Chapter One

I’d only known Olivia since the start of our sophomore year, but already she was one of the few people I could honestly call a friend. One week after school started, a short girl wearing a beat-up jean jacket, a Clash T-shirt, and a streak of orange adorning the long black hair hanging over one of her eyes, burst into speech class. She carried a folded-up piece of paper and a sense of excitement about her. After Miss Swanson studied the paper, she announced, “Class, this is Olivia Furman. She’s a new student here, so please make her feel welcome. Olivia, go sit over by Richard.” Since I was short on friends and “school cred”, empty seats usually surrounded me.

Once Miss Swanson assigned the latest group project (which I always hated, since I felt like the overweight kid, always chosen last in gym class), Olivia turned to me and said, “Okay, what’s the deal with that Hastings tyrant?” Arville Hastings was the notoriously scary, hard-ass vice-principal of our beloved school. Right then, I knew I wanted Olivia in my corner.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I just came from that jerk’s office.” Her one visible eye lit up. “He spent forty-five minutes telling me I needed to stay away from the stoners, the slackers, and the freaks, and if I wanted to make it, I should dress more appropriately and get to know people like the cheerleaders and the football team and…” Olivia listed off every notation with her bejeweled fingers. Out of breath with indignation, it took her a minute to notice my chuckling. Suddenly, she burst into a loud guffaw, attracting the irate attention of Miss Swanson.

“Is there something funny about our group project, Richard?” Miss Swanson asked.

“No, sorry. We’re just trying to come up with a topic for our group speech.” I leaned in closer to Olivia and whispered, “Welcome to sophomore year of ‘Tyrant High.’ I’m Tex, by the way.”

“I thought your name was Richard.”

“Well, I suppose technically, it is. But Richard’s such a stupid name, and I’ve learned the nickname for Richard is something far worse.”

Olivia stared at me until she realized what I meant and bellowed out another donkey laugh. With lightning speed, Miss Swanson stood over our huddled heads, arms akimbo, attempting to intimidate us into silence.

“Do you have a topic for your group speech, yet?” Miss Swanson barely kept her anger simmering under the surface of her matronly manner.

“Yes,” blurted Olivia, “teenage anarchy!” And with that, we both did our worst at stifling a rush of joyous laughter. I also realized a friendship had been forged from the fires of speech class. Literally saved by the classroom bell, Olivia was spared another visit to her new friend, Arville Hastings. The Fates smiled upon us that day.

****

Mid-October, I drove Olivia home from school through the leaf-strewn streets, her house five blocks from mine. An uncharacteristic quiet weighed heavily over us. Earlier, we’d been stunned by the shocking news delivered over the school’s barely intelligible intercom system.

The muffled mumblings of Arville Hastings had interrupted the ritual of watching the clock count down and crackled, “Attention, students. It’s with great sorrow…that I…report the sad passing away of football running back and student Matt Rimmer late last night.”

If Hastings was capable of being dumbfounded over anything, this was it. Not just any student had been killed. A football player.

“Tomorrow’s first class will be devoted to talking with your teachers about how this makes you feel…and for those who need it, our counselors will be available all day.”

Great. The burned-out counselors will be available from eight to three; then it’s time to turn off that grief, fellow students, and head home.

“Man. I still can’t believe it, right?” said Olivia. The orange strand of hair swayed in front of her eye with every bump and jab my old Chevy delivered along the brick-laid street. Olivia called my car the “Battle Bucket” in honor of it being a quick getaway from the constant threat of high school bullies. “I mean, Matt Rimmer wasn’t even one of the worst of the jerks. Too bad it wasn’t Bellman or Malinowski.”

“Hmmmm…” That’s all I managed to sputter out. Even though in total agreement with her, I didn’t want to get karma pissed off at me any more than it already was by wishing death upon someone else. Olivia, on the other hand, never feared tempting karma by speaking her mind, although she baited the anger of bullies quite a bit by doing so. She’s a dangerous person to be friends with, but well worth the trouble. “Yeah, Rimmer was one of the more…benign, I guess, of the football players.” Rimmer managed to hurl a few insults my way in the past, but at least, he kept the violence out of our ‘relationship.’

“Benign,” hooted Olivia. “Where in hell do you come up with these words, Tex?”

“I don’t know.” But I did know. “Benign” was a word I had become agonizingly familiar with last year. “Did you hear how he died?”

“Someone said they found his body in Mission Park early this morning, and he’d been beaten up and strangled,” Olivia said. I found this hard to believe. Rimmer was a pretty big and healthy guy. Who could jump a football player? And didn’t they usually run in packs like wild wolves?

“Where’d you hear that?” Sometimes Olivia’s flights of fantasy took her to the most extreme places. And I didn’t think she had too many friends besides me, Ian, and Josh. She was one of those girls every other girl hated, so she found acceptance with me and the rest of my freak show, as they called us.

