Bystander (11 page)

For a while—one minute, two minutes, five minutes—Eric just lay there, feeling oddly serene, wondering how badly he was hurt. He slowly stretched out his arms and legs. He ached all over. His neck was stiff. He felt his face. It seemed okay; only a little blood came off on his fingers.

Then he heard a bicycle pull up.

What now?
Eric wondered.

“Are you okay?” Mary asked. She sounded frightened.

Eric half rolled to look up at her. Mary was standing with the sun behind her back, framing her head. Eric squinted; her face was in shadow, dizzying. “Oh, sure, I'm peachy,” he said. Or maybe he just thought it.

“What?” Mary leaned down close, put a hand on Eric's shoulder, listened.

He shook his head. There really wasn't anything to say. It took too much effort anyway.

“I was hiding. I watched from the hill,” she confessed. Her hands touched his face, wiped the hair from his eyes. “I waited for them to leave.” She pulled at his arms and helped him sit. “It's not so bad. I've seen worse—but only in slasher movies.”

Eric snickered at that.

And after a while, with her help, he stood.

“Let's get you home.”

And somehow, together, that's what they did.

ERIC PLAYED A LOT OF GUITAR DURING THOSE DAYS. IT
was the best thing for him, just losing himself in the instrument, slamming out fat chords, but mostly, not thinking.

He had written a letter to his father—the first one in a long, long time—and now it rested on the desk in his room.

 

Dear Dad,

Hi, it's Eric.

I guess you know all about us living on
Long Island. I like parts of it, and other parts are kind of weird. The ocean is cool. School is a little crazy.

It's hard being in a new place, you know? I had some friends but now I know they weren't my friends after all. So I'm kind of starting all over again at zero. Or one, maybe, but that's a long story. The truth is, I got beat up the other day. Don't worry. I'm okay. It wasn't so bad. I mean, sure, it totally sucked. So I spend a lot of time trying to forget all about it. Some days it works.

Is that how it is for you?

I'm sorry I didn't talk to you on the phone the other day. Don't be mad at me. Sometimes I just do things. It's hard to explain why.

I listen to your CDs a lot. I close my eyes and turn the music up loud. There's that song by Jimi Hendrix when the guitar goes whoosh from the left ear to the right ear and then back, like it's whipping through
my skull. Pretty cool. The other day I thought of you and for a minute I couldn't remember your face. It scared me. I have a picture of you inside my desk drawer. I had to go and look at it. It's from that time when I beat you at putt-putt golf. I was so happy that day. It was when we were on vacation by the lake. Remember that? I do.

I think I'm going to ask Mom for a frame and hang that picture on my wall. I think about you a lot. I still have that guitar you gave me, but I mostly play the electric now. I just learned how to play “Ziggy Stardust.” It's a cool song . . . Ziggy played guitar! You are right about what you said. Music helps.

Rudy is doing great. He's getting good at sports. I never let him beat me, but sometimes I let him come close. I might try out for the school basketball team. I've been practicing a lot, dribbling with both hands, shooting jumpers from behind the line. I really, really hope I make it.

Anyway, I don't know. I just wanted to say hi. And I'm sorry. I guess that's what we both do. We keep saying I'm sorry.

I miss you.

Love,
Eric   

 

P.S. Did you know that President Nixon's dog is buried out here? How weird is that? He's the one that robbed the hotel, right? Or something like that!

 

It was a stupid letter
, Eric decided upon rereading it,
and I never should have written it in felt marker.
Eric ripped it up and let the pieces flutter into the wastebasket, like snowflakes falling into a dark, deep well.

And so he picked up his guitar, plugged in the headphones, and started strumming.

MRS. HAYES
'
S INITIAL REACTION WAS SHOCK. AFTER ALL
, her son had been beaten up in a pet cemetery. It was not the kind of news a mother hears every day. So she freaked.

Eric couldn't blame her. He did look like a mess. Before they reached Eric's house, Mary had helped him clean up in the bathroom at McDonald's. She went right in the men's room with him, just locked the door and went to work, dabbing and rinsing and making a fuss. Eric's face was bruised and swollen around the eyes and cheek. His lower lip was split. His body
was sore, stiff, and bone tired. Nothing that two Advils every four hours, with a full weekend of rest, couldn't cure. His body would recover.

