Undercurrent (18 page)

“What time?”

“She picked me up around ten, I guess. I don’t know—I don’t wear a watch.”

The sheriff looks disgusted—he obviously can’t stand people who don’t wear watches. So would I, if I were a cop interviewing a suspect. “So you left around ten. In her car?”

“Yeah,” I say. “What a beauty. Smells brand-new.”

The sheriff doesn’t acknowledge this. “Where did you go with her?”

“She said there was a party at some girl’s house, but I didn’t end up going.”

I hate lying—it feels like I’m tying knots in the rope I’m later going to hang from.

“You didn’t go?” the sheriff asks. “Since when does a guy like Cal Harris not like a party?”

“Since I got in a fight with Ivy.”

“A fight? Over what?”

“Over her driving,” I say. “She’s terrible. You should really give her a ticket so she learns her lesson. Otherwise she’s going to kill someone one of these days.”

But the sheriff doesn’t bite. “So you had a fight. Then what?”

“Then she threw me out of her car. Which was just as well, as far as I was concerned, because I wasn’t sure we’d make it across town anyway.”

The sheriff stares at me for a moment. “So what did you do then?”

“I don’t know. Walked around and stuff.”

“You walked around in the cold by yourself all night.”

That does sound ridiculous. “Well, no. I ran into someone.”

Uh-oh. This is a mistake. Because now I’m involving someone else. And I can’t just make up a person, saying I met some drifter and had a midnight picnic or something. The sheriff is going to want a name.

The obvious question comes fast: “Who did you meet?”

“A girl,” I tell him, hoping it’s enough. Of course it isn’t.

“What’s her name?”

“Willow,” I say. I feel strangely proud about the possibility, even though it’s a total fiction.

“Last name?”

“Hathaway.”

Hold it. That was stupid, stupid, stupid—I’ve got to be the worst juvenile delinquent in the history of mankind. I deflate as the sheriff confers with Fernwood and confirms that she’s a student here. He writes down her name.

But wait. Maybe it isn’t the worst idea. She did leave the party, after all, so she definitely wasn’t picked up by the cops. And after last night’s phone call, she’s probably the closest thing to a friend I have at this point. Still, I don’t want to ruin things already by putting her in a position where she has to lie.

Or maybe she won’t lie. Maybe she’ll tell them the truth: that I was there at the party, crying and acting crazy, and then pass along every wacko thing I told her over the phone. In which case I’m either going to jail or a mental institution.

“Right. So you say you ran into this girl. And then what did you do? Just the where and when is good enough—save the X-rated version for your buddies.”

“Hey,” I object. “It’s not like that—she’s just a friend!”

“Easy, Romeo. I’ll ask again. Where did you get all friendly? And for how long?”

“I don’t know. Like I said, I didn’t have a watch. We walked around, sat in the park, talked for a while. I don’t know. For a couple hours after Ivy dropped me off, I suppose. Then I walked her home, and that was it.”

“Why didn’t you go to the party with this Willow girl?”

“Because Becca—the girl having the party—lives too far away to walk. And plus Ivy would be there, mad at me.”

The sheriff nods. I’m doing a good job of this, I think. “Did you meet up with any of your football buddies afterward?” he asks.

“Football buddies?” I repeat. “I don’t have any friends on the football team.”

“I reckon you don’t,” the sheriff agrees with a laugh. “Not anymore anyway.”

This sounds a little too sinister, like he’s trying to scare me. But it’s working. “What does that mean?” I want to know.

“Cal, you need to cooperate,” Fernwood interrupts. “We need to hear your side of the story. Those boys got hurt pretty bad. Maybe nobody’s talking yet, but believe me, they will. . . .”

“Tom!” the sheriff shouts, slapping his forehead in frustration. He glares at the loose-lipped principal, who obviously hasn’t watched enough TV to know how to interview a suspect. Rule number one: Never give away how little you know.

The principal turns red. “Sorry, Marlon, sorry. Please continue.”

But it’s game over. Thanks to Fernwood, I know enough. They think I beat up those three guys, as does Ivy. Which is insane. They’re football players! Meanwhile, I’m barely a hundred and forty pounds. The team’s daily allowance of Gatorade weighs more than I do.

Which means there’s no real evidence against me. Otherwise the sheriff wouldn’t have waited all weekend to interview me. This is all just a hunch he’s working. Play it cool and I’ll be fine.

“Did you meet up with your friend Ivy again?”

“No,” I answer, scoffing. “She was still mad at me when I saw her in the hall just now. Right, Mr. Fernwood?”

“Did you borrow her car?”

