Today’s lesson: discuss deception in Hamlet. Nobody handles trickery better than Shakespeare. Normally, I love this topic, but I’m finding it hard to focus. When the bell finally rings, my students race out. Left alone with my thoughts, I collect my books and follow more sedately.
The hall’s packed with kids rushing both ways. Sounds bounce to form a muffled roar punctuated by laughter and voices: “No way, man!” “She didn’t?” “Meet me or else.” “Loser!”
I’m swept toward the back staircase.
Descending, I spy Owen down below, on the zig to my zag. He’s moving quickly. Before he slips out of sight, I catch a glimpse of his face: a secretive press to his mouth, the hard set of his fine jaw.
When I swing around the bend, I see him again, on the ground floor, heading out back. I decide to follow. I want to know what he said to Principal Bill.
For his sins, Owen got a slap on the wrist: a thousand-word essay on the dangers of spice and other new psychoactive substances, which yours truly will be stuck grading. He claimed he bought the stuff off some big Black guy at the mall, that this stranger called out in passing, “Pssst, hey mon, want to score?” A drug dealer straight out of central casting.
Surely even Principal Bill didn’t buy that load, not that it matters—what with Dana and Stan having funded the new science lab. The cops weren’t called. Owen wasn’t suspended.
Things might have gone differently for the school’s two scholarship kids, both brown. Those kids are shuffled out every time a photographer visits so the school can show off its “diverse student body.”
Owen exits through the back door. I pause in the doorway.
Out back, it’s all but empty, a few kids cutting right across the basketball court toward the library. Approaching from that direction is Emmett Isles, son of Stan’s business partner, Ralph.
A year older than Owen, Emmett is taller. He’s lanky, though not as skinny as Owen. Clutched to his chest is a big hardcover book. A leather satchel hangs from one shoulder. Fair, floppy hair obscures much of his face.
Owen slows to let Emmett catch up. They exchange greetings and continue on together, quickening their pace.
I’m surprised. I hadn’t realized they were friends.
Emmett’s far from popular, but he’s usually with others. He’s well groomed, like his father. Owen’s a scruffy loner. What do this pair have in common?
As I follow, they veer diagonally left, toward a stand of pines on the Stanton Street side. If they looked back, they’d see me. Oh, well, so be it. They’re on the grass, walking quickly.
The field’s wet. My thin leather flats are soon soggy. The boys’ postures have fed my suspicion—heads bent, like they’re hiding. What’s their hurry to reach those pines? I know kids smoke cigarettes back there.
I expect one of them to look back, but they don’t. They both slip into the trees.
Just as I think I’ve lost them, I hear voices. Owen’s greeting someone. A lower male voice answers. I stiffen. It sounds like an adult. Is Owen buying more drugs?
I’m not surprised Owen’s acting out. His dad’s missing. The school—no, the whole damn town—is a hotbed of ugly rumors.
I reach the edge of the trees. Up ahead, a male voice is talking.
Suddenly, I’m unsure. This copse is dank and dark. Despite being near the road, it’s secluded. But I can’t leave. Those boys are obviously up to no good.
My pace slows as wet branches slap me. I look around, scared I’m being followed. The pines press too close, their lower branches dead and straggly. The ground’s spongy. It smells rotten. All city sounds have faded. Give nature any space, and it takes over.
A voice makes me stop. “You got it?” Owen asks gruffly. He’s closer than I thought.
I wait a beat, then creep forward.
Rounding the next tree, I see them in a small clearing. The boys are facing someone taller and broader. The adult stranger wears a boxy coat and a baseball hat. My breath catches. Is that Ryan Reeve, selling more drugs? But Ryan has long hair, unless it’s tucked up, under the hat.
I duck back, crouch, peering between low branches.
The stranger turns. Beneath his hat, he’s wearing dark wraparound glasses.
Emmett pulls something from the pocket of his navy blazer. He hands it over. If the other guy slips him something in return, I don’t see it. The man mutters words I can’t catch. Emmett stays quiet. Owen looks around furtively.
Damn it. What’s that boy thinking? Buying drugs on school grounds when he’s already in trouble.
Transaction done, the boys turn. I shrink back. Prickly pine needles poke through my sweater. My socks are wet.
Sunk in the brush, I hold my breath as they approach. Owen’s so close, I can smell him: slightly musty, like his clothes need washing. I should mention that to Dana. But how? It’ll feel like an accusation.
Owen’s scowling at his feet. His face looks thinner. Is the boy eating?
His hollow cheeks remind me of Stan. How hard this must be for Owen. To have a loved one go missing would be the worst fate imaginable. Your mind would forever fill in the blanks, painting dreadful scenarios.
We didn’t think of the kids when we dumped Stan’s body. I can only hope Dana is not tempted to tell them the truth.
Emmett adjusts the bag on his shoulder. I don’t trust this kid, his face as blank as a mannequin’s. His dad, Ralph, is weird too. Both father and son have pale, dead eyes like Vladimir Putin.
The boys pass me. If they’d looked over, they’d have seen me squatting in the brush. I have two choices: follow them or creep after the mysterious stranger.
Peeking back through the branches, I see this man stride away. Hands thrust deep into his coat, he’s headed for the road. I rise and follow. I want to know for sure whether or not it’s Ryan Reeve. If it is, I must warn Dana. I can deal with the boys later.
The trees run to a high red brick wall that borders Stanton Street. The man stays in the woods until they peter out, then walks quickly along the wall. The gate’s near the backmost school building.
To close the gap, I start to jog.
He must hear me since he looks back. He starts running. His jacket flaps behind him.
“Stop!” I scream. I put on a burst of speed. “Hey! You! Stop!” Anger rockets me closer.
Back in high school, during gym class, out jogging, a passing pervert groped me. I spun around and kicked him hard in the ass. He yelped and shot away like a dog with its tail between its legs. Witnessed by half the class, this episode earned me brief fame.
The intruder is nearing the exit. Two metal rails form the gate, designed to stop bicycle traffic. When he vaults over these, his jacket snags. He arcs forward, headfirst. His hat tumbles off to reveal long, dark gold hair.
Minus the hat, his identity’s obvious. It is Ryan! That fucker!
For a moment, he lies on the ground, stunned. Then he swings himself upright and yanks his coat free. He darts right.
I stagger up to the rails. Ryan’s maybe fifty feet away. “You!” I shriek.
He looks back over his shoulder. His snarl takes me back to that morning, to the intersection of Elm and Marlowe. That thump when his car struck Alma Reyes. Pure rage overwhelms me. “You! Killer!”
At this word, Ryan spins to a stop. I recoil, scared he’ll charge toward me. His face is dark with fury. “Shut up, bitch!” he says. “Or you’ll be sorry.”
He turns and walks away.
I can barely stand, let alone follow. I cling to the gate’s railing, gasping.
Leaning out, I watch Ryan saunter down the street. Freed from the cap, his tawny curls bounce. He crosses the road and turns onto a side street.
Still holding the rail, I bend low. I can’t suck in enough air. That look in his eyes. He knows who I am! I shouldn’t have chased him. If I point the finger at him, he’ll tell the cops that I ran that stop sign.
Though I know that I must turn him in, I don’t dare.
I can’t stop wheezing.