Mrs. Hayes asked a million questions, and when she didn't like the answers, she picked up the phone and started dialing. Eric, for his part, downplayed everything. At first he hoped to claim it was all a football injury, but after he looked at his face in the mirror, he knew the story wouldn't fly. So he spooned out a watered-down version of the truth—it wasn't that big of a deal, just a misunderstanding, and so on and so forth—but his mother took everything superseriously. She wanted names, she wanted facts. She was like one of those detectives on
Law and Order
. She even asked, “Checkers's grave site? Why is Nixon's dog buried in Bellport?”

Mrs. Hayes was not the type of person to let this kind of thing fade into the background, as Eric had hoped. She talked on the phone with school counselors, teachers, and the principal. She turned everything into a big deal. For Eric, that was the worst part of it. Being at the center of all that hand wringing. He just wanted it to go away. At the same time, a part of him
was relieved. He was glad the school knew, that eyes had been opened, that this thing (supposedly) wouldn't happen again.

Eric managed to keep David Hallenback's name out of it. He had to tell about the other guys: Cody, Griffin, Drew, Will, and Sinjay. Maybe not telling the whole truth was a mistake. Maybe he should have said something about Hallenback. But some instinct told Eric to leave it alone. He wouldn't have said anything about Mary, either, except she insisted on waiting with Eric until his mother came home from work.

That was the first thing Eric said, after his mother exclaimed, “Eric, oh my God, what happened?”

He gestured feebly with his hand and said, “Mom, this is Mary O'Malley.” It wasn't really a great time for introductions. But what are you going to do? It was not a perfect world, as Eric had resoundingly discovered.

“The dogs!” Eric suddenly remembered. He'd forgotten all about his dog-walking duties. Mary volunteered to do it. Eric wasn't sure.

“No,” Mrs. Hayes cut in. “I'll take care of the dogs.”

“Then I'll wait here with Eric,” Mary said, and
there wasn't a trace of question in her voice. She wasn't asking permission.

“Fine,” Mrs. Hayes relented. “I'll be back soon. There's some ice cream in the freezer.”

Eric was sullen and embarrassed to be alone with Mary, and in such sorry shape. He was relieved when his mother returned and Mary left.

But she stopped by the next day. To drop off a video, she said. It was
The School of Rock,
starring Jack Black. Eric had seen the movie a few times already—“I pledge allegiance . . . to the band . . . of Mr. Schneebly . . .”—but it was the thought that counted, and to Eric it counted a lot. Seeing Mary was good, though, because now more than ever he felt cut off and alone.

Eric hated that first day back at school on Monday. Everyone knew about the fight. There were no secrets in seventh grade, plus his face looked like a bruised peach. He wanted to stay home an extra day, but his mother wouldn't allow it. She was all about “getting back on that horse” and blah, blah, blah. There was no arguing with her.

Walking the halls, sitting in classrooms—from the way kids looked at him, you'd think that his hair had
turned into live snakes. He was, as Sophie Cerrone said in French class,
“Le
freak
du jour.”

She was kidding. Eric hoped.

Mr. Floyd, the counselor, summoned Eric to a meeting in his office. Eric was instructed to bring his lunch. The invitation came as a relief, since it allowed Eric to put off for another day the discomfiture of the cafeteria.

Mr. Floyd rose and greeted Eric when he entered the office. He inquired how Eric was feeling, gestured to a chair. All very gracious and smooth. Eric glanced around the room. In addition to the usual setup of a big desk and high-backed swivel chair, Mr. Floyd's office included a round conference table, “to facilitate meaningful dialogue,” no doubt. It was here where Eric now sat. Nothing much happened at first. Mr. Floyd busied himself with a folder stuffed with a notepad and papers. So Eric tore into his sandwich. Ham and Swiss on rye, with just a whisper of mustard. Not bad.

There was a knock on the door behind Eric. Mr. Floyd looked up and said, “Thank you for joining us, Cody. Please take a seat.”

Eric's heart sputtered. Cody looked glum and distrustful. He set down his lunch tray and took a seat
at the table as far from Mr. Floyd and Eric as mathematically possible, so that the three participants now represented the points of a perfect triangle.

