I cut through Mr. Utlet’s yard and hoped the ornery old man wouldn’t notice me. But of course I ran straight into him. I bounced back as if I’d just run into a brick wall, then winced and looked up. He was glaring down at me.
Mr. Utlet was one of those neighbors who looked both old and dangerous, as if he’d been an assassin in his youth and only retired to suburbia to throw off a hit squad out for revenge. He was on the small side of average, with short gray hair, a bristly face, and skin that looked like tanned leather. But despite his size, he came across as a giant. My dad said Mr. Utlet’s tattoos—he had one on each forearm—were from his time in the army. Special Forces, no doubt. His eyes were what freaked me out the most, though. They were cold and dark, like the color of the sky just before a really bad storm.
“I told you not to cut through my yard, kid.” Mr. Utlet’s gaze flicked over my face and his expression shifted from angry to curious. No doubt he was wondering where all the bruises had come from. I wondered if he could see the fear in my eyes. Even worse, maybe he was like a dog or a bee, and he could smell fear. It wouldn’t have surprised me one bit. “Sorry, sir,” I said, dusting off my clothes, “it won’t happen again.”
He grunted and gestured for me to go.
I crossed the street in a flash, rushed through the front door of my house, and didn’t stop until I was lying on my bed.
“What’s wrong with me?” I groaned into my pillow. I pressed my hands to my head and closed my eyes.
The twisted image of Mrs. Farnsworthy screaming like a maniac—a dying maniac—played over and over in my mind until I couldn’t keep my eyes closed for another moment. I tried to forget about the whole thing by studying my biology textbook, but it was no use. The moment I managed to get the image of Mrs. Farnsworthy out of my head, I instantly remembered what a scene I’d made and felt my cheeks flush with renewed embarrassment. I flipped a bit further through the book until the words started swimming off the pages and frustration got the best of me. I growled and threw it across the room. It hit my night table and knocked my alarm clock to the floor.
Get a hold of yourself! I took a breath, pushed myself to my feet, and paced in front of my bedroom window until I started getting dizzy. Then I plunked down at my computer and spent the next while surfing the Internet for an explanation for what might be going on with me besides PTSD. I wasn’t a psychologist, but the whole PTSD thing just didn’t make sense. I hadn’t been beaten up in the alley. I hadn’t been attacked at all. No, it hadn’t been fun to watch a man get beaten to pulp, but I didn’t feel anxious when I thought about it. I wasn’t worried the men were going to come and find me or anything. My hallucinations had to be the result of something else.
Exhaustion overwhelmed me, and I moved to my bed. Just a quick nap, I decided. I had barely finished the thought before I passed out.
At four-thirty, my mom knocked at the door and startled me awake. I hadn’t heard her come home. “Colin’s on the phone, honey. Do you feel well enough to talk?”
I cracked the door open. “Yeah. Thanks, Mom.”
She handed me the phone and smiled one of those worried-mom smiles before heading down the hallway.
I took in a deep breath before speaking. “Hey, Colin.”
“Hey, man, what’s going on? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, just tired, I think.”
“So you’re just seeing screaming faces because you’re tired?” a girl’s voice suddenly asked.
“Lisa?”
“Oh yeah, sorry,” Colin said. “Lisa’s on the line too.”
I sighed. “You guys don’t need to worry about me.”
“Yeah right! You’re either on drugs, schizophrenic, or, my personal favorite, possessed. I’m hoping you’re possessed. That would totally explain the outburst in Mrs. F’s class, plus I’ve always wanted to see an exorcism. You haven’t been puking up green slime or crawling around on the ceiling, have you?”
I moved to the window. “You watch too many movies.”
Colin chuckled.
“I think you’re right… you’re just tired. Stressed and tired,” Lisa offered. “Are you feeling stressed out, Dean?”
“I’m fine.” My parents already thought I was nuts. The last thing I wanted was my friends thinking the same thing. I tried to choose my words carefully. “There’s”—I swallowed—“nothing wrong with me. I just… I don’t know, maybe I’ve got a fever or something. That might explain all the hallucinations.”
“Whoa,” Lisa said. “All the hallucinations? As in more than one?”
I winced. “I guess there might have been a couple.”
“Well, I still think its stress.” Lisa sounded less convinced, but I appreciated her effort.
“I don’t,” Colin said. “I still think he’s possessed.” I could hear the smile on his face.
The corners of my mouth twitched, and the tension in my shoulders slackened. Colin had that effect. “But if you’re not,” he continued, “it has to be the drugs. What are you doing these days?”
“Oh, I do whatever I can get my hands on,” I said, laughing. “Cocaine, meth. Sometimes I just raid the medicine cabinet and take handfuls of whatever I find.”
I was about to dive in and tell them all about mugging and the man in the alley when there was a stifled gasp from behind me. I turned to see my mom standing in the doorway, her hand over her mouth.
“Mom, no.” I held up the phone to prove my innocence. “It’s Colin and Lisa. I’m just… it was a joke.”
Mom’s expression shifted uncertainly between horror and fury. Settling on horror, she bellowed, “Jonathan! Come up here. Now!”
I hung up the phone as my dad arrived at the doorway. He wore a flowered apron and clutched a wooden spoon that dripped spaghetti sauce on the carpet.
“What?” he said, looking around the room anxiously. “What happened?”
“Your s… son’s turned to drugs!” Mom’s words sounded like they were being choked out of her.
“I’m not doing drugs.” I rolled my eyes. “We were joking around. That’s all.”
My father wasn’t a small man and could have been a linebacker in another life. So the apron he wore looked more like a bib. He tapped the sauce-laden spoon on one hand, pursed his lips, and then ran his hand through his hair, oblivious to the fact that in doing so he left a streak of red across his head. “Drugs, Dean?”
This was getting ridiculous. I struggled to clamp down my anger. “We were just joking around. I told them about the whole hallucination thing and they were just trying to make me feel better.”
“I think it was just a misunderstanding, hon.” My dad stepped next to me and draped his arm over my shoulder and looked at my mom. “Kids joke about serious issues. It’s normal.” He turned to me. “If your friends offer you drugs—”
“They’re not going to offer me drugs, Dad. You both know Colin and Lisa. You know they’d never do that.” I turned to my mom and sighed. “But if they do, I’ll say no.”
She wasn’t looking at me anymore. Instead her brows were furrowed. She was focused on my dad’s head. “What’s in your hair?”
“My what?” He lifted his hand toward his head and paused when he saw his sauce-smeared palm. As if on cue, the smoke detector from the kitchen started beeping. “My sauce!” He charged past my mom and back down the stairs.
My mom ignored the ruckus coming from the kitchen and moved forward to hug me. She held me at arm’s length. “You know better, right?”
I nodded.
She wiped her face with her sleeve. “I’d better go make sure your father doesn’t burn the place down.”
I plopped myself on my bed and thought about Mrs. Farnsworthy again. If this keeps up, I might need drugs after all.