Held (30 page)

I pushed myself up from the floor, wincing from the pain in my left wrist. It had taken most of the impact, and I’d gone down on it pretty hard. Slowly, I worked my wrist back and forth as I continued on to the gym, refusing to cry.

I walked down the steps into the gym, across the basketball court where a couple of older boys were dribbling basketballs, and into the locker room. Instead of turning and going into the actual locker room where the lockers and showers and other boys were, I went into the coach’s office where our teacher sat at his desk doing paperwork.

I briefly wondered what kind of paperwork he could possibly have to do, then said, “Mr. Laughlin?”

“Yes.”

“I just fell in the hallway and hurt my wrist. I was wondering if I could sit out today.”

“Don’t you sit out most days, Brian?” he asked, looking up from his papers.

“Yes,” I answered quietly, suddenly feeling ashamed that I didn’t participate more in P.E.

He stared at me for a minute without speaking. Then, “How bad is your wrist? Is it broken, you think?”

I bent it back and forth slowly. I shook my head. “I don’t think it’s broken, but it’s sprained, I think. It hurts when I move it.”

He stood up and came over to me, holding my hand in one of his hands and my wrist in his other. He slowly moved my wrist around.

“I don’t think it’s broken, either. I can call your mom if you want and she can take you for an x-ray.”

“No,” I nearly shouted. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Okay. Go do some stretches, run a couple laps and take a bleacher.” He went back to his desk.

Doing as I was told, I stretched my legs, stretched my arms and my back, and then I quickly ran two laps before grabbing a spot on the bleachers. I tried to be finished before the boys came out of the locker room. A few of them had begun to trickle out onto the court, but Dominic, Taylor, and Spencer hadn’t emerged yet and that was the most important thing.

The girls were coming out of their locker room now and taking their end of the basketball court. I watched them do their stretches, especially Carly. Since I was wearing her gym shirt, she had to wear the shirt she had worn to school. I felt bad that she’d gone to such trouble for me. She’d made a special trip to the gym to fetch the shirt, wrote the note, and placed both in my locker. I don’t know when she’d had the time, but it was nice to know she’d been thinking of me.

The boys were goofing off on their end of the court as they waited for Mr. Laughlin to come out and start the class. I watched them, wondering what it felt like to be part of them, to be a part of the group. I longed to know what it felt like just to be a regular kid with a lot of friends, never having to worry about an abusive step-father waiting at home or having to worry about class bullies. A kid who wasn’t picked on and made fun of. I’d surely never know.

I sat through the class on the bleacher, trying not to make it obvious that I was watching Carly. I couldn’t help myself.

A couple of times, she looked at me and smiled.

Once, the ball came over by me. Carly ran over to get it. She smiled at me and said, “You wear that better than the pudding and lasagna.”

I said, “Thanks.”

She headed back to the game.

I remained on the bleacher while everyone went back to the locker rooms to change. When the bell rang, we all walked out of the gym, headed for our final class of the day, which fortunately for me, didn’t contain Dominic.

Art had always been my favorite class. I guess it was because there really was no right or wrong answers. Art was as you saw it, and everyone saw it differently. Even I couldn’t flunk Art.

Our assignment was to draw a still life. Our teacher, Mrs. Madison, had arranged some flowers in a vase with petals lying on the table around it.

I went to drawing, thinking of nothing but the details. The veins in the petals, the shadows, the coloring, and the angle of the light all had to be perfect. I was so focused on my drawing I was startled when Mrs. Madison announced we only had five minutes left in the hour.

Quickly, I finished and sat back, picking up my drawing. I held it in both hands in front of my face, then slowly dropped it and raised my eyes to the actual flowers on the table. It was perfect. I’d gotten everything just as it was supposed to be. Just like I always did. I may not know what an ancient sea mariner was or be able to calculate square roots or dissect worms, but I could draw better than anybody else I knew.