“Ah, I dunno, just overheard it, I guess. Man, I really, really don’t want to have to deal with this first hour tomorrow. All the drama, the handwringing…everything!” I pulled onto Olivia’s street, Maple Avenue (the people in Clearwell loved naming everything after either trees or Native-American stuff), while Olivia zoned out for a minute. “Why would anyone kill Matt Rimmer?”

I shrugged. “Beats me, O. Besides, we don’t know for a fact he was strangled. What you heard might’ve been just gossip.”

“Crap. My mom’s home!”

I met Mrs. Furman once, and honestly, I didn’t find her nearly as bad as Olivia made her out to be. You could tell she used to be one of those women considered pretty years ago, but time—and whatever real drama had transpired in her life—chiseled out some hard knocks on her face. She seemed quiet, friendly enough, tired, and…well, sad. I think Olivia would’ve hated any parent she had to deal with because the notion of rebellion seemed pretty important and romantic to her. Her dad left when she was a lot younger, and she never talked about him.

“Okay, here’s where you get off, young lady,” I said in a mock-serious voice. I jumped out and rushed around to open her door from outside since it wouldn’t open from inside. Just another astonishingly crappy thing about my really crappy car.

“Why, what a gentleman.” Olivia fluttered her one visible set of eyelashes. She gave me a hug, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Olivia’d never hugged me before.

“Hey, relax, Tex.” She laughed. “It’s just a hug.” She smiled widely, exposing perfect white teeth.

“Sorry, I’m just not used to hugs.”

“Well, get used to them.” She leaned in for another hug. This time, I embraced her fully and somewhat awkwardly.

“So remember, stay away from the stoners, the slackers, and the freaks…” she said, finally breaking our embrace.

I finished our departing ritual. “And always be the best little anarchist you can.” I waved, got in the car, my thoughts all about Olivia. My smile soon faded, though, as a sudden shiver zip-lined through my body. I could feel something dark and unsettling coming down on us here in Podunk, Kansas, USA, God’s world.

****

Ruder than a mean cheerleader, dusk shoved daylight away. I pulled into our driveway, scraping the bottom of the Battle Bucket’s muffler along the way.

Too early to pick up Dad, my homework already finished in study hall, I felt antsy.

With nothing better to do, I thought I’d try and find out how exactly Matt Rimmer did die. My old computer (inherited from Mom) fired up, and the screen-saver photo of Mom greeted me with a knowing smile. A few clicks later, I found the local newsfeed story regarding Matt’s death.

Details were minimal, probably the norm for an unsolved murder. Matt’s body had been found in Mission Park by an early morning jogger. The only available information about his death stated he’d been “assaulted.” With no elaboration on the type of assault, that could mean practically anything. After he’d been late coming home from football practice, Matt’s parents had reported him missing. The story quoted Coach Jensen as saying, “Matt was a good and upbeat kid. It’s a great loss to everyone who knew him.”

Curiosity got the better of me, and I flipped over to social media to see if my suspicions on my peers’ behavior would be proven correct. Sure enough, some enterprising student had already set up a memorial page for Matt, with literally dozens of testimonials morbidly crying from the screen, claiming the tragedy as their own. Many tributes started with “I didn’t know Matt well, but…” and went on to provide their side of the story. I imagine some of these poor fellow school travelers didn’t know him at all. At the first sighting of a cheerleader remarking about Matt’s beautiful green eyes, I could take no more and shut the computer down.

I harbored no ill-will toward Matt. Sometimes I sort of got the feeling he went along with the name-calling half-heartedly because he thought of it as expected of him. I also felt bad for his family. I know what tragic loss feels like. What I can’t stomach are opportunistic vultures who try to up their lot in high school life by jumping on the bandwagon of a popular student’s tragedy. I know this sounds more than cynical, but hey, I’m a teenager, and that’s my worldview. But…the murder of someone I knew well enough to be called a “fag” by? Wow. Murder. It’s really bizarre when it lands in your own backyard.

****

I heard a forlorn, rhythmic ringing coming from outside. Through my bedroom window, I saw a plain white van driving slowly, a bell clanging on top. Something seemed off. The ice cream man hadn’t been seen or heard around here since the beginning of summer. For the first three agonizing weeks of June, the gaudily illustrated ice cream truck persistently cruised the streets of our neighborhood, blaring out the mind-piercing tune of Scott Joplin’s “The Entertainer.” It got to the point every time I tried to go to sleep, the infernal song played on a loop in my mind.

After three weeks, I heard nothing. One of two things might’ve happened. Either the ice cream vendor gave up, realizing there weren’t too many age-appropriate customers in the hood; or one of the neighbors (Mr. Cavanaugh, cough) had complained about the song. Either way, the truck vanished in June. And now, here it was again.

Yet this was a different ice cream truck. Gone were the colorful paintings of cartoon Bomb Pops dancing jauntily on a summer’s day, now replaced by plain, dingy white van paneling. If it weren’t for the tell-tale sign of a bell on top, ringing methodically as slowly as the van traveled, you’d have no idea the van was slinging ice cream. And why would the ice cream man make a less than triumphant return in the middle of October? This time of year, I’d rather have hot cocoa than a popsicle.

