Chapter Fourteen

Still numb, I stumbled down the stairs and met Dad for a quick, silent breakfast. He still fought for me to stay home today, but I gave him Cowlings’ explanation about it being safer at school. Begrudgingly, he agreed.

Dreary-eyed and foggy-minded, I made my way to school. I’d downed three cups of coffee, but all the caffeine in the world couldn’t wake me up enough to fully face the next seven grueling hours. Parked in the lot, I checked in with Olivia and Ian.

—I’m here, at least physically— texted Olivia.

—I’m ok— responded Ian.

All right, everyone should be safe for another seven hours at least.

As I sleep-walked into sociology, Mr. Jensen watched me. Once I sat down, he came over to talk quietly to me.

“I’m surprised you’re here today, Tex. I’m truly sorry to hear about your friend, Josh. I didn’t know him, but I understand he was a good kid.”

I just nodded vacantly, rather than run the risk of crying at school. It all seemed like a bad dream, the discomfiture compounded by my lack of sleep. And even though Jensen tried his best to make me feel better, it only made things suck more. I felt light-headed and a little nauseous.

Jensen briefly placed his bear-claw hand on my shoulder before returning to his desk.

“Quiet down, class,” he said, glancing furtively around the room. “As you all know by now…we’ve lost another student…Josh Berillo.” He paused, looking in my direction. “Does anyone want to express their feelings?”

How the hell do you think I feel? I realized Mr. Jensen didn’t intend to make a horrible situation awkward, but that’s what it turned into. No one raised their hand or said anything.

“Tex, would you like to say a few words?” I knew it. And dreaded the hell out of it. A lump birthed in my throat.

“Josh was a great guy…” All I could muster before I lost control. Everyone watched me, expecting more, but I couldn’t continue. I looked down at my open textbook and shook my head slowly.

“Okay, then, let’s get started,” said Mr. Jensen.

Now I was pissed. I knew Josh as a quiet guy and didn’t know many—if any—of the students in this classroom, but surely one of them had something to say about him. And no fanfare and hullabaloo for Josh? When Matt Rimmer died, they damn near threw him a memorial parade. I could understand their skipping the glory for Bellman, but not Josh. Would it have hurt them to announce over the intercom? Did they really think Josh didn’t matter as much as Rimmer, simply because he lagged in popularity and didn’t play football?

I almost threw up. Ready to ask Mr. Jensen to be excused, the intercom buzzed and beat me to the punch. I hoped I’d get summoned to Hastings’ office again; at least I’d get out of this claustrophobic nightmare. As if confronted with a gorilla in the zoo, my fellow students heeded the zookeeper’s warning to avoid eye contact with me for their own safety.

Sure enough, Jensen hung up the intercom and once again approached me.

“Tex, you’re wanted in Mr. Hasting’s office,” he said softly. “Would you like me to go with you?”

“No.” The last thing I wanted. I just needed to get the hell out of there. I snatched up my book, threw it in my backpack, and stumbled toward the hallway, feeling the gazes of the curiosity-seekers burning a hole in my back.

As I walked down the long hallway, the searing neon lights guided the way. Rings pulsated around the lights like they did when I’d gotten too much chlorine in my eyes from swimming. I cursed Hastings and company for ignoring Josh’s murder and built up quite a bit of rage, Ian style.

When I opened the office door, Mrs. Carbody slapped a handful of papers down on her desk. She tilted her head and looked at me expectantly.

“Yes?” she asked, smiling ever so slightly and ever so sourly.

Without saying a word, I ignored her, walked to Hastings’ door, and pushed it open.

Hastings sat at his desk, shooting eye daggers at me. Detective Cowlings straddled the edge of the desk with one leg dangling down. Spread on the desk in front of them lay Josh’s natty, blue canvas backpack. The beer bottle protection spell stood straight up on Hastings’ desk like an out-of-place buoy in the desert.

Hastings leaned back in his chair and entwined his fingers behind his square head. “Richard…are you and your friends practicing Satanism?”

Oh, crap.