“Her car?” I answer, sounding surprised but not too surprised. “Of course not.”

I feel like I’m really getting a handle on this whole delinquency thing. Maybe I could give a master class to all the stupid kids and make another six hundred bucks.

But even the master is rattled by the next question: “Son, do you have access to a gun?”

I get a chill thinking about the .45 missing from my shoe box. This is the part on TV where suspects ask for their lawyers—I even have the cash on hand to pay for one. But this also makes people look instantly guilty, something I want to avoid.

“A gun? No,” I answer. And it’s true, because I don’t have access to it anymore. But my face still feels twitchy. “Why, did somebody get shot or something?”

“Not that I know of,” the sheriff says. “But I do know the marks a pistol leaves when you beat someone with one. And I’ve got three boys with faces full of them.”

Even the principal looks horrified. My hand, meanwhile, shoots up to the scabs under my hair. I put my hand down just as fast.

Fortunately the sheriff doesn’t notice it. “And I also know that a gun would sure even the odds in a three-on-one with a bunch of burly guys,” he adds. “Wouldn’t even need to fire a shot to take the fight out of them. Just point it and get them on their knees. And then start bashing away while they piss their pants.”

“Well, I don’t have a gun,” I tell him. “And I definitely didn’t bash anybody.”

“Of course you didn’t,” the sheriff says. “A choirboy like you? But just so we’re good, do you mind showing me your hands?”

I shrug and hold them out. The sheriff leans over and examines my knuckles and then my palms, both of which show no sign that I was involved in a scuffle. Nevertheless I can feel myself trembling in his grip.

“All right,” the sheriff says, releasing me. “While you’re here, let’s talk about Neil Parson again,” he says. “Anything you want to get off your chest about that?”

“I told you before,” I answer. “I don’t know Neil.”

“You still sure about that?” the sheriff asks.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Then explain this.”

Principal Fernwood looks as surprised as I am when the sheriff produces a color printout, which he hands over to me. It’s a photo—a video still. It’s overexposed, with the sidewalk looking like a snowbank, but yeah, it’s me, all right.

And walking beside me is Neil Parson—there’s no mistaking him. Slouched forward, he walks on his tiptoes, his skinny legs sticking out from that puffy blue jacket of his. Everybody made fun of it. Baby-Blue. That’s what people called him, I remember. That’s what I called him.

“It was pulled from the security camera outside the bank on Main Street,” the sheriff informs me. “Anything coming back to you?”

“No,” I say with a shrug. As I hand back the image, I notice the paper is shaking. “When was it taken?”

“That’s the really interesting thing—it was the afternoon Neil went missing. And the same day you took your little dip.”

I’m floored to hear it. I wish I could remember something—anything—about those missing hours and the day everything changed. But it’s all still a blank. Everything except the cold, wet night and the swaying footbridge. Then the shadowy figure running toward me and the terrible, lurching feeling as my fingers slipped . . .

“Look, Neil isn’t my friend!”

“Who said anything about friends?” the sheriff replies, his eyes narrowing. “I just want to know why you were walking around town with this boy.”

“I wasn’t!”

“Listen, son,” the sheriff says, “sooner or later, young Neil is going to surface,” he continues. “And when I say
surface
, do you know what I mean?”

The vision of Dutch popping up in front of the couple replays in my mind. And then I think about the blue thing I saw, in the water by the falls. Baby blue. I want to puke right into the principal’s metal garbage can.

The sheriff presses on. “And when that happens, you’ll be in a whole world of trouble,” he assures me. “So wouldn’t it be better to come clean now? Just explain your side of things. You’re a minor, and that should help. Stay clammed up, and the state might try you as an adult. Then you’ll be sorry you didn’t take my help when I offered it.”

My stomach folds inside out. I’ve heard enough. “I told you everything!” I shout, jumping out of my seat. The principal flinches as if I’m going to hit him, but the sheriff doesn’t budge. “I’m telling you, I don’t know anything about Neil!”

“Take it easy, Cal,” Fernwood says. “Sit down.”

I ignore him. “What are you saying, Sheriff? That I killed Neil and threw him over the falls?”

The sheriff doesn’t respond, but instead he gives me a look like he’s taking me apart and putting me back together. A thin smile stretches across his yellow teeth.

I stop myself from saying any more. I have to get a grip; otherwise, I’m going to do or say something I’ll regret. Then I will get dragged out of here in handcuffs. Which is just what the sheriff wants.

I think about the image outside the bank. It’s only random video, I tell myself—not serious evidence. We weren’t even looking at each other; we could have passed in the street. And I haven’t done anything, I’m sure of it. I hardly know Neil and have no reason to ever hurt him.

