. “You sound too young.”

“My daughter's confused by my return to life,” he says, deep and smiling.

I can't smile back. I should be happy because this plan is sure to work, but it saddens me to see my father at the table. I want to tell him what I've been up to for the past three years.

Mom comes in and kisses my cheek. “You'll get used to it.” She stares at the face of her dead husband and sighs. “Well, no you won't. Just get your bags.”

“What's with Ally?” I ask, peeking into the living room.

“Is she asleep?”

“Just resting.”

“Your mom had to give her a sedative,” Celeste whispers.

“She freaked out when she saw her dad. I don't know why— you said it was her Christmas wish to be with him one more time, right?”

“Right,” I say. “That's why we're doing it.” I wish we could tell Celeste the truth, but it's better this way. If the police interview her, she might say we played a sadistic prank on my sister, but at least she won't say where we've gone.

“She doesn't seem happy about it,” Celeste says. “Maybe I should take it off and try again Christmas morning.”

“No!” I shout with Mom and Dallas.

“It's the best present we can give her,” Mom says. “Besides, we'll be in Atlanta on Christmas morning.”

My eyes return to Dallas. My father smiles at me. I shudder. “Are we ready?”

He pulls a stained towel from his shirt collar, brushes off his hands, rises tall and pale beside my mother.

“You look forty years old,” I tell him.

“Forty-six,” he says. “I like to keep fit.”

“Was Dad really this tall?”

“Almost,” Mom says.

“Why am I so short?”

Dallas laughs. “You got my artistic genes, son.”

“Let's go,” Mom says. “Thank you, Celeste. Thank you so much.” She practically pushes Celeste out the door. She checks that our passports, ids, immunization records and birth certificates are in her handbag. She keeps her money and the jewelry Dallas stole from his brother in a suitcase with files of papers for Rebecca. “Get rid of your RIG,” she tells Dallas. “We all should.”

I groan and fret. “Can't we just take the batteries out?”

We all stare at our RIGs with no idea how they work.

“I'll ask Xavier,” I say.

“I'm throwing mine out,” Dallas says. “But first I have to write my father and tell him I'm headed for Dallas.”

“I thought you were going to California,” I say.

“No. That coast is toast and zombies don't aspire to acting careers. I'll fulfill my destiny in Dallas.”

“Because of your name?”

“It's something a zombie would do, don't you think?”

“They do whatever they're told.”

He shrugs. “Mr. Graham said, ‘Go home, Dallas.' I could have misheard.”

“We're supposed to be zombies, man. Not morons.”

“Have you got a better idea?”

I admit that I don't.

I head down the hallway. “I need to say goodbye to Xavier,” I tell Celeste. Xavier sits at his white desk, fingering his projection and muttering. “He's doing really well,” Celeste tells me. “He'll be ready for school in January.”

I nod. “I'm sure he'll be fine eventually.”

That's what Mom says about everything now:
It'll be fine
eventually.
She has nightmares about the kids in detention that day she gave the shots. She says Tyler is haunting her, and I think she's right. That's what I'd do if I were him.

“Xavier?” I say. “Can you help me with something?”

He stiffens and turns to me, annoyed. He's still shockingly handsome but he looks all wrong, like a businessman instead of an angel.