“No!” I said, a little too emphatically. “Why would you even ask me something like that?” Nothing had prepared me for this. Thinking fast on my feet came hard enough, but due to emotional trauma, this felt nearly impossible.

“Would you care to explain this?” Hastings picked the bottle up and rolled it around between his thick fingers.

Cowlings looked on disapprovingly. “Ah, Mr. Hastings, please don’t touch the bottle anymore.” Hastings cocked an eyebrow up, glared at Cowlings, and set the bottle down on his desk.

“What is that?” I asked. Then I thought I didn’t want to leave Josh open for accusations of Satanism, so I quickly—maybe stupidly—changed my story. “Ohhhh…that must be one of the good luck charms I made at my friend’s house.” I rubbed the back of my head as if it aided my sudden recall.

“And which friend is this, Tex?” asked Cowlings. Already prepared for me, his notebook sat open in his lap and his pen poised. “Please explain…”

“‘Tex?’” asked Hastings while staring at Cowlings. “Why ‘Tex’?”

Cowlings gave Hastings an annoyed look and went back to writing. “Go on, Tex.”

“Let’s see…” I squinted and looked upward. “Some time ago, my friend Mickey told me about an old family tradition of hers—good luck charms—and how to make them. I thought it was funny and asked her to make a couple of them for me. I gave one to Josh.” I attempted to smile to show good times. “But, really…Satanism? We would never get into anything stupid like that.” Sweat formed on my forehead, augmented by the amount of coffee I’d had.

“Uh-huh. And when did you make these good luck charms?” asked Cowlings.

“I really can’t remember…” I said. “Quite some time ago, though.”

“You really can’t remember?” Cowlings repeated. He looked at me suspiciously and with obvious disappointment. “Tell me when.”

“I guess it wasn’t too long ago, but I really can’t recall. It was just something to do, really…we don’t actually believe in good luck charms.” I needed to sit down, so I wouldn’t fall. Then again, I didn’t want to get too comfortable. If I remained standing, I could get out of there quicker.

“When Mr. Hastings unlocked Josh Berillo’s locker this morning, he opened up the bottle before I arrived,” said Cowlings. He tightened his lips into a thin, hard grimace and pulled out a small folded piece of paper from his pocket. “He found this. It looks like a…spell of some sort. Let me read it to you, Tex, and see if it helps jog your memory.” He yanked his glasses out of his front pocket and put them on in one quick motion. “‘I neutralize the power of Bob Bellman to do Josh Berillo any harm. I ask that this be correct and for the good of all. So mote it be.’” Carefully, he put the paper back in his pocket, took his glasses off, and waited for explanations.

“Oh, yeah, now I remember. I think we made them last summer. It was after Bellman attacked Josh in the shower room in the spring.” I thought if I allowed for more time to pass, this would lessen the impact of their findings. “You remember that incident, don’t you, Mr. Hastings?” My upper lip curled up involuntarily in anger.

“I seem to recall you and the Berillo boy were involved in some sort of skirmish with Bellman,” said Hastings, smiling, yet…not.

Ignoring Hastings, I turned my attention back to Cowlings. “To tell you the truth, I hardly remember this ‘good luck charm.’ It was just something interesting for us to do. We were bored last summer.”

“I see.” Cowlings twirled his glasses around by the ear-piece. He turned to Hastings and asked, “Mr. Hastings, would you mind terribly if I borrow your office for a few minutes? I have some official police business to talk with Tex about.” Hastings stared at Cowlings as if he couldn’t believe the cop’s gall. “Alone,” added Cowlings firmly.

Hastings grunted and slapped his hands on his desk. He stood and faced Cowlings. “I’ll be in the hallway if you need me.” The door slammed on his way out.

I couldn’t help but smile at Cowlings after this showdown. He didn’t smile back.

“Tex, just what in the hell is going on here?”

“Pretty much what I told you, detective.”

“‘Pretty much,’” he bounced back.

“Pretty much.”