This murder business had me on edge, and at the back of my mind, I saw harbingers of doom instead of sugary-cold sweetness and frivolity. Time to shake off the chills. I reached for my favorite knit cap in its usual slumbering spot on my desk and found nothing.

Panic surged that I’d lost it somewhere. Mom had given it to me. She knew my personality better than anyone. A circle and a diagonal line blocked out the smiley face symbol emblazoned on the center of the green cap. When Mom had handed it to me, we just looked at each other and shared a laugh. No words were exchanged. They didn’t need to be.

I didn’t find it in my dresser, so I pulled a few boxes from the top shelf of my closet. A tiny swag bag fell. Picking it up, I untied the green ribbon holding it closed. The white handkerchief opened, exposing what looked like bay leaves and other herbs. I found it weird Mom had hidden some homemade potpourri in my closet. I didn’t think my closet stank that much. What scent it used to carry had long fled, so I tossed the folded cloth and its contents across the room smack into the wastebasket. Three points! Maybe I should go out for basketball? Not.

****

Just off of Elm Parkway, I pulled the Battle Bucket into the bank’s parking lot and shut off the engine. I guess the Bucket had different ideas as it stubbornly coughed and spat even after I took the keys out. I opened the bank door and did the usual desultory waves to my dad’s few remaining coworkers, who were lucky enough to have survived the lousy economy so far. I noticed at least one look that fairly screamed, Get a haircut!

“Hey, Dad.” I lurked in the open doorway, hoping not to get the stench of rampant capitalism on me.

“Hi, son.” Dad had already wheeled himself halfway across the room from his desk. A proud man, he never wanted anyone to see him being pushed in his chair. I respected this, even though it obviously wore him out. Once we were outside, our unspoken routine allowed me to assist him into the car.

“How was your day?” I asked. “Did you devastate many families by turning down their loans?”

“Yes and no.” Dad sighed, with a faint glimmer of a smile. “Hey, I heard about your schoolmate. Such a terrible thing! Was he a friend of yours?”

“Dad, he was a football player.”

“Right.” Dad always worried about my friends, as he didn’t approve of my small coterie of what he called ragamuffins. On the other hand, he resigned himself to the fact I’d never be one of the Popular Kids.

“Bill said the Rimmer kid was beaten and then choked. They don’t know if he died from the beating or strangling yet.” Bill Pearson, the omniscient security guard on duty at my dad’s bank, still had many connections to the local cops and acted as my dad’s one-stop gossip shop.

“Yeah, I’d heard that. Just crazy.”

“I want you to be careful, Tex.” Briefly, he dropped his granite façade of stolid “Pack Leader.” Fear and worry crossed his aging face. After everything we’d been through, it scared me a little to see him lose his composure. “Just…be careful.”

For the next several minutes, the only sound came from the Bucket’s start and stop sputter. Through the falling darkness, Dad gazed out the window. Leaves swirled about in a sudden gust of wind, spinning like a baby tornado.

“Son,” Dad said, breaking our silence, “we need to talk about your mother.” Much more uncomfortable than the silence, my least favorite topic. Over the past couple of months, Dad, in his awkward fashion (it runs in the family), had been trying to bring up the subject of Mom. Whenever he does, I nearly break out in a sweat. Waves of anxiety pour over me to the point I physically can’t talk about it.

“Not now, Dad. Sorry…” I strained my eyes at the now slightly blurry intersection ahead. “I don’t want to.”

“Well, I’m sorry, too, that you don’t want to talk about your mother, but we need to.” Dad stared me down. Hard. “I told her I would,” he added quietly. He snapped his head back to stare out the window. I could tell he wished he could take back that last sentence.

****

That night, we went through the motions of dinner, pushing frozen peas around our plates as if playing solitaire soccer. More small talk routinely rolled out of our mouths about our so-called lives, each of us carefully avoiding hotspots. Only too happy to go to bed for once, I raced up the stairs as Dad rolled into his downstairs bedroom.

Closing my eyes, the freshly remembered dulcet tones of “The Entertainer” ravaged my brain. I wondered what the Fates—or whatever sarcastic smartass who sets up the pieces in the game of Life—had in store for me. A lot of weirdness rained down upon me today, and I wondered if some strange cosmic puppeteer had yanked away my umbrella to punish me or if things were connected. Matt Rimmer’s murder, Dad’s cryptic mention of Mom’s wanting him to talk to me, annoying ice-cream men making a return from the graveyard of cold confections, bags of potpourri, missing caps, back-talking cars…anything and everything raced through my head like a bad fever-dream.

There was a scritch-scritch-scratching at my window, and by the moonlight, I saw the lonely gnarled hand of the giant oak Tree Watcher. Waving goodbye. No longer a child, on my own now, the oak let me know he wouldn’t be able to keep me safe from what lies in the darkness any longer.