True Letters from a Fictional Life (16 page)

A couple of hours later, Aaron caught me in the hall and hugged me. “Thank you!” he said.

I patted his back, whispering, “Sure, sure,” and disentangled myself from him.

“I have something for you,” he said, reaching into his bag. Out came my green sweater.

“Hey, no kidding! Thanks! That's great.” I might've hugged it like a stuffed animal. I hope not, but I might've.

“I was so happy to get that letter, James.” He really looked like he might cry.

“Don't worry about it, man. Listen, I'm late for class.”

“No, we still have a few minutes.”

Dumb excuse. He's in most of my classes. “Right, but I have to go to my locker first.”

“First can you give me my letter back?”

“Oh, right!” I slid my backpack off and went through it. “Man,” I said, flipping through papers and peering between books. “Where did I put that?” I unzipped the front pocket. Nothing. What a surprise.

“I hope you didn't lose it.” Aaron laughed nervously.

“No,” I said. “I bet I just forgot it. I swear I remember putting it in here, though. Weird.”

“OK.” He shrugged. “Tomorrow, I guess.”

“Right. Tomorrow.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Hey, thanks again for staying quiet.”

He smiled and pretended to zip his mouth shut. “Let me know when you have time to hang out.”

Now whenever I left class to go to the boys' room, I worried that I would end up on the blue tiled floor in a puddle of piss and blood. I didn't know who knew what, so I was being pretty careful about where I went alone. Most guys I could handle—my dad had taught me how to throw a punch at least—but if I met two guys at once, or three, or the whole baseball team, I'd be in big trouble.

So I had my fists clenched in the pockets of my hoodie, and I was trying to figure out whether I'd be charged with
murder or manslaughter if I banged someone's head hard on the sink as I walked into the bathroom. It was empty, except for one person. Mark stood at a urinal with his back to me.

It's sort of amazing how much can go through your head in a couple of seconds, how many scenarios your brain can process in a heartbeat without even trying. I imagined myself shutting the door and hurrying back down the hall. I pictured walking up to the urinal and unzipping my fly next to him—leaving the requisite empty spot between us—and standing there calmly, willing myself to pee, then feeling his fist, like the head of a ram, slam into my kidney. I envisioned walking up casually behind him and making a preemptive strike, hitting him as hard as I could in the small of his back and then breaking his ribs with rapid-fire kicks.

But before I could set any of those plans in motion, Mark glanced over his shoulder and flicked his head in what passes as a hello among the gorilla set. I tried to play it cool, but I couldn't even muster a
hi
as I walked to the urinal farthest from him. I heard him zip, flush, and shuffle to the sink, clear his throat, and spit. I still hadn't managed to start peeing when he spoke over the sound of the faucet and his impressively thorough handwashing. “You running today?”

I jumped a little at the sound of his voice, but relaxed when I realized he wouldn't ask me about running right before he decked me. “Yeah, I'm running the river road.”

Mark grunted and hit the hand dryer as though he wanted to bust it. “I guess that race is in a few weeks, huh? You registered?”

“Yup. You?”

“Hawken made me do it, the jerk. It was, like, twenty-five bucks! He even drove me to the post office to mail in the form, since he knew I didn't even know where it was.”

He left without saying good-bye.

What a clutzy moron,
I thought. Only Mark would incriminate himself by insisting, for no reason at all, that he had never been to the post office. I had to hand it to him—sending out my letters was an imaginative way to torture me. Now I just had to get back whatever ones he still had.

I wish I could say
that the stupidest things I've done in my life were all impulsive, but, unfortunately, a few of them were carefully planned. I asked Hawken, casually, which nights Mark worked up at the restaurant. I knew from stories Mark told that his dad usually worked late.

My mom agreed to lend me the car to go up to the library that evening. Digging around in a box of camping gear, I found a headlamp and checked to make sure the batteries worked. I left as the sun threatened to set.