I looked back at my drawing and noticed the grey on my fingers. It was a side effect of using my fingers to shade the drawing. I quickly put the drawing on the table and wiped my fingers on my jeans. I didn’t want grey finger smudges all over the picture.

By the time the bell rang, I had nearly wiped away all traces of the grey. Everyone stood and walked to the front, placing their drawings on the teacher’s desk before leaving the room.

As always, I was bringing up the rear of the line. I was the last one to put my drawing on the pile. Mrs. Madison saw it.

“Brian,” she said, picking it up. “This is magnificent.”

I looked at her face, saw it light up the longer she looked at my picture, and knew she was serious. She wasn’t teasing me. But then again, she never did.

“Thanks,” I said quietly.

“This really is breathtaking. You captured all the details perfectly.”

I stood there, watching her admire my work. She was the only one who’d ever praised me for anything. I’d stand there all day if I could.

“Are you entering anything in the art show?”

I shook my head. I knew there was an art show coming up. I wanted to put some things in it, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. What if everyone laughed at my work?

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

“Brian, you have to. You have such an amazing talent. You absolutely must show it off.”

“What would I have to do?” I asked.

“Anything you want. Sketches, paintings, chalks, charcoals, whatever you want. I’m sure anything you do will be fantastic. And do as many as you want. There aren’t a lot of students putting things in, so we have plenty of room.” She returned my drawing to the pile of others on her desk.

I looked down at the floor, thinking of what it’d be like to have other people look at my work.

“Brian, please think about it. Not everyone has the ability to draw like you do. Don’t hide it from the world.”

I nodded. “I’ll think about it.”

And I would think about it. But right now, I had more important things to think about. Like how to avoid my step-dad when I left here and went home.

Chapter 1

Of all the things I wanted to do today, killing Billy Baker wasn’t one of them. He was my best friend and had been since we were snot-nosed kids with skinned knees, burning ants with a magnifying glass on the sidewalk. I loved him like a brother. Hell, I loved him more than I loved my brother. I talked to my brother maybe twice a year, but not a day went by that I didn’t talk to Billy. We were inseparable and always had been. But now, he had become nothing more to me than a rock in my shoe, annoying at first but really starting to piss me off.

“I’m telling you, Tom, this here’s kickin’ my ass,” Billy said in a southern accent only slightly thicker than mine as he hopped in the driver’s seat of his old 1978 Ford pickup truck and slammed the door.

With plans of killing Billy on my mind, I climbed into the passenger seat with my shotgun as Billy started the truck. With the barrel pointed toward the floorboard, I rested the gun on the seat against my leg, keeping my left hand on it to steady it because as always, the gun was ready to fire. I glanced at Billy, who had no idea what was going to happen to him tonight.

Bringing my gun didn’t raise any suspicion because I always brought it when we went out to make moonshine. Moonshining wasn’t just dangerous because of the possibility of exploding pots, or toxic liquor, or even the risk of getting caught and going to prison. No, the bigger risks were the obvious ones like snakes and bears and other animals that were attracted to the aroma of cooking mash. So it was vital to carry some sort of firepower. Just as Billy always had his Remington pump shotgun hanging on a gun rack in the back window, I always brought my Winchester pump with me. But I’d never killed anyone with it. Yet.

As we pulled away from my house, I looked at it one last time. The pale glow of lamp light streamed through the living room window and fell dimly across the porch, a sign that Heather was curled up on the couch reading, as usual. All the other windows were dark, and the kids were in bed asleep. I knew I’d see my house again come morning, but it’d be different. The house would be the same. The people in it would be the same. But I would be different. The next time I saw my house, I’d be a murderer.

We rode in silence for a few minutes with the only sound being the sound of Billy grinding the gears as he shifted. I glanced at him a few times, wondering what he was thinking, but daring not to think about it too much. I probably didn’t want to know. And I didn’t really care. I had my own shit to think about.

