over to his house. Every day after school. He doesn’t have to come visit.”
“Whatever you can do. Show him you care.”
We walked past Kyle’s van. It was haphazardly parked, wheels over the lines. “Did you see Kyle in there?” I asked.
“Smoking lounge.”
“What are they gonna do to him?”
My dad shrugged and pulled out his keys. “What can you do to him? He didn’t give Charlie the fireworks. Kyle shouldn’t have had them, but he’s eighteen years old. I’m sure he’s got worse in his van.”
“He’s not a bad guy, deep down,” I said.
My dad slipped the key into the door. “Deep down, no one is. But you make choices.”
M ONDAY , O CTOBER 23
I was back at school the next day, the events of the weekend informing everything. At lunch, I sat with Mike Cooney and Trevor Weeks, as I often did. They were a couple of guys who weren’t considered cool or lame or anything other than harmless. Trevor had an appetite for gossip, though, and he peppered me with questions about Charlie. I was quick to dispel rumors that Charlie had blown off his arms or that he’d been building a bomb to put under the bleachers in the gym.
Only once that day did I pass Fiona in the hall. Though I didn’t say anything to her, she whispered something to me: “Hang in there.”
I spent the afternoon overanalyzing those words. Were they a reference to worrying about Charlie? Or a promise that more of her story was to come? As wild as the story was, I was hoping it was the latter.
At the end of the day, Principal Braugher called an emergency assembly. We filled the auditorium, where a police officer droned through a lecture on the dangers of fireworks. When it was over, Braugher made an announcement.
“School policy for possession of fireworks is now an automatic suspension and a visit to the police station. I hope that’s clear. And I hope everyone keeps Charlie in their thoughts and prayers.”
Ken Wagner, never one to pass up an opportunity for attention, coughed out a “Captain Catpoop,” which was met with a smattering of giggles. We were dismissed.
* * *
“Did you get to see his nasty hands?” Keri asked me on the walk home.
“They were wrapped in bandages.”
“Think they’ll give him steel pincers?” Keri curled her fingers and gestured at me with an exaggerated sneer.
“I don’t know.”
“Ooo. Think he’ll dress up as a lobster for Halloween?”
Frankly, I was sick of talking about Charlie. I knew that he would be home soon and I’d probably be seeing more than enough of him. So I quickened the pace, hoping it would put an end to the banter.
“Are we taking the long cut now?” Keri huffed as we made a turn a few blocks from home. Yes, I had chosen the longer route, but I had also chosen the one past Fiona’s house.
The man I had seen in the backyard was now in Fiona’s garage. The crunch and growl of heavy metal provided a sound track as he bent over a machine that looked a lot like the motorized sander my dad kept mounted to a table in our basement. But instead of using it to smooth out a piece of wood, the man appeared to be pressing something metal against the spinning belt. As he worked the metal back and forth, it caught the glare of a shop light and I saw it clearly. He was sharpening a long, thin blade.
I stepped back and nearly tripped over my own feet. As a spy, I obviously failed.
“You’re a stalker!” Keri squealed.
“Am not!”
Before I could defend myself any further, I heard the whir of bike wheels. Fiona coasted past and looked back over her shoulder.
“Busted!” Keri cheered, pointing a finger at me.
Fiona jammed the brakes and skidded out. She waited until we caught up.
“Hey, I was about to—” I started to say, but Fiona cut me off, staring Keri down with an odd intensity.
“You saw me burying something one night?”
Keri turned her head to the side. “I don’t know anything about that.”
“Yes you do,” Fiona said.
“Whatever you can do. Show him you care.”
We walked past Kyle’s van. It was haphazardly parked, wheels over the lines. “Did you see Kyle in there?” I asked.
“Smoking lounge.”
“What are they gonna do to him?”
My dad shrugged and pulled out his keys. “What can you do to him? He didn’t give Charlie the fireworks. Kyle shouldn’t have had them, but he’s eighteen years old. I’m sure he’s got worse in his van.”
“He’s not a bad guy, deep down,” I said.
My dad slipped the key into the door. “Deep down, no one is. But you make choices.”
M ONDAY , O CTOBER 23
I was back at school the next day, the events of the weekend informing everything. At lunch, I sat with Mike Cooney and Trevor Weeks, as I often did. They were a couple of guys who weren’t considered cool or lame or anything other than harmless. Trevor had an appetite for gossip, though, and he peppered me with questions about Charlie. I was quick to dispel rumors that Charlie had blown off his arms or that he’d been building a bomb to put under the bleachers in the gym.
Only once that day did I pass Fiona in the hall. Though I didn’t say anything to her, she whispered something to me: “Hang in there.”
I spent the afternoon overanalyzing those words. Were they a reference to worrying about Charlie? Or a promise that more of her story was to come? As wild as the story was, I was hoping it was the latter.
At the end of the day, Principal Braugher called an emergency assembly. We filled the auditorium, where a police officer droned through a lecture on the dangers of fireworks. When it was over, Braugher made an announcement.
“School policy for possession of fireworks is now an automatic suspension and a visit to the police station. I hope that’s clear. And I hope everyone keeps Charlie in their thoughts and prayers.”
Ken Wagner, never one to pass up an opportunity for attention, coughed out a “Captain Catpoop,” which was met with a smattering of giggles. We were dismissed.
* * *
“Did you get to see his nasty hands?” Keri asked me on the walk home.
“They were wrapped in bandages.”
“Think they’ll give him steel pincers?” Keri curled her fingers and gestured at me with an exaggerated sneer.
“I don’t know.”
“Ooo. Think he’ll dress up as a lobster for Halloween?”
Frankly, I was sick of talking about Charlie. I knew that he would be home soon and I’d probably be seeing more than enough of him. So I quickened the pace, hoping it would put an end to the banter.
“Are we taking the long cut now?” Keri huffed as we made a turn a few blocks from home. Yes, I had chosen the longer route, but I had also chosen the one past Fiona’s house.
The man I had seen in the backyard was now in Fiona’s garage. The crunch and growl of heavy metal provided a sound track as he bent over a machine that looked a lot like the motorized sander my dad kept mounted to a table in our basement. But instead of using it to smooth out a piece of wood, the man appeared to be pressing something metal against the spinning belt. As he worked the metal back and forth, it caught the glare of a shop light and I saw it clearly. He was sharpening a long, thin blade.
I stepped back and nearly tripped over my own feet. As a spy, I obviously failed.
“You’re a stalker!” Keri squealed.
“Am not!”
Before I could defend myself any further, I heard the whir of bike wheels. Fiona coasted past and looked back over her shoulder.
“Busted!” Keri cheered, pointing a finger at me.
Fiona jammed the brakes and skidded out. She waited until we caught up.
“Hey, I was about to—” I started to say, but Fiona cut me off, staring Keri down with an odd intensity.
“You saw me burying something one night?”
Keri turned her head to the side. “I don’t know anything about that.”
“Yes you do,” Fiona said.
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