“That’s not good enough. I know you’re not telling me everything. You’re not lying, but you’re not telling the truth, either.” I thought I saw the bald patch on top of his head turn red with anger.

“It’s just a ‘good luck charm.’ We never even took it seriously. We’re really not into Satanism or—”

“It’s not just this goddamn good luck charm, Tex, and you know it,” he said, cutting me off. “Every time I turn around, there you are! You and your friends. I’ve got three—three!—murders on my hands, and you seem to be embroiled in all of them!” He crossed the room and stopped in front of me, his face a couple of inches from mine. “Then last night, I get a tip from an obviously teenage girl—obviously doing a terrible British impersonation—about where Josh Berillo’s body can be found. How many teenage girls do you know that are involved in this, Tex? I can think of one. Your friend, Olivia.”

“Actually, Bellman and Rimmer knew a lot of cheerleaders. Have you talked to them?” A worthless reply, but beggars can’t be choosy. And frankly, I didn’t much care, anyway.

“Shut the hell up!” I’d never seen Cowlings angry before. He always seemed like a warrior when it came to keeping his cool. “And now, our friend Mr. Hastings stupidly contaminates any evidence we may’ve found in Josh’s locker by digging his fingers into everything. And he’s already determined it’s Satanic foul play and tells me that’s why you kids are the killers!”

My knees gave way, and I collapsed into the chair, unfeeling from head to toe. “Detective Cowlings…we’re not Satanists…and we’re not killers…we’re just fairly ordinary kids…”

Cowlings violently swatted his hand in the air as if warding off a mosquito attack, I suppose his method of cooling down. Whatever works, just please let it end. He turned his back toward me, hung his head, and stood akimbo.

“Tex, you’re making my job very difficult. You do understand I’m trying to catch what some people are now calling a serial killer, don’t you?”

I nodded silently, fully understanding this as my best course of action.

“Do you know how many murders I’ve had to deal with, Tex? Do you? In the quiet, little town of Clearwell, Kansas?”

“Not many…I guess.”

“That’s right, Tex, and usually—if they happen at all—they’re robbery related. But not this case…” He looked up at the ceiling as if appealing to the great gods of justice. “And now, I fully expect our amateur police friend Hastings to start spreading his theory about Satanism. Sure, there’re random cases of Satanism in Kansas…but they don’t end in serial killings! Soon enough, they’re going to send in the FBI, and that’s just going to make my headaches even worse!”

“Sorry?”

“And during this cluster,” he continued, “I have Tex and his friends withholding more knowledge than they’re letting on. I don’t know if you’re playing detective yourself, or something much worse, but it has to stop! Now.” He walked around to Hastings’ desk and sat down. “I don’t feel you’re the killer, Tex…I don’t want you to be and thankfully, your alibis pan out. I’ve already checked with Mickey Goldfarb about yesterday—another lovely meeting with her, by the way—and now I get the grand pleasure of calling her again to ask her about this…good luck charm. So, not only am I tasked with finding a thus-far impossible to locate ‘serial killer’…I also find myself in the unenviable position of being protector to Tex and his crew. I’m not a goddamned babysitter!”

“Thank you.” I gulped, my throat dry.

“But…it’s becoming harder and harder to do. Not only am I trying to keep you alive, but I’m also struggling to keep gung-ho idiots like Hastings from accusing you and your friends. You’ve got to admit …some of this evidence looks pretty bad.”

“I swear to God, Detective, we had nothing to do with the killings.”

“I want to believe you, Tex.” He stood in front of me, grasped my arm, and yanked me to my feet. “But you’ve got to start telling me the truth.” Even though I stood close enough to smell the mint on his breath, his voice lowered to the point I had to strain to hear him. “Everything.”

I wondered if I could trust Cowlings with the information about my newfound witchhood. It would certainly help matters…if he believed it. On the other hand, if he didn’t believe it, I’d pretty much sign my own declaration of guilt as being a card-carrying Satanist and thus, by default, a serial killer. When it came to things otherworldly, I suspected Cowlings put no such stock in the notion. I didn’t want to become someone’s bitch in prison—so I opted to lie. So much for my newfound belief of “honesty is the best policy.”

