I RUSHED HOME BUT TOOK THE porch steps slowly. The front door only opened partway, impeded by two pieces of heavy luggage in its path. I muscled the bags aside, closed the door behind me. There was no yelling like I’d heard on the phone. In the quiet, my mind went to dark, dark places.
“Mom?!”
“In here.” She sat in the living room. An umbrella and hat rested across her lap, even though it wasn’t raining. “Pack a bag. Fast.”
Dad rushed in from the kitchen. “Tony, your mother is overreacting. Go upstairs and let us talk.”
“I don’t talk to liars,” Mom said. “Not anymore.”
He said, “I should’ve told you what I was really doing on those late nights. I’m sorry, you know that.”
“You mean you’re sorry your boss let it slip that there are no late nights at your office. ‘We lock the doors at six every day, Mrs. Pearson.’ His words.”
“I shouldn’t have lied to you. I’m really into my league and I got carried away.”
Mom huffed, “Again with the fantasy football? Tony, go get your things like I told you.”
Fantasy football? You’re going to ride that one out, Dad?
“Donna,” he said, using his calm voice, indistinguishable from his condescending voice. “Where are you going to go?”
“It would defeat the purpose if I shared that information.”
“That’s not what I mean. You won’t last on your own.”
She popped up, defiant. “I have friends. You’d be surprised how many!”
Dad waved her off. “Sure you do. Are they good enough to keep you safe once you’re out there alone? Remember what Bertram said about witnesses on their own? You willing to stake our son’s life on your great friends?”
“You make me feel like a fool every day I’m with you. You’re not going to make me feel like one for leaving you.”
“I’m not playing you for a fool.” Dad’s voice had a high rasp I’d never heard before. It was as close to pleading as a man like him was capable of. Instead of actual begging—something that may have worked here—he resorted to that stupid excuse: “You can’t do this to me after all we’ve been through, not over me hiding a silly little sports thing.”
“After all we’ve been through? No, Robert. After all you’ve put us through. It’s always been about your plans, and your dreams. Even when they went sour. We’ve lost everything, and every year, you feel the need to put us through it all over again. But I don’t know if I blame you or myself more for letting it continue to happen.”
“Baby, it’s just football.”
“STOP LYING TO ME!” Her calm was gone.
“I’m not. I can prove it. Ask Tony. He followed me to my league meeting the other night.” Dad turned to me. “Tell her, son.”
“What?”
“Tell her about the other night, when you saw me.”
I couldn’t believe the man’s nerve. Bastard. What could I say other than I saw him downtown with a guy I didn’t know? I couldn’t get into the juked crime stats, or Eli. He’d spin that into whatever he wanted.
Also—as much as I hated to admit it—Dad was kinda right.
Mom hadn’t thought this through. She wouldn’t last without funds and a plan. I knew because I’d run the same scenario in my head plenty of times. Saving her from a short, hard life on the road—from her pride—was part of my reasoning for doing what I did next.
The other part, the bigger part, was my pride. If we left Dad to whatever twisted game he was really playing, I’d never know the truth about all this Whispertown stuff, or what it had to do with Eli’s death. Dad won by forfeit.
I needed to know.
“I don’t think he’s lying, Mom. I tailed him Friday, after the Portside game. Him and two dudes went into this sketchy coffee shop. I snuck in with a crowd from the game and overheard them talking about stats and lineups before he saw me.”
She glared. I counted my heartbeats. Keep Quiet.
“And you didn’t feel the need to mention this?” Mom asked.
Dad said, “I told him not to say anything. A man’s got to have some privacy.”
“Fantasy football’s big with some of the guys at school,” I said, holding his gaze. “I’d love to talk some strategy with you later, Dad. It can be like, I don’t know, bonding time.”
Mom’s eyes bounced from me to Dad, her face unreadable. “Glad to know you two have so much in common these days. Guess I’ll have to find myself a hobby, too.”
She stepped past me, kicked her luggage aside, and left the front door gaping as she disappeared into the day.
I said, “What were you doing at city hall?”
“We’re late for Bertram. Come on.” He retreated to the kitchen like he cared about that stupid call. Anything to avoid the question.
“Dad, I lied for you. The least you can do is—”
He’d already dialed the number and passcode, put the phone on speaker. Bertram’s voice came through. “My father had this saying, ‘early is on time, and on time is late.’ Since we’re ten minutes past our scheduled meeting time, I wonder what he’d call that?”
