Calling Home by Michael Cadnum Page A

trying to yawn.
    â€œVice principal wants to see you.”
    Had Mr. Lindner complained that I was bombed in his class? No, that was impossible. Mr. Lindner hated the administration as much as he hated students, and he also would think that his little talk was effective enough to settle the problem for the time being.
    The hall was empty, and Mr. Tyler followed me as I put my hands in my pockets and strolled toward the brown door with the translucent glass which read, in flaking black letters, VICE PRINCIPAL . Every step was difficult because inside me, I felt the urge to flee immediately, to go anywhere, to run and never come back and turn into someone else, someplace else, with a different name and even a different face; these things can be done, but I don’t know enough about them.
    Mr. Tyler opened the door for me, actually turned the knob and held it open with a slight smile, the inside of his lower lip coated with chalk from his ulcer medicine. I put out one hand to the doorjamb and stepped into the office, letting my features float, for a moment, like petals on a pond while I chose the correct expression.
    Mr. Williams, the vice principal, was there, a fungus who shuffled papers and stood. “Peter Evers,” he said as if he couldn’t quite be sure I was the right person. I kept my mouth shut, and my features, in an act of genius, found the exact expression of puzzled irritation that I needed as I glanced around and saw the tallest Chinese man I have ever seen, and stout, too.
    â€œThis is Peter Evers,” said Mr. Tyler from behind me, and I mentally squeezed his neck in my hands until digested Rolaids ran down my hands from his gaping mouth. “Peter,” added Mr. Tyler, a surge of authority enriching his voice, “this is Inspector Ng.”
    â€œJust a few quick questions, Peter, if you don’t mind, so we can get some things squared away in a little investigation we have to do,” said Inspector Ng in one breath. His words were so fast I needed a moment to think about them, but he slapped more words in my face so rapidly I had to sit down, and did, feeling my bones turn to piss.
    â€œI understand that you are a friend of Mead Litton, and I’m sorry to say that Mead has been reported missing so I have to ask you one or two questions in hopes that we can find him,” said Inspector Ng.
    I swallowed. “Mead is missing?”
    â€œThat’s right. This is a routine investigation we do in all cases such as this, contacting friends and acquaintances to attempt to discover the whereabouts of the missing person.”
    â€œSo they can find him,” said Mr. Tyler. “Runaways.” Mr. Tyler shook his head. “Runaways in a world like this.”
    â€œMead ran away?” I asked, hurting my neck to look up at Inspector Ng.
    Inspector Ng opened a notebook. “We don’t expect any foul play because he has called home to reassure his parents that he is all right, and we have no reason to believe that he is in any kind of actual trouble.”
    â€œOh,” I said.
    â€œYou are a friend of Mead Litton’s, aren’t you, Peter?” asked Inspector Ng, sitting down. We were all sitting, except Mr. Tyler, who guarded the door like he expected me to bolt, even though I could have tossed him aside as easily as a hat rack.
    â€œOh, sure. We hang around together. You know.”
    â€œWhen did you last see him?” In an eerie way, this was the first thing that Inspector Ng had said slowly, and the words were heavy. I hefted them, unable to think.
    Mr. Williams lifted a hand from his desk. “Anything you can think of that can help, Peter.”
    Inspector Ng nodded. “Anything at all. Did you see the subject accept a ride anywhere, or speak to anyone you did not recognize, or do anything else that might not at the time have aroused suspicion but which might, in looking back—” Inspector Ng leaned forward.