“I’m telling you everything I know, Detective.”

“I wish I could believe you.” He sighed and sat down again. “You can go.”

“Goodbye,” I said quietly.

“Oh, Tex, you know Josh’s name may get dragged through the shit-heap once news of this…good luck charm…gets out, don’t you?” This ploy smelled like Cowlings’ last stab at getting me to tell him what he wanted to hear. It felt sadistic, almost.

It also struck a nerve. I stood in front of the door, dumbstruck. Bad enough that Josh had been murdered and his memory ignored at school. And now, the possibility the muckrakers would haul his name through this murder business, claiming he’s a Satanist, and quite possibly involved in the killings, didn’t sit right by me. Josh did not—his memory did not—deserve this.

Oddly enough, the outer office sat empty. Hastings probably puffed away angrily to some faculty lounge. No doubt, Mrs. Carbody kept busy by—I don’t know—pulling hairs out of a cat somewhere or whatever. And the two nameless women who normally lurked in the back were nowhere to be seen, either.

An urge overwhelmed me. I vaulted the front desk and slid to the other side. Dashing over to the intercom system, I quickly figured out how it operated. Practically archaic compared to hooking up some of the electronics we had at home. I flipped on the standing microphone and pressed the button labeled ALL CLASSROOMS.

I cleared my throat as a screeching sound emanated above me over a loudspeaker. I turned the volume down and spoke calmly into the microphone.

“Attention, students of Clearwell High.” I had no real idea of what might come out of my mouth. I just knew it had to be done. “I’m sure you’re all aware of the sad passing of fellow student Josh Berillo by now. If you’re not, well now you are. He was murdered sometime yesterday, and his body was found last night.”

Several students—out of class for some reason—stopped to stare at me through the window of the office. Paul Jacobson, the constant stoner, actually pumped his fist in the air as a sign of support.

“For whatever reason,” I continued, “the school’s powers-that-be have decided that Josh’s not worthy enough of a day devoted to him, as Matt Rimmer had been accorded. If anything, Josh Berillo is more worthy! Let me tell you something. Josh, unlike Matt Rimmer or Bob Bellman, never insulted anyone, never hurt anyone… never intruded on anyone’s private lives…he never judged anyone for who they were, or who they weren’t. He was a great guy. And I know some of you know this…and knew Josh…”

More people gathered in front of the windowed wall. A few began to clap. One disembodied voice yelled, “Go, Tex!” From behind the growing throng of students, I could see Arville Hastings’ square head bobbing back and forth, as he tried to push his way through the crowd. Not much time left.

“You know what? You know what made Josh so great? He was always there; he always had your back. He was the nicest guy I’d ever met. And he was a skate god!” More cheers erupted from the crowd as Hastings parted the sea of students. “And—like most of us here at wonderful Clearwell High—he was one of the downtrodden…one of the underdogs…one of the guys you people won’t go out of your way to be nice to because he wasn’t popular. Well…you suck!” Hoots, hollers, and whistles ripped through the hallway. “If you learn only one thing from the senselessness of Josh’s death, make it this: don’t write anyone off. Don’t do it. Make friends with someone who you’ve decided is not worth your time. Don’t belittle someone for being different, and for God’s sake, don’t bully them! Do it today. Because I feel sorry for anyone who wasn’t friends with Josh Berillo…you don’t know what you missed…” I paused, fighting back tears.

The door flew open. Hastings bounded through the swinging wooden door set into the front desk. He came toward me, a furious, charging bull. He snaked an arm around my neck while reaching for the microphone with his other hand. I held the mike out of arm’s reach.

“Our fine staff of school counselors is standing by to talk to you about…” Hastings cut me off as he dragged me backward on the rolling chair. Even though I now sat far from the intercom system, he tightened his grasp around my throat. Helplessly, I looked out at the students massed in front of the windows. They stared at the pandemonium, flabbergasted.

