Darkness Creeping (16 page)

For lack of a better idea, Duncan held out his hand for her to shake. “Thanks, Sandra,” he said. “Thanks for coming in and talking to me.”

She looked at his outstretched hand with silent dread. His hands were still wet from being flushed, so Duncan dried them on his pants, then held out his hand again. Sandra
still
wouldn’t shake it.

She took an uncomfortable step back. “I’ve never been in a boys’ room before,” she said. “I’d better go.”

She left much more quickly than she had come in, and Duncan dropped his arm.

Did she really care what happened to him, or was it just pity? Was he really that untouchable to a girl like Sandra? He had seen her dissect a frog in science class, and on a field trip he’d seen her dig for clams in briny muck up to her elbows. But his hands she would not touch.

Outside, the sound of feet heading to fourth period gave way to the second bell, and then silence.

In that silence Duncan thought about how he would get back at them. He would get back at all of them. There was no doubt of that. The very thought made him feel much, much better.

Duncan got up and stood before the warped bathroom mirror. He pulled a comb from his pocket and combed his hair, determined to step out of the bathroom with some dignity.

Cheshire Tower stood majestically at the corner of Second Avenue and Eighty-fourth Street. Anywhere else on the planet its twenty-seven floors would have been impressive, but this was New York, so it was dwarfed by taller skyscrapers on three of its four sides.

Duncan’s apartment had never had a chance at a decent view, being on the second floor. “Your mother’s afraid of heights”—that was his father’s excuse for putting their home nose level with the diesel exhaust pipes that rumbled by on the street all day long. “You want a view?” his father would say. “Then go up to the pool on the roof.” But Duncan had better things to do today.

His pockets stuffed with allowance money he had been saving for weeks, Duncan left the building and turned up Eighty-fourth Street, where the beige bricks of Cheshire Tower gave way to the dark bricks of the old five-story low-rises that filled the rest of the street. Now that summer was just a week away, the pavement was teeming with activity. Duncan didn’t know any of these people; they were just faces he passed on his way to his school every day. But he knew about Eugene. Everybody knew about Eugene.

Eugene was only twelve but was almost ready to shave. He was nearly two years younger than Duncan, but his voice was already changing. Eugene was simply never born to be a kid.

As always, Eugene was out on his stoop as if he were waiting for something. He usually was.

“Do I know you?” he asked in a thick New York accent when he saw Duncan approach.

“You’re Eugene, right? You sell stuff, don’t you?”

“I don’t sell stuff,” said Eugene, looking around cautiously. “I sell
items
. You need an item?”

“I hear you got great fireworks—I need some for Fourth of July.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?”

A minute later they were down in a basement, where Eugene revealed a regular arsenal of fireworks. He walked around, pointing things out to Duncan. “You got your Roman candles, you got your M-80s, you got your blockbusters—and none of those namby-pamby legal ones—this is the old-fashioned stuff. These Roman candles here will blow a hole in your face the size of a baseball. Pretty cool, huh?”

“What about the blockbusters?”

“You kiddin’ me?” He pointed to a collection of colorful cylinders, an inch in diameter and about two inches long. “Quarter stick of dynamite in each one—make a blast you can hear all the way to Jersey. Guaranteed to make a big splash with your friends.”

“How much for the whole box?”

Eugene raised an eyebrow. “How much you got?”

“I can’t believe it,” said Brett. “I must be dead or something. Flushie actually got a C on the math final!”

Duncan overheard the conversation. Mr. Carbuckle, the math teacher, wanted to talk to him about the test, but Duncan didn’t care. Carbuckle tossed out the lowest grade anyway, and this was definitely Duncan’s lowest grade.

“You did it on purpose, didn’t you?” asked Sandra, but Duncan just shrugged. “Maybe I just didn’t study.” He headed out into the hall, following Brett and his entourage of friends.

Brett spotted him and put his head into a headlock—Brett’s idea of a friendly gesture. “Jeez, Flushie, you didn’t have to do that bad on my account.”

“Least I could do for you, Brett,” said Duncan. “After all, you haven’t flushed me for a whole month.”

As everyone laughed, Duncan reached into his backpack and pulled out a bundle of envelopes. “Listen, everybody. Since we’ll all be going to different high schools next year, I wanted to have a party for Fourth of July. You can see the fireworks from the roof of my building.”

Duncan reached into his backpack and handed Brett the first invitation.

