Blank Confession (5 page)

Somewhere in the distance I could hear laughter. It was Jon, of course. I was on the ground, face in the grass. I heard my sister's voice, yelling. I turned my head and saw her hitting Jon on the shoulder with her fists. I had a moment of gratitude then—that she would care, even a little, that her boyfriend had electrocuted her brother and his dog.

Barkie struggled to his feet, shaking his head blearily. He looked at me, then at Jon, then walked off, his stumpy tail almost dragging, looking reproachfully back over his shoulder every few steps.

Jon said, “See? Your mutt's fine. No harm done.”

He laughed.

“Barkie gets like that when Jon is around,” I said to Shayne. “Ever since Jon tased him.”

“He tased your
dog
?” That was the first time I saw Shayne look angry—his face hardened and his fists
clenched so tightly his knuckles went bone-white.

“He didn't like the barking.”

Shayne shook his head slowly. “You think he's inside?”

“I think he's around back in the gazebo with Marie. Probably getting high.”

“Let's go talk to him,” Shayne said. He started around the house. I followed. Barkie stayed behind.

I was wrong about them being in the gazebo. They were on the patio. Marie was sitting on the chaise doing Jon's math homework; Jon was standing over her. He had something in his hand. For a second I thought it was his stun gun, but it was his cell. He was texting someone. As we approached he looked up and gave us his smile. “Punching bag one and punching bag two,” he said.

He wasn't looking at me, he was looking at Shayne—and Shayne was looking right back at him.

Jon said, “What are
you
looking at?”

“I'm trying to figure out what kind of jerk would use a stun gun on a little dog,” Shayne said.

Jon's face darkened and the corners of his mouth drew back into a parody of a grin. “You better watch your mouth or I'll show
you
how it works.”

“Go ahead.” Shayne stood relaxed, arms loose at his sides, a faint curve to his lips that was almost—but not quite—a smile. I could feel something coming off him, a silent electric crackle, as if he was his own personal stun gun.

The two of them stared at each other. Jon's white grin stretched tight across his face, his every muscle rigid. I was pretty sure he didn't have the stun gun with him—it wasn't
clipped to his belt, and it was too big to fit in his pockets.

Jon snorted and said, “Like I need it.”

Shayne turned his hands out, silently inviting Jon to bring it on. Marie set her pencil down to watch, her dark lips parted in anticipation of boy violence. I don't know how long the staring contest went on. I was holding my breath, so it couldn't have been too long.

Finally, Jon looked away and said, “This is bull.”

Marie giggled. I think it was just out of nervousness, but Jon didn't take it that way. His left hand shot out rattlesnake-fast and backhanded her across the face. Marie's head flew back, the chaise tipped, and she fell over.

Shayne didn't move. “Dogs and girls,” he said, his eyes still on Jon.

“Next time,” Jon said. He walked past Shayne—bumping his shoulder hard as he went by.

Shayne turned to watch him leave, then looked at Marie, who was holding a hand to her cheek.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She nodded.

We heard the piercing snarl of Jon's bike revving, then the sound of him winding out through the gears as he took off.

Shayne walked up to Marie and touched her shoulder. “Are you sure?” he asked.

She lowered her hand to reveal four red stripes left by Jon's fingers. She looked down. “He's not always like that,” she said. Which was exactly what Mom used to say about Dad.

I said, “Shayne, this is my sister, Marie.”

“Nice to meet you, Marie,” Shayne said.

“Shayne's new,” I said.

Marie wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, looked up at Shayne, and smiled. She had a nice smile, but she didn't use it often. Shayne took her hand and helped her up.

“Thank you.” She pushed her hair away from her face and gave him that up-and-down look that girls usually do only when the guy isn't looking. “You're cute,” she said.

For most of my life my sister has been a mystery to me. For one thing, she used to be incredibly smart. She had no problem with the schoolwork—learning came easy to her. But back in the eighth grade, around the same time Dad quit drinking—also about the same time her boobs got big—it was as if she'd taken a stupid pill. She didn't study, she spent hours on her hair and makeup, the only reading she did was magazines, and she went through one idiot boyfriend after another, usually the biggest loser she could land. Jon Brande was her Holy Grail, and she had finally reeled him in a few months back.