I slowed as I drove past Mark's house, a small ranch with a satellite dish on the roof that's so big it looks like it might tip the house over. I'd been inside a few times and knew the layout.

All the windows were dark and no cars sat in the driveway or out front. The nearest neighboring house was dark, too. Luckily, Mark lives on a dirt road that isn't frequently traveled by anyone who would recognize my parents' car, so I parked down a ways without worrying about it. After reaching the border of Mark's yard, I crept along the woods' edge and peeked at the house from behind a big maple. His dad shouldn't be home, and despite Mark's dog-walking business, he didn't have a dog of his own.

Still, I waited five minutes.

Quiet and dark.

The ground was soft and wet as I ran at a crouch the thirty yards from the woods to Mark's back door. I was counting on a stubborn Vermont habit of leaving your doors unlocked. With my hand on the doorknob, I listened for canine panting, counted to ten, and turned the knob. Unlocked.

Another deep breath, and I pushed open the door. A cat bolted out of the house, straight across the yard, and into the woods. I imagined a coyote snatching it up just inside the trees. First casualty.

I stepped inside quickly, closed the door behind me, and removed my wet sneakers. The whole place smelled like cat litter. There hadn't been any cats last time I'd been there, years earlier. I crept down the hall toward Mark's bedroom and froze after five feet. Still no sounds. Another five feet and I stopped. In three more steps I'd be between the open bedroom doors: Mark's on the right, his dad's on the left. I crept the remaining few feet and peered into Mark's father's room.
In the dim light, I could see the bed was unmade and empty. I flicked on the headlamp, casting a beam of blue light around the room. A white cat rose from the blankets, stretched, and jumped off the bed with a thump.

“Hey,” I whispered as it curled around my legs, purring. Another cat, black and white, arrived, and they both followed me into Mark's room. Papers littered his desk: Notes from history and English class, an A– math test. Impressive. But no letters. None in the desk drawers. I stuck my head under the bed. Nothing but dust bunnies. I lifted up his mattress. Nothing. I opened every drawer in the room. No letters. I spent the next ten minutes rifling through all the stuff in his closet, his bookcase, even, in desperation, his hamper. Discouraged, I slumped on his bed. His running shoes caught my eye. Maybe if I stole them he'd have to forfeit the Mud 10K. I hated myself for agreeing to run that race.

Suddenly, the whole room glowed as a car turned into the driveway. The hair on my arms stood on end. Did I have time to race down the hall? What if whoever it was entered through the back door, though? I'd run right into him. A car door slammed. I lay flat and scooted under the bed.
Please don't be Mark,
I thought over and over. He'd hear my heartbeat beneath the bed for sure.

Then my pulse skipped. My sneakers. I'd left them next to the door. I heard someone enter the house.

The cats trotted away to greet my murderer.

A cough from the kitchen. The
trk-phhffft
of a can of beer
opening? Footsteps down the hall. I held my breath. Something dropped to the floor of the bedroom across the hall. It was his father. Thank God. Should I escape out the bedroom window, abandon my shoes? Movement back down the hallway. TV on. Noises from the kitchen. A long beep from a microwave. Would I go to jail if Mark's dad caught me? What if he had a gun? My God, of course he had a gun. Many guns and crossbows. I tried to steady my breathing. If Mark came home, could I just crawl out and pretend everything was totally normal? At what point would my parents start wondering where I was and call the police? I closed my eyes.
Stay calm
.

Twenty minutes must have passed before the phone rang. Mark's dad's voice was soft. Talking to his girlfriend or sister, maybe? He asked about a kid, mumbled about work. Lots of
uh-huh
s and
mmm
s. I could hear the scrape of a fork or spoon on a plate. “You know”—he cleared his throat—“I can't find one of the cats. He always comes running into the kitchen when I get home. . . . He's probably dead under a bed. . . . Right. . . . I mean, I wouldn't mind if he's dead. That cat's Mark's favorite, but it was his mother's favorite, too. . . . No, Mark still tries though. Emails, phone calls, but he never hears back from her.”