The sports club on the top of the Cheshire Tower had a fifty-foot indoor swimming pool—not all that big, but big enough for the twenty-seventh floor of an apartment building. There were windows all around it, but most impressive was the big window at the deep end, just six inches above the waterline. There was no deck at the deep end, and anyone who could bob his head high enough would get a glorious view of the city from the pool.

It had cost Duncan’s father a small fortune to rent out the entire pool for the Fourth of July. Duncan promised to work all summer to pay it off, and by the time school ended, he had already lined up some odd jobs tutoring math and walking an old lady’s five poodles. The work helped to pass the time from the end of school to the Fourth of July—two weeks that, to Duncan, seemed to stretch on forever.

Then, on that long-awaited Saturday evening, his school-mates began to arrive in droves. Duncan couldn’t believe that they all came!

“I never knew you had so many friends,” remarked his mother.

“Yeah. It’s amazing what pizza can do,” said Duncan. And pizza there was. Everywhere. There was even one floating on a platter in the pool, looking like a jellyfish with pepperoni on it.

“This is great, Duncan,” said Trevor—another flusher who had never said anything nice to him before. A girl named Melissa, who was famous for spreading vicious rumors about Duncan behind his back, scarfed down pizza and told him that he was the best.

But there was one guest who was not having a good time. Sandra sat in her green party dress, alone on the edge of a chaise longue.

“You didn’t tell me it was a pool party!” she said.

“Sorry, I forgot,” Duncan lied. “If it makes you feel any better, I won’t go swimming either.”

Sandra smiled politely at his offer.

“You could help me ref the water-volleyball game,” he suggested. Then he looked at his watch. It was already twenty minutes before nine, just the right time for the game. It would definitely be the best game ever.

When it got dark, Independence Day exploded in the skies over Cheshire Tower like a revolution. Duncan helped his dad set up the volleyball net across the width of the pool, and everyone except Duncan and Sandra played.

Brett, who was self-proclaimed captain of the deep-water team, hogged the ball and held several people underwater until they came up coughing. This strategy seemed to work, because they creamed them. It was 8:56.

Duncan began to get just a bit edgy. “Rematch!” he called, but there were complaints that the sides weren’t fair, and people began hopping out of the pool. To Duncan, that was completely unacceptable.

It was then that he slipped on the wet tiles of the deck. He didn’t fall in the pool, but the sight of old Flushie slipping was enough to plant a seed in everyone’s mind. It only took one suggestion from Brett for that seed to take root.

“Taking up diving, Flushie?” razzed Brett. Everyone laughed, and Brett heaved himself out of the pool, heading around the deck toward Duncan. The others looked at one another and began smiling.

“Sure, I’ll bet you could be an Olympic diver,” said Charlie, jumping out of the pool.

And then Nate said what they were all thinking: “Let’s throw Duncan in the pool!” There was outrageous commotion in the water as everyone climbed out and headed toward him. Panicked, Duncan looked for his parents, but they were probably out on the sundeck watching the fireworks.

Sandra saw what was happening and tried to stop it. But there were simply too many of them. Then she slipped, too, falling hard on her knees.

“
Flush-ie, Flush-ie, Flush-ie!
” they chanted as they approached. The useless lifeguard pointed and blew his whistle, but nobody listened.
Not now!
thought Duncan, looking at his watch. It was exactly one minute until nine!

Naturally, Brett was the first one to reach him, and the look on his face reminded Duncan why he had thrown this “party” to begin with. Brett looked like a lion about to devour an antelope. It was how he looked whenever he flushed Duncan.

Brett grabbed Duncan hard. Duncan resisted, but then he felt hands all over him, lifting him off the ground, moving him closer to the water.

“
Flush-ie, Flush-ie, Flush-ie!
”

“No!” yelled Sandra, but she got tangled up in the mob as she tried to get them off Duncan.

“
Flush-ie, Flush-ie, Flush-ie!
”

They all heaved at once, and the force created enough momentum to take them all in, like a single beast with a dozen arms and legs.

Far away a church bell began to chime out nine o’clock, and an odd sound echoed under the surface of the Cheshire Tower pool, like a submarine struck by a torpedo. The big window just above the deep end rattled violently.

By the time everyone came up for air, it was clear something strange was going on. The water was moving all by itself.

While the others floundered, wondering what was going on, Duncan swam with all his might to the nearest ladder, held on with all his strength, and watched.