“Oh, you’re in big trouble now, Richard.” I looked into Hastings’ flaring nostrils, his breath hot on my face.

“That’s enough, Hastings,” said a voice from behind us. “I think Tex’s been through enough today. Besides,” Cowlings continued, “you wouldn’t want to be accused of student brutality. Particularly, when there’re many students watching you right now.”

Hastings let me go. He straightened up and noticed the angry and frightened students watching the fracas. Several of the braver students booed.

“Ah, okay, Richard…” Attempting to gain control, Hastings cracked his thick neck. “Ordinarily, I would recommend suspension for such a blatant disregard of school property and authority, but given the circumstances, you’ll be given a detention next Monday.” He mustered a fake smile, waved to the gathered students to dismiss them, and stormed into his office.

Cowlings bent over and said quietly, “Nice job, Tex. Stupid but nicely done.” He tapped my shoulder with his notebook and rejoined Hastings in his office to continue his police business.

I sat there stunned for a moment before I made my way out into the hallway. A few kids cheered their approval as I stepped through the crowd. Kids I didn’t even know congratulated me, patting me on the back and ruffling my hair. Several letter-jacketed football players stood, backs against the lockers, scowling at me.

At first, I couldn’t help but grin. So, this is what it felt like to be popular. Then I immediately suppressed my smile because I remembered what it all meant. It wasn’t about gaining popularity, or even notoriety. It’s about the loss of Josh. And about others like him. I hoped to maybe awaken some students’ minds about not letting kids slip through the cracks. About not letting them float through school like drifting ghosts, barely visible to most people, making only faint impressions, if any. The elite considered these students annoying flies, buzzing past the immaculately coiffed social status climbers, to be swatted away on their never-ending search for recognition among the popular. The sad thing is that students like Josh have so much more to offer than the thugs and the bullies, but no one gives them a chance, because being popular is the goal that is brainwashed into everyone since toddlerhood. And here at Clearwell High, popular usually equated with sports, cheerleading, money, appearance, or other such criteria that the vast majority of the student body never stood a chance of achieving.

I wondered if I had practiced some of the same behavior. After all, here were students congratulating me on my impromptu act of defiance. Yet I didn’t know them, nor can I say they’d ever made much of an impact on me before this moment. I didn’t even recognize some of them. But I could see in their faces the same sense of desperation with which I constantly lived. Sadness, fear, and most of all, a yearning sense of dammit, world, look at me! I’m here, too! I felt sick…hypocritical. I, too, ignored some of these other ciphers.

I made my way through the crowd, mumbling my thanks. As I stood in front of Olivia’s locker, I pretended to fiddle with the lock, trying to blend in with the walls. I’d never had a problem doing this before, and now, people wouldn’t leave me alone. School pariah and murder suspect one day, hero for the downtrodden the next. Back to being bullied tomorrow. I wanted no part of it.

The bell rang, more students piled out of classes, and more well-wishers congratulated me in passing. I guess I shouldn’t be so hard on myself and hoped maybe what I said might have gotten through to some of them. Right now, there seemed to be a sense of giddiness in the hallways that the underdogs had won one. And here I spun at the center of this maddening vortex.

But, really, would anything change in the long run? The bullies will be out in full force, probably going after me now more than ever. Fine. I’m just not going to take it anymore. Sure, I may get some bruised ribs, or a black eye out of the deal, but I’m now prepared to pay that price. No one should have to live a life based on fear. And the adult bullies—the vice-principals, the gym teachers, whatever—would they stop their behavior? I doubted it. But what does one do to combat those in charge? What options are open? I did what I could this morning. I knew it wouldn’t change their behavior—but maybe, just maybe—it might open the eyes to some of the cool adults and teachers around.

Still…my friend Josh had died. Nothing could bring him back. And at that moment, I hated this school with a passion because, in the long run, I blamed it—its protocol, bullies, everything—instead of some faceless psychopath, for letting Josh vanish off the face of the earth.

My head throbbed. Exhausted, the urge to puke hit hard.

