North Fork (16 page)

I couldn't help but think about how that particular moment, finding myself—whoever I am, Kristen Nichols and/or Amy Mackenzie—in that restaurant with that particular man, was the result of so many other unlikely moments that maybe I should at least have told him Amy's story. Maybe I should have given him that much and let him help me find out who I really am, if he could. Maybe it was my big chance. But my instinct was totally against it. It didn't feel right to tell him about wanting to find my father.

Amy lied. Kristen double-lied. I'm not sure why I did it, but it turned out to be a good call.

It was a pleasant evening, and Grant was good to his word. He got me home early so it wasn't hard to get up for work the next day. The new chain on the bicycle got me there and riding gave me time to think on the way. I would have to explain to Leigh and Trudy about getting the bike back. If I told them the truth about Grant being this random, older guy from the park and about dinner last night, it would sound strange, and they would worry. So I fibbed a little and used our having the same last name to imply that he was a relative and part of my trying to connect with my family here.

On my way to work, I passed those big government buildings that must be full of records about people from all over British Columbia. I knew my father's name, and if I had really wanted to, I could've started looking. But I had the feeling that once I made that move, I'd end up going back, and I wasn't ready.

The detective who's assigned to me and whose personal mission is to put me away came to tell me he'll be watching every move I make after I get out because he knows I did it and that eventually I will make a mistake.

When Smith was here to see me, he said up front that he didn't come because he thought he could help me, but because he thought we had something in common, like he needed a friend too, and I might understand his situation better than other people. His believing in me and putting it that way allowed me to speak out to the cop a little more, to say things I might not have said before. So when the jerk said he would find a way to nail me, I said, “I'm innocent. How're you going to feel when you find out it's true?”

“You're not.”

“But I am, and someday someone will come forward, or the right piece of evidence will be found.”

“You're going to fry.”

  “You'll look like a fool.”

Then after I got him to admit that my English teacher said he believes me, the bastard had to add that some people can't face unpleasant truths, as though Smith was some kind of weakling.

I'm out of there.

They had to let me go, and on getaway day, when it finally quit raining and the clouds broke, it was good to feel the sun warm my face again. It wasn't the pure joy-of-release kind of time a person might fantasize about, but a day of complex emotions.
Smith messes me up. He's probably the only one who believes me, and especially since he went out of his way to say so, his believing makes it harder than if I was completely alone. He said it can be more painful to try to live right than it would be to just let go and give up, and his believing in me kind of hangs there behind me when I'm feeling sorry for myself. It complicates things.

It didn't stop me from getting into my dad's vodka as soon as I could, but it was floating around in my thoughts, spoiling the purity of the plunge I was trying to take. My dad only took the morning off to come get me. I'm sure just having people know I'm his son is bad enough, especially on top of the fact of his already marginal, alcoholic life. I had to blow the breathalyzer thing in his car to start it so we could get out of the courthouse parking lot. Then I had to do it again when he left the house to go to work.

This was a bad day for him. Most of the time he doesn't act sloppy drunk and you wouldn't see it right away if you didn't know him. He usually regulates himself during the day to get through work. But once he's home in the evening, he moves it to another level. He slurs and forgets things. He watches a lot of TV and he sleeps a lot, so at least he's not in my face making me feel like a worm, the way Harold would be if I'd had to go to my mom's house.

If Smith hadn't stopped by Juvie, and if I didn't know that there was at least one rational, respectable person in the world that saw me as something different than a sex-pervert psycho killer, it would have been a lot easier to follow my dad's example and pickle myself into oblivion. As it was, I did a pretty good job of it anyway, but it wasn't clean. By the time the sun came out, I was lying on a dirty blanket amidst the clutter of my dad's back yard, letting the rays warm me. I had a pretty good buzz going. I was drinking it straight, like the old man does. I was trying to
let go, to be in the moment, to wash everything but the warmth of the sun away. But I was thinking about Smith, and the idea of him knowing I was turning into my father was humiliating. The numbness wasn't entirely comfortable.

