Invisible by Pete Hautman Page B

the mutter of other voices, then my father’s again:
    â€œTHIS IS OUTRAGEOUS! ARE YOU CALLING ME A LIAR?”
    More muttering, then:
    â€œOKAY! OKAY, YOU WANT TO TALK TO HIM, FINE! I’LL GO GET HIM.”
    Slippered, stomping footsteps approaching. The door opens.
    â€œDOUGLAS!”
    I sit up. “What? What?”
    â€œI want you to come out here.”
    â€œI’m sleeping.”
    â€œNo you’re not. You are awake. Your eyes are open. Now come out here. Some men wish to speak with you.”
    Feigning grogginess, I crawl out of bed and shuffle down the hall after my stomping father.
    A large policeman with a mustache is standing in the entryway. I do not like policemen. My heart was pounding hard before; now it’s bouncing off my ribs.
    â€œCome along, Douglas,” my father says.
    I edge closer. A smaller man, balding and wearing a green sweater, is standing beside the policeman. Melissa’s father. They are both looking at me.
    â€œThat’s him,” says Mr. Haverman.
    The policeman holds up his hand, silently asking Mr. Haverman to shut up. He says to me, “Well, son?” He has a nice voice.
    â€œWell what?”
    â€œI understand you were visiting Woodland Trails this evening.”
    I shake my head.
    â€œSee?” says my father. “He was in BED. I TOLD you.”
    A new voice enters the conversation. “What is going on here?” It’s my mother, clutching the front of her bathrobe.
    â€œGo back to BED, Andrea!” my father snaps.
    She shudders as if his words were stones, then turns and shuffles back to her room.
    The policeman says, “What time did you go to bed, son?”
    â€œNine fifty-six.”
    â€œYou know the exact time?”
    â€œI always check the clock.”
    â€œYou’re sure you weren’t over in Woodland Trails?”
    â€œI’ve been in bed,” I say. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
    â€œYou’re a lying little pervert,” says Mr. Haverman. “I know it was you in that tree!”
    â€œIF HE SAYS HE WAS SLEEPING, HE WAS SLEEPING!”
    â€œPlease, sirs,” the policeman says, giving both of them a look. He steps toward me and puts his hands on my shoulders. Each hand weighs about ten pounds. “Look me in the eye, son, and tell me where you were tonight.”
    â€œI was asleep,” I say, the lie coming easily. “I was sleeping in my bed.”
    The policeman keeps his hands on my shoulders for a few seconds as he stares into my eyes, then he turns to Mr. Haverman and says, “Sir, the boy says he’s been at home.”
    â€œI know what he says . He’s lying.”
    â€œI’m not lying,” I lie.
    â€œMY son is NOT A LIAR!”
    â€œHe’s been harassing my daughter at school. Staring at her. Everybody knows about him.”
    â€œSir, did you actually see him? I know you saw someone up in that tree, but did you see him clearly enough to identify him?”
    â€œIt was him.”
    â€œYou might be asked to swear to that in court, sir.”
    Mr. Haverman’s face changes. “I know it was him,” he says.
    The policeman releases his grip on my shoulders.
    â€œYes, but did you actually get a good look at his face?”
    Mr. Haverman looks about to shatter.
    â€œWould you excuse us for a moment,” the policeman says to my father. He guides Mr. Haverman out the door. They stand on the front steps talking in low voices for almost two minutes, then the policeman turns to my father and says, “Sorry to have bothered you, sir. Have a good night.”
    My father closes the door, then stands looking at me, his face twitching and pulsing. I think he is about to start shouting again, but after several seconds of that he shakes his head wearily and says, “Go to bed, Douglas.”

21
MEATBALLS
    M y parents think I’m socially backward because I don’t have a lot of