One theory I had was that she wanted whichever guy was most like Dad back when he'd been drinking. Only now, seeing the way she was looking at Shayne, I had to revise that theory. It wasn't about her wanting guys who were like Dad—Shayne was nothing like him at all—so it had to be something else, and I thought I knew what it was.

Marie liked Shayne because of what we could all see, but nobody was saying out loud: Jon was afraid of him.

Mom was in the kitchen chopping onions when the three of us went inside. I introduced her to Shayne.

He said, “Nice to meet you, ma'am.”

I could tell she liked being called ma'am because she immediately offered Shayne a soda.

“No thank you,” he said, politely.

Mom liked Shayne so much she invited him to stay for dinner. In our house we almost always ate one of two things: beans and rice, or pasta. It's not as boring as it sounds—Mom knew a million variations of each. That night it was black beans with chunks of bacon, her famous “dirty rice,” and a huge bowl of fresh strawberries for dessert. Who could say no to that?

Marie flirted like crazy all though dinner, and to my horror, Shayne ate it up right along with his beans and rice. It was embarrassing. My mom saw it too, and she got this little smile on her face. I think she was happy to see Marie interested in someone other than Jon. Even Barkie took to Shayne right away, sitting attentively beside him all through dinner.

We were almost done eating when Dad got home from work. Shayne stood up and shook his hand and called him sir, like he was in the army.

My father, as I've mentioned, is a recovering alcoholic. It's been three years since he's had a drink. Ever since then, he's been out to prove to everybody just how perfect he can be. Especially to my sister. He treats her like a princess, and the nicer he is to her, the more bratty she gets. But, with Shayne there, Marie was on her best behavior.

Dad asked Shayne a lot of questions. Shayne told him that he was living with his aunt, that he'd grown up in Arkansas, and that his parents were doctors spending the year in Uganda giving people vaccinations and stuff. I almost said something, because that was a completely different story than he'd told me.

“What organization are they with?” Dad asked.

Shayne didn't miss a beat. “Doctors Without Borders,” he said.

My dad ate a forkful of rice, chewed for a few seconds, swallowed, then said, “That's a fine organization. You should be proud.”

“I
am
proud,” said Shayne, as Marie gave him her patented look of adoration.

Dad looked from me to Shayne, then back at me with a sad expression. He didn't say anything, but I knew what he was thinking as he looked at me:
Why can't you be more like
him?

What I said before about Shayne being nothing like my dad? Not quite true. They both put a ridiculous amount of effort into being perfect—like the way Shayne was so polite and restrained, as if holding himself in, and the way Dad always thought for a second or two before speaking,
as if they both had a belly full of TNT, and any sudden movement might cause them to explode.

Later, Shayne and I were in the backyard kicking a soccer ball, and I asked him how come he told so many different stories about his parents.

“They're really not very interesting,” Shayne said. “My dad's a computer programmer in Atlanta, and my mom's in New York working for some bank.”

“So how come you're living with your aunt?”

He juggled the soccer ball, keeping it in the air with one foot, then kicked it straight up. I tried to header it back to him but hit it wrong and the ball bounced over the fence into Mrs. Garcia's garden.

“Oops.” I grabbed the top of the wooden fence and pulled myself up to see where the ball had gone. “Uhoh.” One of Mrs. Garcia's peonies was completely squashed.

“I'll get it,” Shayne said.

“Watch out for—”

He was up and over the fence in an instant.

“—the dog!”

Shayne had reached the ball when Cujo came roaring out of the house through the dog door and charged at him, barking as loud and fast as ten dogs. Shayne grabbed the ball and took off, but I could see he wouldn't make it over the fence in time. Cujo latched on to his leg just as he reached the fence. Shayne threw the ball over the fence and tried to shake the dog off, but Cujo, teeth locked on his pant leg, was going nowhere.

Mrs. Garcia banged open the back door and screeched: “Cujo! Down, girl!”

The six-pound Chihuahua let go, gave Shayne a series of admonishing barks and growls, then trotted back to the house, snorting and shaking its head indignantly. Shayne climbed over the fence with an embarrassed grin on his face.