So I tried to write Smith off by imagining things like maybe he is one of those guys who likes young boys and was trying to set me up so he could seduce me. It didn't work because I have instincts, and when I pay attention, I can tell about people. Smith wasn't lying. He's just stuck with an inconvenient belief that involves me. Everyone has inconvenient beliefs. Most people ignore them when they can, and become kind of hypocritical. They put things off and try to stay numb. Because he might be dying, Smith has less to lose by being honest. I mean if he's going to check out pretty quick, what does he care if people think he's some kind of bleeding heart that can't face it that one of his students is a killer. If he actually believes it, he's stuck with it, just like I'm stuck with it.

The truth does matter.

And my truth is that it's better to be out and staying at my dad's house in Burlington than to be back inside or staying with my mom and Harold. But it's not so good here. I'm still trapped by my situation. I'm just penned up in a different way, in a different place. I don't feel as safe. I feel like if I go to the mall or just become visible to the wrong people, I'll get beat up, or worse. People get beat up and even killed just for being gay or black.

My getting out was in the paper. Even though there was no picture, it was a front-page story right alongside a story about some kid from Mount Vernon getting blown up by a suicide bomber in Afghanistan. Sometimes at night when I hear car doors slam outside and men talking, I worry that someone will throw a gasoline bomb into the house or break in to do what the law couldn't. I think I understand what Smith's life is like, knowing the end is coming, but not being sure and not knowing when. It's
easy to wish it would just happen and get it over with.

I have this fantasy about going to the school and being out in front when they break for lunch and everyone is heading across the street to the cafeteria. I would stand at the bottom of the stairs at the main entrance and yell, “All right you fuckers, I miss her too. I'm back, and I didn't do it. You don't believe me and I hate you all, so come on. Just do whatever you've got to do to make your fucking world feel right-side up again.”

Sometimes it ends with them coming at me, swarming me, killing me. Sometimes I have a bomb strapped to myself. Sometimes I have an assault rifle. They're just fantasies, the same as dreaming of having a bomb strapped under my shirt to scare Harold or the principal was before all this. I still don't think I can do it. The news is so full of that kind of thing. It seems to be getting worse all the time. I mean, all over the world, people are at that crazy, blurry place where you just pop. So it's not like I'm the only one who feels that way. Like Smith says, there are lots of ways to be trapped.

None of my old friends have called. They won't. Or, if they do, it won't be out of friendship, but out of curiosity, to be the one who actually talked to the killer. I didn't have any really close friends, the kind that stick with you, like Natalie was to Kristen. I don't think I'd call someone that I thought was a pervert.

I stole some money from the old man and was able to score some weed. I got it from this Mexican kid I know in Mount Vernon. He was in Texas when Kristen disappeared. If he knew about me, he didn't say anything, but I was still really nervous about getting beat up, so I had him meet me at one of those gas stations on Old 99. He pulled up with a car full of guys, which scared me, but nobody said anything and nothing happened. I gave him the money. He gave me the baggy, and they drove off. Maybe I'm paranoid.

My dad's house is in the crummy part of Burlington, east of
the tracks and south of what used to be the town before all the malls went in on Old 99. They talked about getting me enrolled at the high school here to finish the year, but since there are only a few days of school left, the teacher lady from Juvie said she would keep working with me to get the assignments done from my old school and turn in my work there.

If I could go away, I would. I fantasize about disappearing to Mexico more than ever now. I could just disappear, like Kristen did. Maybe I'd end up dead, and maybe I wouldn't. I don't have any money and don't speak Spanish. Maybe, if I really wanted to, I could pull it off, but I'd have to steal first. I could just take off hitching, or get a bus ticket to some place far away. I'm not eighteen and without ID that says I am, it would be hard to find a job.