Other than calling him Baby-Blue.

“Last chance,” the sheriff says.

I’m scared, but there’s nothing to say. I turn to the other man, who is sitting there, stunned. “Principal Fernwood, can I please go to class? I’m really behind in my schoolwork after everything that’s happened. And being late isn’t helping me.”

The principal looks at the sheriff. The lawman chews his pen for a moment, then nods. He looks disappointed, like a fisherman having to return a big out-of-season catch to the lake.

“All right, Mr. Harris,” Fernwood tells me. “You can go.”

I throw open the door and leave it that way. And I don’t look back. I head down the deserted hallway to my locker, then down again to my first class
.
It’s science, a subject I am actually close to bombing out in, falls or no falls.

The door is already closed. The whole room turns to stare as I enter. I don’t have a note, I realize, but the teacher doesn’t even ask for one. He just waits for me to sit down.

Everyone looks away as I take my seat. I spot Willow sitting in the front row. I wonder what she’s thinking this morning about what I told her last night. I can’t even begin to imagine. Does she think I’m insane, some kind of delusional maniac?

I don’t know. She doesn’t look back.

I put my head on my desk and wait for the bell.

CHAPTER 17

I escape school without being arrested or beaten to death by the
remaining Crocodiles, who glare at me whenever I pass. Once, I run straight into Holt the Buffalo, bouncing off him like a tennis ball, but fortunately I’m able to slip away into the crowd.

The day can’t end soon enough.

After the bell I pull another Cole maneuver and quickly jam everything into my locker before exiting with an empty schoolbag. I then head outside and wait.

Luckily it’s stopped raining, and there’s actually an occasional ray of sun lighting up the leafy puddles. I’m standing by a tree, hood up, feeling a lot like Mr. Lampshade himself. I watch as the students start pouring out, some in a hurry to get home and others boarding buses or goofing around and talking in small groups.

Twenty minutes later, when Willow does not emerge, I start getting nervous. Could she have left out the back? Or maybe I just missed her. I realize I may not recognize her clothes now, just like I didn’t know the black dress she wore to the party. Is she getting tutored or did she stay late for some team or a club? Somehow, I don’t believe any of these explanations.

The library—the old one. It’s worth a shot.

I jog back to the school, relieved that the doors aren’t locked. I hurry upstairs. It’s a risk, I know, because Willow might be leaving her locker at this moment.

The library is a graveyard. There’s no one at any of the tables or in the comfortable seats set up around an old rug somebody must have donated. I’m wasting time—I have to hurry back outside. But first I check the stacks.

That’s where I find her. She’s already got a few books piled up beside her on the floor and is busy looking through what’s on the shelves. She doesn’t know I’m here.

“Ahem,” I say, in the staged way Willow used to find funny. But now she just gasps, frightened out of her wits.

“Sorry! It’s just me, Callum.” It strikes me that this may be the very reason she’s so terrified—because the maniac has her cornered again. “Look, I didn’t mean to scare you. I don’t know. Maybe trying to find you after school was a bad idea. I’ll just go.”

I turn and start heading toward the exit.

“Wait!” she says a moment later, and follows me out of the stacks. “It’s okay. You just startled me. Come look at these.”

I sit down at a table, staring at the beautiful girl with the dark hair and blue-green eyes.

“Are you listening, Callum? I need help going through this stuff.”

I’m brought back to earth. “What am I looking for?”

“I don’t know. Anything that might explain what’s going on with you, I guess.”

It’s then I see what Willow has collected. There are books on the brain and on psychology, not surprisingly, but also on the paranormal, space, religion, philosophy, and even physics. All together there must be four thousand pages to go through.

“Are you sure this is going to help?” I ask.

But Willow just holds up a hand and silences me.

I know that gesture. She uses it when she’s getting serious.

I grab a book at random. It’s about physics. I’m wishing I’d picked up the one with the werewolf on the front, which I remember rejecting as useless for my Bigfoot project. I open the physics book anyway. On the inside cover, I see somebody’s drawn a pretty decent cartoon version of Mr. Schroeder, all wild-eyed and waving the pointer he loved to use. The speech bubble is mean, though:
I’ve gone bonkers!

It’s just so typical of Crystal Falls High. Even the nicest, most fun teacher in the whole school can’t escape the abuse. If I hated it here before, I hate it even more now.

“Hey, wait,” I say. Willow looks up. “Last night, did I tell you about Mr. Schroeder?”

“No. What about him?”