Billy started to whistle but after only a few seconds, he stopped. “Hey, whataya say we grab a bite before we head out there? I’m starvin’. We went over to Casey’s brother’s house for a barbecue this afternoon, so I ate early. What about you?”

“I could eat,” I replied. Who was I to deny him a last meal? Besides, Heather had been too caught up reading that damn book by that Bettes girl to cook supper. I’d had to make the kids some grilled cheese sandwiches so they wouldn’t starve. I ate one myself, but it didn’t stay with me long. I would’ve made another one, but we were out of bread and I didn’t have time to go to the store. My stomach now rumbled at the thought of eating.

When we pulled up to the drive-thru speaker and Tom asked me what I wanted, I ordered a hefty amount of food. I was hungry now, but more than that, I knew I was going to need my strength for later. This was going to be a long night filled with a lot of heavy lifting. A murdering man needs to keep up his strength.

After taking the bag of food and the sodas from the pimply-faced girl with shiny, metal braces at the window, Billy pulled the truck into a parking spot where we divided up the food and ate under the orange glow of a streetlight, mostly in silence.

Around a mouthful of burger, Billy said, “What’re you gonna do with all your money?”

I chewed slowly, buying some time to think of what to say. I wasn’t about to tell him that I’d already spent all my money and then some. Unable to think of anything, I shrugged and said, “I dunno. You?”

Billy took a long draw of soda before answering with a smile. His excitement was infuriating. “Oh, man. I’ve got big plans for mine. I’ve been saving all summer. There’s a real nice house that I’ve had my eye on. It’ll take most of the money, but there’s enough left for that new truck I told ya about and a ring for Casey.”

I quickly looked at him, his plans having caught me off guard. I figured he was planning to do something stupid with his share of the money, but these were serious plans. Grown-up plans. And Billy Baker, though a lot of things, was never thought of as a grown up. By anyone. Whether it was his boyish charm, or his innocent eyes, or the way he liked to tell jokes, everyone thought of Billy as a big kid. Not a grown man with grown plans.

“How’s that getcha goat?” Billy asked, winking.

“You’re gonna ask her to marry you? And buy a house?” I wasn’t sure if the double bacon cheeseburger was trembling in my hand or not, but I dug my fingers into the warm, greasy bun just in case. Though what I really wanted to do was cram it down Billy’s throat and watch him choke on it.

“Yeah. I figure she’s waited long enough. I mean, let’s face it. Eight years is a long damn time. I’ve never had the money to buy her a ring or anything, but now,” Billy laughed. “Now, I can get her a ring
and
a house. Won’t she be tickled?” He took a bite of his burger and chuckled to himself.

I figured she would be tickled, probably enough to say yes to him. Who wouldn’t be excited when offered a new shiny ring and nice big house? I couldn’t blame her if she said yes. But I would all the same.

Billy went on talking about the house and the truck and the ring and the money. But I went on thinking about how Casey was going to react to his proposal. When I realized that I wasn’t hearing what Billy was saying, I wasn’t tasting my food, and my face was red with not just the heat of the late southern Georgia summer but anger, I reminded myself that there was no sense worrying about it because there would be no proposal.

Billy Baker was dying tonight.

After we ate, Billy drove to a gas station and filled the tank. I stayed in the truck and watched him through the rear window, trying to see what Casey saw. He was wearing jean overalls with a white t-shirt underneath that he’d cut the sleeveless off of. The muscles in his arms were pronounced and damp with sweat, glistening a bit in the bright fluorescent lights of the awning of the gas station. He stood a slender 6’ tall, a couple inches shorter than me. He had black hair, blue eyes, and a great smile. I reckon he was a good-looking man. I can see why she’d been attracted to him. And if his looks hadn’t done it for her, his personality surely had. Billy was a great guy. He’d do anything for anyone at anytime. Always friendly, always smiling. He loved to make people happy. He’d been like that for as long as I’d known him.