“Cujo?”
he said.

I was laughing too hard to reply.

The next day I wore my red blazer with a pair of dark maroon pants. I looked a little like an usher or a bell boy, only much classier.

Shayne showed up in American Lit the same as always—calm, quiet, watchful, and dressed in black. We were taking turns reading out loud from an Edgar Allan Poe story so I didn't get a chance to talk to him. He didn't show up at lunch. I was sitting alone with my bean burrito and milk when I felt a presence looming over me. I knew without looking that it was Jon Brande.

“Little Mikey,” he said in a fake-friendly voice.

I tipped my head back to see Jon's upside-down face staring at me.

“You got my money?”

“You mean the money I don't owe you?” I said.

“I mean the money for the stuff you threw in the garbage.” He sat down next to me, grabbed a handful of chips from my plate, and ate one, crunching it with his mouth open and grinning at the same time.

I said, “If I hadn't, they would have found it when they searched me.”

“Not my problem.” Crunch. “But I don't want you to think I'm unreasonable.” He grabbed some more chips. “Here's the deal. You're going to like this. Pay me a hundred on Wednesday, then a hundred every week. Like an E-Z payment plan.” Crunch.

I should have said,
Buzz off, Brande. I don't owe you a dime.

But I enjoy being alive, with all four limbs working, so I took a bite of my burrito to keep myself from saying anything. Jon stood up, patted me on the head, and started toward his table. Then he stopped, as if he'd just thought of something, and turned back to me.

“That friend of yours …what's his name?”

It wasn't hard to figure out who he was talking about. “Shayne?” I said.

“Yeah, him. What's his deal?”

“I have no idea.” It was true.

Jon took a couple of seconds to decide whether or not I was lying, then he nodded. “That piece-a-crap bike I saw in front of your house yesterday—that his?”

“It's a BMW,” I said.

“I
know
it's a BMW. I asked you if it was
his
.”

“Yeah, it's his.” Just then I saw Shayne come into the lunchroom.

Jon followed my glance, saw Shayne, smiled that creepy smile he does so well, and sauntered back to his table to join Kyle and Trey.

Shayne sat down in the same chair Jon had been in.

I said, “Jon's decided to put me on his ‘E-Z payment plan.'”

Shayne grabbed one of my chips. I might as well have had a sign:
FREE CHIPS
.

“A hundred a week,” I said.

Shayne didn't say anything.

“But you better watch out,” I said. “He was asking about your bike.”

“What about it?”

“If it was yours.”

Shayne looked back at Jon's table. Jon was talking to Trey Worthington, who was staring fixedly at Shayne.

“He's going to do something,” I said. Shayne sighed wearily.

“I know.”

Trey Worthington would never have made it past the ninth grade if it wasn't for the fact that he was enormous. Size matters. It really does. Mr. Benno, the football coach, latched on to Trey around the time he hit two hundred pounds. Benno had used his tutoring abilities and his influence with the other teachers to keep Trey in school and on the football team for four brutal, head-bashing seasons. But now Trey was a senior, football season was over, and Mr. Benno's moderating presence no longer mattered—he had been replaced by Jon Brande as Trey's puppet master.

Just a few weeks ago, Jon had said, “Hey, Trey, why don't you head-butt that locker and see how big a dent you can make?”

Trey had head-butted Jason Aiken's locker and dented it so bad the door had to be replaced. Trey was fine, or at least no worse than before.

It made perfect sense that Jon would sic Trey on Shayne.

After school I caught up with Shayne and walked out with him, hoping for a ride home. I figured if we left right away, there would be less chance of a Jon encounter.

We weren't fast enough. Jon, Trey, and Kyle were waiting by the line of motorcycles in the student lot. All three of them rode motorcycles—their own little biker gang. Jon was sitting astride his enormous crotch rocket talking with Marie. Kyle, leaning against his slightly smaller version of Jon's Suzuki, was cleaning his fingernails with the triangular blade of a utility knife. Trey stood on the other side of Shayne's BMW, watching us walk toward him. He waited until we were about twenty feet away, then put his size fourteen shoe against the BMW and shoved. The bike crashed to the ground.