I tell Willow the whole story about running into our teacher on the bridge and the “message” he threw off it. I mention how he accused me of being a terrible student, something Willow confirms, even though I insist I paid complete attention and got good grades.

“Actually, wait,” Willow says, cutting off my attempt to repair my reputation. “Didn’t Mr. Schroeder teach physics to the seniors? Wasn’t that his specialty?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Well, there are all sorts of advanced theories in physics. Quantum leap. Multiverses. The subject goes into space and time even, into black holes and stuff. Here, give me that. . . .”

Willow helps herself to the book in front of me. Is a library book really going to solve the question of who or where I am? Not likely.

“Callum, can you look something up on the internet for me?”

“Hey, kids, sorry but I’m closing up,” the librarian comes over to tell us.

“Why? It’s not even four,” Willow protests.

“The carpets are getting cleaned. It happens twice a year. Be glad. Be very glad.”

“Okay, well, can we take these out?” Willow asks.

The librarian comes over and examines the stack of books. “Sorry, they’re all reference only, except this one.” She holds up the one with the werewolf on it. “I can keep the rest for you behind the counter, if you’d like.”

“Oh, forget it,” Willow says. “Thanks.”

I walk Willow down to her locker. She wants to continue our research on the internet, but she isn’t sure her mother will like coming home to find a boy she doesn’t know in the house. I’m not surprised; I remember how nervous her mom was about leaving us alone at first.

“There’s my place, but it’s across the bridge,” I tell her. “And my computer sucks.”

“Well, maybe we should both go home, and we can compare notes over the phone later,” she says. I agree, noticing that she’s looking me in the eyes a lot more and how the little creases at the corners of her mouth have returned.

It’s good to have Willow back, if only in small ways.

We walk together until we reach the end of her block. I remember the sheriff and the false alibi about hanging out with Willow.

“It just came flying out of my mouth,” I say, after running down exactly what I said to him. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Willow doesn’t look happy to hear this.

“Listen, I know you didn’t mean to do anything wrong, Callum. But did you have to involve me? It’s the police . . .”

I feel like the little boy with the matches again, sitting in front of the burning garage. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Well, you’re lucky you told me before the sheriff asked. I was actually supposed to stay at Lizzie’s but came home after you said that stuff about my father. I told my mother we were at a party but that it got out of hand, so I left. So now she thinks I’m really responsible.” Willow laughs at this, but I don’t know why, because I always thought she
was
really responsible. “Anyway, if anybody asks, I’ll say I met you in the park on the way and that you walked me home. How does that sound?”

“Great. Thanks.”

“Just don’t let it happen again. I mean it.”

“Never. I promise.”

“Good.”

I shuffle around uncomfortably as we say good-bye, something else that hasn’t changed. We agree to talk later that night.

I continue on through the town, feeling amazing. Other than getting my dog to like me again, it’s the first time I’ve felt hopeful since waking up in the hospital. And even if everything does stay the same—and never goes back to the way I remember it—at least there’s one person in town who hasn’t changed that much. We can build a new friendship, I hope, once I get all this stuff behind me. Then I can go back to being the old Callum, the boring one.

But is that what I want? I think about the money in my pocket and the way girls now look at me. I’m not sure I want to give up either.

Passing the diner, I notice I’m hungry; I was too tense to eat lunch. With the long walk ahead, I probably should eat. I look at the menu in the window and decide that a deluxe cheeseburger would hit the spot. It’s expensive, but I do have a fat pocketful of bills, after all. I just need to peel one off. I’ll even get change back.

Anyway, it’s probably best to spend this money as quickly as possible. But on nothing too flashy. Movies. Food. Treating Willow, maybe.

Just then Bryce passes me in the street. He doesn’t notice me, too busy unwrapping himself a chocolate bar as he walks. He’s got a bad addiction to candy, that guy, and it’s getting him into trouble. Last year he had seven fillings. Seven! He has to kick that stuff.

He’s carrying a plastic bag full of groceries his mother must have sent him to get. Despite my hunger, I decide to follow him. He has some answers I’d like to hear. And unless he has a bottle of chloroform and a pillow in that bag, I’m not really not too worried about my safety.

It’s not long, though, before Bryce looks back and becomes aware that I’m following him. I’m worried he might run for it, but instead he just quickens his pace a bit, wrapping up the chocolate bar and putting it in his pocket.

But I’m on to his game, because I know where he lives. As soon as he reaches the top of his block, he cuts hard and starts running for it. Oh no, you don’t. Half a bar of chocolate isn’t enough fuel for Bryce to outrun me, even when I’m on an empty tank.

