15

ONCE, WHEN I WAS really young, Marcy went away to Florida with her brother, Tate, and her parents. Anders’ mom and dad were still together back then and Mr. Stephenson always seemed to be lurking just out of sight. I think he didn’t really like or trust kids. Maybe he thought we would pee in a corner if left unsupervised.

The Stephenson’s basement was partially finished, so we used to hang out down there, playing bumper pool and video games, or sometimes pretending about stuff like little kids do.

The day that Marcy came back from Florida, Anders, Myers, and I were playing Checkers and I had winners. We didn’t hear the door to the basement open at first, so Marcy was like three quarters of the way down the stairs before I even noticed that she was there.

I was so happy to see her, even though she’d only been gone for a week, that I ran up to her and gave her a big hug. I was only in third grade. It was no big deal, but Mr. Stephenson thought differently. He had been loitering in the corner of the basement tinkering on something that I didn’t even bother to notice. When he saw me hug Marcy, he grabbed me by the arm and got right in my face.

“Never do that again,” he screamed at me. I was stunned. Beryl never screamed. Beryl never did anything because she never cared enough.

Marcy was shocked. My face turned beet red and tears welled up in my eyes and started streaming down my face. Mr. Stephenson was so big and I couldn’t figure out what I had done wrong. He loomed over me, smothering me in a cloud of anger with his fingers digging into my arm.

After what seemed like a lifetime, he let go of me and hissed, “Faggot,” which I didn’t understand at all, then put his hands on his hips and told us all to go home.

Later that day, when Marcy, Myers and I were all outside trading game cards that none of us are even into anymore, Anders came over and quietly sat next to me.

“My dad’s moving out,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Mom says I’ll see him on weekends.”

Marcy and Myers stared that much more intently at the cards they were holding. We were so little. How were we supposed to react? After a moment I said, “I’ve never had a dad. It’s not so bad.”

I was lying about that gaping hole in my world, but nothing would ever fill it back up so I had learned to walk around it. Still, I’ll never forget that day with Mr. Stephenson in Anders’ basement. He was so cruel, so mean, for no reason at all. I couldn’t have been more than eight or nine. Was hugging a friend so wrong?

Memories like that stick with you forever. Every time Mr. Stephenson comes into town to see Anders and raises his hand to me from across the street like I’m some sort of long lost friend, all I think about is what he said and what he did.

Sometimes it still even stings, like the triangle on my arm is stinging now underneath its Neosporin salve.

I rub it again, trying not to think about how I’m ever going to explain why it’s there.

Myers asks, “Does it hurt?”

“Yeah,” I tell him, then point to the patch covering his lost eye. “Does your face hurt?”

“No,” he sputters with a weird look. “Why?”

“It’s killing me,” I say without bothering to smile. It’s a cheap shot at trying to lift the oppressive feeling that’s been hanging in the air all morning.

“Wow,” he says. “That’s bad even for me.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “I know.”

Minutes later we’re almost on top of Turner Pond. Marcy and Anders are sitting by the water with their backs to us. They’re side by side, but she doesn’t have her arm around his shoulder or his around hers. They’re together but alone, which only accentuates the fact that we’re all together but alone today.

Marcy looks up and finds my eyes. She’s been crying. Streaks of dirt have dried against her cheeks, making them look like they’re painted in some weird striped makeup. Anders doesn’t look up. He keeps staring at the water with a deep, dark scowl on his face. I’ve seen that scowl before. Mr. Stephenson wore it the day he yelled at me for hugging Marcy. Now, just like then, it’s frightening.

“Why are there sirens?” Marcy asks. “What’s happening?”

I don’t want to answer her yet. Instead, I bend down on one knee and open up my backpack.

“Your bedroom looks like a bomb went off in it,” I tell her. “I didn’t know what to bring so I brought this.” I hand her the clothing that I pulled from her floor along with the shoes that I saved from sinking into the muddled mass.

“Thanks,” she says, although part of me thinks that if I had brought back nothing, she would have been okay with that as long as Anders is okay.

I reach in my backpack again and pull out another ball of clothing. I’m scared that all my efforts might not hide the fact that Anders was mentally gone when I left him earlier in search of clean clothes.

“I covered for you,” I tell him. “Your mother was just coming in from a date or something, so she doesn’t even know you didn’t come home last night. I barely had time to grab anything from your room, but at least I got this.” I offer him his smelly laundry clothing. I’m pretty sure the stench of sweat trumps the bloody stuff he stripped off before.

I hold the clothing out to Anders, but he doesn’t take it.

“Anders?” Marcy whispers as she stands and pulls on her jeans. I try not to look at her long legs or her panties. She’s Marcy. She’s my friend. Friends don’t stare at other friends like that. Instead I focus on Anders.

“Thanks for the clothes, West,” I say for him. I barely hide the fact that there’s a bit of venom in my voice, but I can’t help it. “It’s awesome that you walked all the way across town, covered for the four of us, got our clothes, and came all the way back.”

Marcy sniffs and says, “Anders?” again, but he’s still dark and brooding and staring at the water wearing nothing but his underwear.

I look up at Myers. He shrugs and does this classic Myers move that might be a little funny any other time but right now. He lifts his hand and corkscrews one finger up against the side of his head.

That’s universal sign language for ‘your best friend has just lost his marbles.’ I sigh and bite the inside of my cheek. None of us are equipped to handle Anders like this. We might have to tell one of our parents, or worse, the police. If we do that, all hell might break loose because nothing in the world can truly scrub all the blood away. You can never scrub away that much misery.

“I think Sandy Berman didn’t run away,” I whisper.

“What?” Myers and Marcy both say at the same time.

“Sandra Berman,” a voice that’s coming out of my mouth mutters. “Remember her?” Then, of course, I have to add something else because the truth might shock Anders out of his funk. I can be such an asshole sometimes. “I think she might have been murdered.”