“I realize this must feel awkward for you,” Mr. Floyd began, “but I felt it was important to bring you boys together to discuss what happened after school on Friday.”

Mr. Floyd ran a hand over his goatee and pursed his lips. “I understand punches were thrown.”

Cody and Eric exchanged wary glances. Neither said a word.

“Because it was off school grounds,” Mr. Floyd continued, as he looked from boy to boy, “there isn't much I can do in terms of punishment. But I do want you to know that you are . . . on . . . my . . . radar.” He looked directly at Cody. “Do you know what that means?”

“That you'll be watching us?”

“Exactly right,” Mr. Floyd answered. “I want your agreement right now. This ends here.”

He tapped his finger on the desk along with each word. “This—
tap
—ends—
tap
—here—
tap
. Do you understand?”

Cody glanced at Eric, nodded.

“Eric?” Mr. Floyd asked.

“It's not up to me,” Eric said. “I didn't start it in the first place.”

“You did so,” Cody retorted. “I just finished it.”

Eric looked away, muttering soundlessly.

“Is there something you want to say, Eric?” Mr. Floyd asked.

“Not really.”

“I mean, this is your chance,” Mr. Floyd urged. “I'm not asking you boys to kiss and make up”—Cody and Eric both instantly frowned and rolled their eyes—“but this is a chance to clear the air in a safe, private environment.”

Cody looked like he might say something, as if he was forming the sentence in his head, but it was Eric who spoke first. “Look, I should have never said that about you. It's not how I want to . . . act. I'm not proud of it. Sorry.”

Cody swallowed, reached for a glass of water. “I got so mad when I heard it,” he confessed. “I've been trying to control my temper. You know that, Mr. Floyd. I'm sick of getting in trouble. But the guys kept
after me. They kept getting in my face, saying, ‘Are you going to let him get away with it?' ”

“The guys?” Mr. Floyd interjected. “Meaning, Griffin Connelly?”

Cody instantly realized his mistake. “Griffin didn't
do
anything,” Cody corrected himself. “It was all on me. I threw the punches.”

Eric raised a finger. “And I caught them.”

It was funny. Everyone chuckled, even Mr. Floyd.

“Did Griffin encourage you to fight?” the counselor asked Cody.

Cody looked across the table at Eric, then back to Mr. Floyd. His face was a blank stare. “Nobody can make me do something I don't want to do,” he said.

“Yes, I understand, Cody, but—”

Eric interrupted the counselor. “We're okay, Mr. Floyd. If Cody says this is over, then it's over. We both made mistakes.” He reached out a hand, and Cody took it.

“Truce,” they said.

“Listen to me, Cody,” Mr. Floyd said. “I'll be speaking with your parents. I'm going to let them know what we've talked about. And I promise you, I'll
be talking to Mr. Connelly, too. This kind of behavior is unacceptable. We won't tolerate it in this school. There will be consequences.”

When the boys left the office, they headed to their lockers. Fifth period was almost over. When Cody stopped at a water fountain, Eric paused there, too.

“He used you, you know that, don't you?”

Cody looked up, eyes searching. “What happened between you and me, that was a fair fight. It was between us, and us only. I fight my own battles.”

“Good,” Eric replied. “Or in my case, not so good.”

Cody grinned. “Yeah. And, um, listen. It was wrong what Hallenback did out there. He's a jerk. I didn't see him go after you until—”

“I'll be all right,” Eric interrupted. “I can handle David Hallenback. He's not my main problem.”

Cody stood motionless, then nodded slowly. “I hear what you are saying. . . .”

The bell rang and the hallway flooded with students. Cody and Eric went their separate ways. Both, somehow, felt a little better about things.

ON TUESDAY
,
ERIC GOT HIS FIRST VIEW OF DAVID HALLEN
back in the lunchroom—sitting in Eric's old seat. It was almost funny, except it seemed kind of pathetic. Eric was reminded of that old expression: “Be careful what you wish for, it might come true.” Hallenback had gotten what he wanted, a seat with the “in” crowd. But just a passing glance told Eric that for David, nothing would change. In fact, it would probably get worse. He didn't fit in over there. And it would never last.