Charlie may not like me following people, but at least she knows why I do it.
It’s hard to stop. People are strange. I learn a lot.
And if I’d been as observant last summer as I am now, my parents might still be alive.
I’m always watching, listening. If someone becomes interesting enough, I add him or her to my list of people to follow.
Following is fascinating and daring and sometimes a little dangerous. But I have to do it. It’s important work. You never know about people; what they show on the outside is often not what’s on the inside. You’ve gotta watch for those brief moments when the hidden part slips out.
Studying people so I can understand what makes them tick is a good skill to have if I really am going to be an investigator. So what I’m doing now? It’s all just practice.
The tricks I’ve picked up following people worked for me while I was trailing Greg. But, really, following is easier than you might think. People are oblivious, too caught up in their own stuff to pay attention to what’s around them. It makes it easy for me not to be noticed.
It’s how I learned my science teacher is dating my gym teacher, though they go out of their way to hide it from everyone in school, and how I found out Milton bad boy Steve Latimer, who spends more time in detention than he does in class, finds time two afternoons a week to volunteer at a day care for kids with special needs. And I discovered that Rick Kellerman, star of the school’s wrestling team, is really into fashion magazines.
It’s amazing the things I learn. People and their secrets.
Despite what Charlie recommended, I finish my notes after I get home. Not doing it feels dishonest somehow. They’ll be safe. I always keep my notebook close by. Nobody’s ever going to read it but me.
By the time my uncle gets home from work, I’m almost finished with my homework. Uncle Bill works construction, does a lot of overtime, and he’s always bone-tired when he gets home. He’s a nice guy; he didn’t have to uproot his life to become my guardian, move to Milton, and get a new job so I could keep living here. For someone who was never married or had kids of his own, and who suddenly became responsible for taking care of a teenager, he does okay. But he’s not much for long conversations. He’ll ask me the usual questions: “How was school?” or “Got any homework? Need any help with it?”
I’ll fill him in on basic stuff about the school day, and when I tell him I don’t need help with homework, he always seems grateful. Once dinner is over, not long after he’s planted himself in his armchair in front of the TV, beer in hand, he’ll be out like a light. At some point, he’ll wake up and get himself upstairs to bed, but I’m usually long asleep before that happens.
He’s not mean and never gets angry. I get good grades, and whenever I come home with another A on a paper or test, he’ll tell me how smart he thinks I am, just like my dad. Hearing him mention either of my parents makes my heart ache.
We don’t usually talk about them, my mom and dad. Though lately he’s been bringing them up more and more, especially Dad. There have been times when, on the nights he’s had an extra beer or two, I’ll hear him mumbling to himself. And I’ll hear my dad’s name.
Reminding me he must miss him, too.
The early evening news has nothing about a body found in old Miller’s Park. Dinner tonight is chili, one of about six meals my uncle knows how to make. I like his chili, but my stomach is too tied up to eat. He’s not too tired to notice.
“You’re not eating,” he says. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” I manage to wolf down enough spoonfuls to satisfy him. I think he might say something more, but he just returns to his food, and we both go back to a quiet meal.
Later, I’m in my room upstairs, finishing up what’s left of my homework, when my cell phone rings.
Charlie.
I don’t even say hi. “What’d you hear?”
“Nothing.”
“Your father didn’t talk about it?”
“Oh, he talked about it,” she says. “A lot. I mean they found nothing at Miller’s Park. No Amy, no Greg, no sign of a fight, nothing. He spent half of dinner complaining about kids that make prank calls to the station. Three now in the past ten months. The other two were bad enough, claiming someone had a gun. But this one he called particularly bad because the caller claimed someone might have been killed. My dad says he’s not going to let this one slide. He’s going to find the kid who did it.”
“I shouldn’t have called. I should have just—”
“You were right to call,” Charlie says. “You did the right thing.”
“But your dad—”
“Relax. He’s just blowing off steam. They don’t know where the call came from. They’re not going to find you.”
“What if someone saw us in the phone booth?”
“Take some deep breaths, Alden.”
I take two deep breaths, but they don’t do much to settle the fluttering in my chest.
“This isn’t a TV show where they trace the call before the commercial,” Charlie continues. “Our little community police department isn’t big enough to track down one phone booth. There’ll be the article in the paper tomorrow, then things will die down. Don’t worry. Besides, this is good news.”
“Good news…”
“This means Amy’s alive. She just fell or something. That’s probably why you saw her lying on the ground.”
I say nothing.
“Or they were making out together on the grass,” she continues, “and when you saw them, Greg had just gotten up. If you’d stayed a little longer you probably would have seen Amy get up, too.”
She pauses.
“Alden? You there?”
“He could have moved Amy’s body,” I say.
“Jeez, Alden. Greg Matthes isn’t some criminal mastermind. And besides, you told me he walked there, didn’t have a car. You think he dragged her somewhere? No way.”
After a few seconds, I say, “I guess you’re right.”
“You bet I am. Tomorrow you’re going to school, and you’ll see Amy there. Then you’re going to breathe a big sigh of relief, and everything will get back to normal.”
Another deep breath. “Okay.”
“And then you’re going to stop following people.”
I don’t respond.
“It’s creepy,” she says.
I still don’t respond.
“Promise me you’re going to stop following people, Alden. And mean it this time.”
Silence.
Then I let out a big sigh. “Okay.”
“Promise?”
Another sigh. “Promise.”
“Okay.” Then she adds, “You big goof.”
“You’re bigger than I am.”
“Bigger and stronger. But not goofier.”
We both laugh. This is a familiar refrain between us. I’m sure most people would think it sounds dumb, but we’ve said it for years.
“Good night, Alden.”
“Good night.”
Charlie ends the call.
She has a way of making me feel better when something’s bothering me. I like to think the rare smile she reserves for me is not one she shares with others.
As I try to drift off to sleep, I tell myself she’s right. I’ll go to school tomorrow, and Amy will be there.
Except what if she isn’t?