“I’m sorry, Bertram,” Dad said. “I just had an argument with my wife and she left. It’s my fault, and I didn’t mean to waste your time because of it.”
Only static on the line. Bertram was likely having the same reaction as me. My dad—usually hostile—had apologized. And it sounded sincere.
Bertram cleared his throat. “So I understand, she’s not present for the call?”
“She’s not, but please don’t hold it against her. Like I said, my fault.”
Now Dad was accepting blame for something. I peeked through the window, making sure I hadn’t missed nuclear Armageddon. The world didn’t appear to be ending, so I was tapped for explanations.
“Are you two all right?” Bertram asked.
They said things about marriage I couldn’t relate to, those conversations where people tell half the story and cap it with “you know how it is.” I zoned while they cultivated their bromance. Then Bertram said something I missed, forcing me to snap back. “What?”
“I said I’m done with your dad, Nicholas. I’d like to spend a few moments talking with you. In private. Would you mind taking the phone off speaker?”
I grabbed the handset off the base. “Yeah?”
“I’m sorry about your friend.” Papers rustled. “Eli Cruz?”
My jaw tightened. “Yes, that’s his name. I can spell it if you want to make sure you’ve got it right in your files.”
“I think I’ve got the spelling. Thanks.”
Dick.
He said, “I want you to know that the Program offers counseling services. I recommend you take advantage of them. I already spoke to your mother about this when she informed me of the unfortunate situation.”
“I’m not crazy.”
“Counseling doesn’t mean you are. It’s talking with someone objective, and it helps.”
For the first time since we started this conference call business, Bertram wasn’t a robot rattling off his preprogrammed questions. He sounded decent. It didn’t last.
“How’s the rest of your acclimation going? Do you have any other friends?”
Welcome back, RoboBert. “You mean to replace the dead one?”
“I need to gauge how you socialize. You can answer the following questions using the one-to-ten scale. One being . . .”
We went through the routine, a half-dozen questions, like every week. When we were done, I planned to ask Bertram the point of it all. But I realized that, aside from the sound of me droning numbers, the house was quiet.
Dad was gone.
He’s got to come home sometime, I thought, amused in spite of myself. This is what adults must feel like when a kid sneaks out. But the amusement diminished the longer I waited for one of my parents to return. I stomped around my room like I wanted to kick holes in the floor. Dad wasn’t the only source for information in town.
I dialed Dustin on my cell. The phone rang four times before going to voice mail. Faint music and girlie laughter tinkled in the background. “Hi, this is Dustin, as you can tell”—a girl screamed joyfully—“I’m a little busy. Leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you. If I’m still standing.”
I threw the phone at my pillow like a pitcher aiming for the batter’s head. I tried to walk off the frustration, noticing all the breakable things. The lamp. The TV. The camera.
The camera.
I’d forgotten about it. I picked it up, clicked through all my pics from Friday’s football game in reverse order, rewinding time. Abruptly, the images switched to random stuff around the school, Eli’s art for the last, unpublished Yell. A dozen more clicks and I came across another of my shots, the earliest one.
A picture of Eli at his desk in the J-Room. I took it on my first day, mostly to distract him while I erased the pictures he’d taken of me. Him recruiting, me scamming.
Of all the places I’d been, all the kids I met, he was the first to ever ask me to be a part of anything. Mostly, people were scared that I’d come to their school to take something from them. Their girl, or their spot on the team, or whatever attention they craved. So they pushed back, with attitudes or fists. Not Eli.
I spoke to the camera. “I’m going to find out what happened to you, man.”
Grabbing my phone, I called Reya. She picked up before I heard a full ring. “Sí.”
“Hey, it’s Nick. I know you said you’d call me, but I was really curious if you got a chance to check Eli’s room for his laptop?”
Pots clattered against plates in the background, only to be eclipsed by loud Spanish voices. “I’m sorry, Nick, say that again.”
“The laptop. Did you find it?”
“Uh-huh.” Distracted, she said, “Un minuto. I looked, didn’t see it any—” More noise, something breaking. “Really?! Nick, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
The call ended quicker than it began.
No Dad. No Dustin. No laptop.
I looked at the camera display, where Eli sat frozen in a moment. “I’m still going to find out what happened. But probably not today.”