But if I run I look guilty for sure. There's a court date coming up from the drug charge and if I miss it, I'm in more trouble. For now, I'm just waiting until I can't take it anymore, or someone finds out what really happened. The best thing would be to go live with someone who didn't think I was a criminal, someone far away where I could go to stores, walk around in public, get a job, go to school. But no one wants me. No one wants to be associated with me, not even my sister. Staying with her in Seattle would be way better than being here, only she doesn't have room and it would complicate her life. We're not that close, I mean, for me to ask her to make sacrifices.

I try to pass the time. Sometimes I use school work as a distraction, just like when I was inside, and I still have my imagination. I read some and watch a lot of TV, and when nothing else works, I either get high on the old man's vodka or I smoke a little. At night I walk.

The worst thing about being let out was totally unexpected. Juvie has this strange feel, like it's on a different planet or exists in a dream. Even though I could now, I don't go out in public and
I haven't gone back to the river. I avoid familiar places. But being out, having a phone in the house that rings sometimes, even if it is just someone trying to sell something, and being out on the road at night, which I do to keep from going totally loony, brings it home that Kristen is really gone. All the time I was in there, without even thinking about it, I assumed that if I got out, the world would get back to normal.

But it hasn't.

That little weasel is out of jail. Can you believe it? They just let him out to walk around free and plot another perverted murder. At least now everyone knows about him and it's not so likely that anyone will be suckered into being alone with him the way Kristen was. We found out his dad's address. One of Kristen's Honor Society friends who's a TA looked it up in the school records. I heard some kids at school talking about egging the house this weekend. I'd go with them in a minute, but Brad is taking me to Seattle.

School is almost over and I'll be a senior. Less than two weeks to go. It's really hectic, especially Smith's class. He assigns all this stuff, like English is the only class we have. I also got a good summer job in the port office. I'll answer the phone and collect moorage money from people for their yachts. It pays ten dollars an hour, so I could make enough over the summer to buy a cheap car. Trish says she thinks she can afford insurance on the Granada now, so I can be added to the policy. I'm pretty excited about it. It's part of why I made the decision I did.

I haven't told him, so it will be a big surprise for Brad. I hope he likes it. It's a huge change for me and I'm pretty nervous about it, but I have an appointment after school today to get my hair cut and dyed back to my natural color. I can't believe I'm doing it. Weird hair has been my trademark since middle school. It's what people expect from me. Maybe it's part of what Brad likes about me and he'll be mad that I changed it, but it was part of the deal
for the job. Our relationship shouldn't be about hair anyway.

I was lucky to get the interview. A lot of people applied, but I got some teachers to write letters. Smith wrote a really good one. I heard that he doesn't think Corey did it. I don't blame him too much and I still like him. Teachers are kind of like ministers. It's their job to be nice, even to slime balls.

It was pretty easy to talk to them at the port and I know I can do a good job. So I'm sitting there in the office answering their questions, the port manager and the lady who runs the office, and it feels pretty good. They seem to like me okay, and I can tell it's winding down, when the guy looks me in the eye and says, “How important is your hair?”

And I had to decide in that instant, because I could tell from the way he asked that I probably wouldn't get the job with maroon hair. So I said, “I'm planning to change it back to its original color. It's kind of brown. This color is just a phase I've been going through, to be different. I guess I've outgrown it.”

So they gave me the job and I have to go through with the big change. It took a while, but I found a picture of myself with my natural hair color to take to the beauty shop. It's funny. While I was looking, I found all these pictures of Kristen and me in the drawer. We look so different. I mean she's all girly and preppy and I'm all punk and rebellious-looking. She's been gone for two months and I just keep missing her more. The thing I heard is that when people die, sometimes the people closest to them start acting like them. Like their brothers or sisters take on some of their personality traits to fill in the empty spot they left. Maybe that's why I'm changing my hair. I bought some new clothes the other day too, including something to wear to the wedding. It was like she was with me, helping me choose, and what I bought is a lot more normal-looking than what I usually wear.