I'd never asked Mark about his mom.

“Good to talk to you, too. Will do. G'night.” A dish dropped in the sink and he came back down the hall. If he decided to check under Mark's bed for the cat, should I
just play dead? Should I make a run for it right now? Dash through the house and out the back door? Maybe throw a lamp to knock the uzi out of his hands? He turned into his bedroom and clicked the TV on, and then came the sound of the shower. Was it the shower? Definitely the shower.

I scooted out from under the bed and squinted in the light from the hall. After two deep breaths, I crept out of Mark's room. The cats dropped from the kitchen counters as I passed, so I kicked them back as I edged out the door, closing it with a gentle click behind me. The runaway cat appeared, meowing at my feet. Letting out a pent-up breath, I opened the door a few inches so it could slip back inside.

When I got home, my mom asked me how the research had gone.

“Fine,” I said, pouring myself some orange juice. “Some interesting stuff but not what I was looking for.”

Ten minutes later, I got a text from Topher.
Hey, I ran into Mark getting gas.

He ran into Mark? Just by chance? Or was Mark following him? Was he going to beat Topher up? I told myself to calm down.
What did he say?
I texted back.

I asked him what he was up to and he said, “Going home, lots of reading to do.” That's it. He is not a warm person.

Lots of reading to do
? Maybe he had the letters with him? I wanted to tell Topher not to leave his house until I'd figured everything out. I wanted to write back,
Please watch your back.
Look out for his car.
But I didn't. I just wrote back,
Do Not Approach Wildlife
, and changed the subject.

Hawken and I worked at the library after school the next day. He tried to talk about the letter situation but I waved it away. “I don't want to even think about it, man. I have to get this history paper done.” It was nearly dark by the time he dropped me off at my house.

Hadn't there been a light on inside when we pulled up the driveway? The garage door was open. My parents cars weren't in there. Was Rex home by himself but off playing in the woods? Or was someone else in the house? I shuffled into the garage.

“Hello?”

Not a sound.

I slipped off my backpack—I was ready to throw or swing it—and climbed the three brick steps to the door. It creaked as I opened it.

“Hello?” I called again.

No answer.

Stepping into the dark, I felt along the wall for the light switch. Nothing happened when I flicked it. Was the lamp unplugged or was the bulb dead?

I'd only taken two steps toward the kitchen when a shadow leaped over the couch toward me. I swung my backpack as hard as I could, knocking the figure into the wall with such a crash that my mom's treasured cuckoo clock flew
from its nail and broke into pieces.

It wasn't until my assailant scrambled to his feet and fled that I saw how short he was.

When he'd reached safety on the other side of the kitchen, he flicked on the lights. Rex squinted in the sudden brightness and rubbed the side of his head. “That really hurt!” he shouted. “And you broke mom's clock. Why did you do that?”

“You jumped me in the dark!”

“Who else did you think it would be? A real ninja?”

We both stared at the busted wood and tangle of chains and weights.

“Where's Mom? Why are you here by yourself?”

“She went to the store.”

“Well, come here and give me a hand with this,” I said.

“I'm not helping! You did it, you faggot!”

I stood frozen as Rex dashed through the living room. “What did you just call me?” I yelled, but he was already thumping up the stairs. His bedroom door slammed just as my mom's car pulled into the garage.

She was surprisingly calm about the cuckoo clock considering she'd bought it in Zurich with my father twenty years earlier. “Rex has got to stop the sneak attacks,” she said as she watched me put leftovers in the microwave. “He dropped out of the garage rafters in front of me the other day. I swear I nearly kicked him in the face. I don't know how he got up there.” She sounded really tired. “He'll grow
out of it. You'll both grow out of it.”

“Me? Grow out of what?”

She just looked at me for a few seconds, and then sighed, “This weird, dark, silent phase, James. You haven't been yourself for weeks. Months. It's like you're in eighth grade all over again. What's wrong?”