The full plastic bag taking him out at the knees doesn’t help. I tackle him onto a lawn, splitting the bag and sending a carton of milk and assorted fruits and vegetables flying.

“Help!” Bryce screams. “Get away from me! Get away from me!” he shrieks hysterically.

I drag Bryce behind a hedge by his jacket. Then I sit on him, pinning his arms under my knees like I used to do in our play fights.

Except instead of laughing, Bryce is crying now. I feel awful. What if Willow saw this? She would never speak to me again. But she’s at home. And I want answers.

“Why did you do it?” I demand to know. “I heard you, Bryce, in the hospital room. Your voice. Why did you try to kill me?”

Bryce keeps on whimpering, tears streaming. This is useless, I think. He’s too scared to talk, and I can’t just sit on him until it gets dark. But all of a sudden, he looks up at me, his face red and contorted with rage.

“Because you killed Neil!” he spits out. “Because you killed my best friend in the whole world!”

I stand up. “Why do you think that, Bryce?” I ask as he scrambles into a defensive position. “I mean, seriously: Why would I ever do something to Neil?”

He doesn’t need much coaxing. “Because he wouldn’t cheat for you anymore!”

“Cheat?” I repeat. “Why would I get Neil to cheat for me?”

“Oh, shut up. I know everything, Cal. What classes, how much you were paying, everything. And I know how, when he told you he couldn’t do it anymore, you got mad and threatened him. But then he said he knew about the booze you sell, and if you didn’t leave him alone, he’d tell. Because I was there, in the bushes, when you flashed a gun and made him take a walk with you.”

I know Bryce pretty well, and he doesn’t seem to be lying. But still, would I really carry a gun around town and threaten people with it? I wouldn’t even consider the possibility had I not seen one in my own drawer.

But paying someone to cheat—I’m too cheap, I would have thought. I’d rather fail—and I’m saying this with six hundred bucks in my pocket.

At this point, anything seems possible. I have to hear him out.

“Then what happened?”

“I followed you guys. You were going to the falls. But when I saw you again, you were running back toward town. Alone. And Neil hasn’t been seen since then!”

“Come on, Bryce,” I say. “Why didn’t you tell the police? Why didn’t you just tell them what you saw?”

“Because I want you dead!” he shouts at me. “So does half the school! And I don’t want you just thrown in some detention center to get sent back here three or four years later so you can come after me. I want it finished—I want you dead. And as soon as Hunter Holden gets out of the hospital, oh man, is it going to happen. You’re dead, asshole! Dead!”

It’s horrible, to see my former best friend’s face so twisted with hate, to hear him wishing me dead and smiling at the prospect. But he’s probably scared, too, about what he did. He’s thinking that if he goes to the cops now, I’ll just tell them what he tried to do while I was in a coma. There are plenty of cameras at the hospital—he must know. He must have been hoping to make it look like I died from my injuries.

But who cares? I need to fix this somehow. “Listen, Bryce, I understand why you did what you did at the hospital. And don’t worry, I promise to never tell the police or anyone. But I don’t know what happened to Neil, I swear. I don’t remember the cheating or taking him on a walk, any of it. You see, after my accident, the whole town changed. . . .”

I’m ready to give Bryce the same story I gave Willow, before telling him secret things I know about his life, when he suddenly makes a noise, choking on tears and snot. Then he reaches out and grabs something from the grass. It’s a potato that fell out when his shopping bag busted—a big, brown baker.

I’m just about to continue when Bryce hurls the thing at me. Thrown from point-blank range, it beans me square in the forehead. I feel incredible pain and see stars. Next thing I know, I’m on the ground clutching my face and yelling.

“Bryce!” I shout, trying to control the anger in my voice. “Wait, stop, Bryce!”

But he’s gone. As I writhe on the ground, I can hear him thundering up his porch steps. His door slams. I’m sure he’s triple-locking it, just like his mother always tells him to do.

A few minutes later, I get to my feet. Staggering around the yard, I pick up the fallen groceries, including the bricklike baking potato, and carry them with difficulty to Bryce’s porch. There, I lay them all out.

But I’m finally overcome with pain and frustration. “Goddamn it!” I shout at the front door. Then I roof the potato.

I head home. I’m no longer hungry but nauseated. Cars honk at me as I stumble like a drunk into the street. I’m scared too—scared that Ross might run me over or that the sheriff will pick me up or that I’ll run into any of the seemingly endless number of people in town who wish me harm these days.

I make it home alive. But this time there is no hiding the injury from my mother, who greets me at the door.