A loud shriek shot through the hallway. Olivia rocketed down the hallway, pushing kids out of the way, barreling toward me. She threw her arms around my neck, buried her head in my chest, and nearly knocked me over.

“Omigod, Tex! That was too goddamned cool! Josh would be so proud of what you did.” She bounced up and down, her flats slapping the floor.

“Shhhh. People are going to think you’re trying to kill me.” Thank God she came around when she did because what she said made it all worthwhile. I did think Josh would’ve liked it.

“Tex, everyone’s talking about how awesome that was. You did Josh justice.” I found myself the main attraction of every passing student’s interest, and Olivia just turned it into a three-ring circus.

“Olivia, cool it.”

“Can’t help it, can’t help it, can’t goddamn help it!”

“Olivia…you wanna get out of here?” I pulled her arms from around my neck and held them to halt her gymnastics.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m kind of sick over this whole thing. I don’t like the hero worship…and I haven’t slept for ages…and there’s Josh…and I can’t even think straight. I want to get the hell out of here.”

“Cool! Let’s bounce.”

“Would your mom mind? I mean, if you cut school?”

“Hellz no. She didn’t even want me coming in today.”

“Okay, tell you what…I don’t think my dad would care either, as long as we stay together.”

“Cool.”

“But let’s do it by the rules this time. I’m already in enough trouble.” The bell rang, threatening the beginning of the second hour. The students lost interest in me and rushed off to their classes. I grabbed Olivia by the hand and led her to the nurse’s office.

Surprisingly cool about the whole thing, Nurse Cranky grinned at me. Chuckling on occasion, she seemed somewhat amused by my hijacking of the intercom system. Perhaps she’d been a survivor of the downtrodden back in the day for whom I had become an unofficial poster boy. She made us jump through some hoops and what-not, but I realized that’s what her job entailed.

I told her we were upset over our friend’s death, and we really needed to go home. Probably providing TMI, I explained to her my mother had passed away, and my dad couldn’t drive, so I asked her about the possibility of my driving us home.

“Absolutely not,” she said, lips pursed. “You know that would be against school policy.” Her small mustache twitched. “Let’s see what we can do…”

Luckily for us, Olivia’s mom jumped at the chance to pick us up under the stipulation we go to Ian’s house since his mother would be there. Through some quick phone-jockeying, Ian’s mom gave the thumbs up, and I called Dad to get his permission to do the same. He, of course, acted more than happy to oblige, as there would be four of us together. Safety in numbers and all that. Once again, he would have to have a co-worker give him a ride home, but he didn’t seem to mind. I had to leave my car at school, but the Bucket could take a bullet for a day if it meant getting out of there.

“All right, kids,” said Nurse Not-So-Cranky-Now. “Lie down on the cots until Mrs. Furman gets here.” She hummed some old-time country song and went about her business.

****

Super-amped to see us, Ian greeted us at the door with an ear-to-ear grin, a different look on him. Although black half-moons circled his eyes, nothing dampened his enthusiasm.

“What up?” With his arm still extended up in a cast, he resembled the poor guy who no one would high-five.

“Ian… Goddamn, it’s good to see you!” Olivia carefully embraced him. With his good arm, he gave me a secret fist-bump behind her back.

“It’s great to see you up and around,” I said.

Behind Ian stood Mrs. Stapleton, smiling. “Hi, kids, come in, come in.” We obeyed, and her smile vanished. “I’m sure sorry to hear about Josh. He was such a nice boy. Are you kids doing okay?” She wrung her hands as if prepping for surgery.

Olivia answered, “We’re trying.”

Upstairs, Olivia hopped onto Ian’s bed while we sat on the floor. Olivia told Ian what’d happened today.

“Ohhhh, shit.” Ian kicked his feet in the air, laughing. “Why is it I miss the only good things that happen there?”

“You didn’t miss that much,” I said. “Really…it wasn’t much at all…”

“Oh, Josh would’ve loved it,” he screamed. Suddenly he stopped laughing. A hush fell over us as we realized Josh would never be able to enjoy even the telling of it.