The microwave droned, and I watched the clock tick down fifteen seconds. Rex slipped into the kitchen. “The ninja stuff,” my mom said firmly, “is going to stop. No more!”

Hawken caught me in the hall before English class on Friday afternoon and said quietly but firmly, “So, we're going to Derek's tonight. It'll be just the three of us. You two need to talk things through, and—”

“No way,” I interrupted. “I have plans.” A lie.

“Cancel. You guys need to kiss and make up.”

I shook my head.

“Poor choice of words. But actually, that might be a good icebreaker. We could play spin the bottle.” He cracked up. “It would be a nice gesture of acceptance on Derek's part.”

“Please keep your voice down. I'm not going.”

Aaron walked past, smiling. I smiled back weakly and then frowned again at Hawken.

“You have to go,” he said.

“You don't know what's going on. You don't know half the story.”

“Derek doesn't know the full story either.”

Breyer strolled by. “Let's go, gentlemen.”

“You're going. We'll put everything on the table. It'll be good.”

Before Hawken arrived to pick me up that night, I double-checked that my drawer full of letters was locked and looked around my room as if I might find an excuse to stay home. Hawken beeped from the driveway just then, so I dragged myself downstairs and out the door.

Derek was watching cartoons when we arrived. We exchanged brief hellos. Hawken pulled a tall bottle from his backpack, Derek fetched three glasses, and Hawken sloshed liquor into two of them as if it were apple juice. “I'm driving,” he explained. “And I don't really like the stuff.”

Derek and I clinked without a word. I tried to down mine and came close, but started coughing.

“Oh, dude!” Hawken cried. “That is rum! What are you doing?”

Derek had taken only a sip of his. He looked at his glass, looked at me, and placed it back on the table. “You going to be okay?” he asked.

“I need some water,” I croaked.
Do not throw up,
do not throw up
, I repeated to myself as I went to the kitchen. As I returned to the living room with water for everyone, Derek asked casually, “What's Topher up to tonight?”

“I don't know,” I lied. “Probably in rehearsal.” I slurped from my glass.

“Would you take it easy with that?” said Hawken.

“So, listen,” sighed Derek. “I know what's up between you two—”

“Yeah, I know you do,” I interrupted quickly and a little loudly. “And I know how you know.”

Derek stared at me. “Because I'm not an idiot? Because I'm not blind?”

“Because you like to pry into other people's lives? Invade their privacy?”

“What?” Derek looked at Hawken, pointed at me. “What is he talking about?”

“No more rum,” said Hawken. “No, do not fill that glass again.” He took the bottle out of my hands.

“You are a cruel bastard, Derek,” I nearly shouted. “You don't think of anyone but yourself, and you get off on making other people squirm!”

“What?”

“And now I'm supposed to pretend like it's all okay? Like we can just be friends again?”

“You've got to be kidding me. You've been lying to me for—how many years? And now
I'm
a cruel bastard?”

“And a liar.”

Derek walked backward away from the table, hands up in front of him. “You should get out of here. Right now. Or I'm going to lose it.”

I was already headed to the front door. I clambered into Hawken's car without even waiting for him. He came out five
minutes later and leaned into the driver's-side door to talk to me. “You know how long we were in Derek's house? Less than fifteen minutes. You drank, like, six shots' worth of rum and started a fight with one of your best friends all in less than fifteen minutes.”

“We were already in a fight,” I said.

“No, you weren't,” he said. “You
thought
you were in a fight, but you weren't. Now you are. And you have to get out of my car because I guarantee you're going to throw up.”

I didn't move. “Come on, man,” I moaned. “Just take me home.”

“Come back up to the house and talk.”

He really wasn't going to drive me home. Fine. I unbuckled my seat belt, opened the door, and climbed out a little unsteadily. I rose and fell on a wave of rum. “I am going to be sick.”