Repossessed (11 page)

As far as I knew, Bailey had never offered to let anyone borrow any of his books. He guarded them jealously.

Lane gave him a brief glance over her shoulder. “Actually, I was just thinking I wouldn't mind trying the Dead Man Rising series.”

“Go ahead and take a couple of them with you, then.”

“Or you could stay and read them now,” I suggested. “You could lie right here and get started.”

“I can't. I have to be home by five.”

“Take the first few,” Bailey said.

“You sure it's okay?”

“Yeah. Just bring them back whenever you're done and you can get some more.”

“Great! Thanks,” she told Bailey, beaming as she pulled out three books. “Now I've got to run.”

“I'll walk you home,” I quickly offered, leaping up. We'd be alone outside, and perhaps I could even hold her hand.

I did, and it was the best thing I'd experienced yet. As we walked up the hill, I reached over and took hold of her left hand, which was warm and slightly damp. Technically speaking, it felt something like a larger, plumper, more flexible version of the hot dogs I'd placed in buns on my first night here.

But as with Shaun's mom, this touch far surpassed its technical components. Her hand was soft, and gently clasped mine in return.

I enjoyed it immensely.

As we walked, I watched the wind toss her hair, and the way her breasts jounced slightly with each step.

Neither of us spoke at first, but as we walked up the hill, Lane said, “There's still something different about you.”

I felt my cheeks with my free hand. I wasn't smiling.

“Your eyes look funny. Not funny ha-ha,” she added quickly. “But funny different. Like they're…I don't know.”

“Sparkling?” I asked. I had examined Shaun's eyes in mirrors, and although they were fascinating to me, mostly
they were just…wet looking.

“Like…like there's tons of
stuff
behind them. Experiences.” She spoke slowly, as if searching for the correct words. “Happiness. And sadness, too. A
lot
of sadness.”

She got all that from shiny eyeballs. “Lane Henneberger,” I said. “You are a very observant girl.”

We walked up her front steps, stopping before her door. Without withdrawing her hand from mine, Lane turned to me. “I had a good time.”

“Me, too.”

I expected her to go inside, but instead she stood there, as if waiting for something. I thought perhaps she wanted to see Shaun's smile again, so I obliged her.

“Well,” she said, “thanks for walking me home.”

“You're welcome,” I told her.

Silence.

“So,” she said after another moment. “I guess I'd better go in now.”

“Only if you must.”

“I…must.” She unclasped my hand and reached for the door handle. “See you tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow,” I promised, hoping it would be true.

“'Bye,” she said. I watched her walk into the house. She
was
beautiful, and I loved her so.

I headed back down the hill, feeling oddly cheerful.
Today hadn't gone at all as I had hoped—yet for some reason I wasn't terribly disappointed.

Probably, I thought, it was because I felt I still had a good shot at achieving the full Lane Henneberger experience.

One more day
, I told myself.
All I need is one more day
.

B
ack at Bailey's, Jason was apparently taking a break. He sat on the floor in front of the TV, but was looking around the room, as Lane and I had each done. Bailey had turned on the computer and was playing an online poker game.

I sat on the bed again, leaning forward, elbows on knees, thinking about eyeballs. It was amazing how much some humans could intuit just by looking at them.

Bloo-bloo-bloop!
I jumped as a little box popped up on Bailey's computer screen.

I sat up and watched, alert, as Bailey read the words in the box. Surely they wouldn't try to contact me
here
?

Apparently the message was nothing out of the ordinary, because he merely began typing a reply.

I shuddered and looked away.

“You play that?” I heard Jason ask. He was looking at Bailey's guitar.

Bailey glanced over to see what Jason was talking about. “Some,” he answered absently. He hit
ENTER
to send the message, then went back to his poker game.

No more boxes appeared.

I realized now that Jason had introduced a subject of his own accord. I turned my attention to him; the guitar had somehow captured his interest. His gaze moved over its sinuous red-and-white curves. It was an attractive shape, I had to admit.

“You can try it if you want,” Bailey remarked to Jason.

Jason looked from the guitar to Bailey, then back again. “You sure?” he asked.

“Yeah. Just be careful.”

After another moment's hesitation, Jason gently removed the guitar from the stand. He sat back and cradled it in his lap. Very, very quietly, he plucked a couple of strings, which gave a muted twang.

“Go ahead and turn on the amp,” Bailey told him.

Jason leaned over, peering at the knobs. Finally he flipped the switch that said
ON
. He held one finger over the strings again; then, after another pause, gave a quick strum.

BWONGGGG!

“Sorry, sorry.” Jason hastily pressed his hand on the strings, quieting them.

“Just turn it down,” Bailey said without looking around.

After a furtive look at me, Jason began to fiddle with the knobs on the amplifier. Then he tried a few more strums, the sound turned so low that I could barely hear them.

It wasn't music, not like the songs I'd heard on Shaun's CD, but it wasn't unpleasant. The notes sounded as if they didn't quite fit where they ought to, but I liked that because it suited Jason, who was, after all, the one making the sounds. This noise was uniquely Jason's, and therefore compelling in a different way from a set of harmonious chords.

I listened to the soft thrum and kept my eyes studiously away from that dreadful computer screen and any potential little boxes.

“I wish I had one of these,” Jason said, in a tone of quiet reverence that I would have thought appropriate in a place of worship. But it was clear that he was referring to the guitar. His fingers curled around the neck in what I thought a very natural fashion.

“Borrow Shaun's.” That was Bailey.

“I can't.”

“Why not?”

“He won't let me.”

It was true. Shaun had always refused to let him near the thing. Shaun himself hadn't touched the guitar in a couple of years, but I suppose he wanted to keep it intact in case he ever regained interest. Jason
was
known for his destructive tendencies.

However,
I
didn't care if Jason broke Shaun's guitar.

“Go ahead and use it,” I said. “I don't mind.”

Jason said nothing, but started strumming the guitar again, as if the matter were of no importance.

Later, though, as we headed home, it seemed to me that he walked a little
twitchily
, as if he was agitated. I wasn't quite certain what it meant. His leg movements were quick, so that I had to walk fast to keep up with him.

As we passed a house with a large chimney that was covered with vines, I remembered that this was the home of the eighth-grader who had much in common with Jason.

I thought:
Here's a chance to make a mark on Jason.

“You see that house?” I asked him.

Jason squinted at it. “Yeah.”

“That's where a kid in your social studies class lives. His name's Carson. He has red hair.”

“Oh. Him.”

“Yes. You need to go by his house and invite him over.”

“What?”

“Right now,” I repeated helpfully. “Go ring his doorbell and ask him to come play video games with you.”

“No way.”

“You're interested in many of the same things. You and he could be friends.”

Jason studied the house without slowing. I had no idea what he was thinking. “I don't even know him.”

“You will if you go ring his doorbell.”

“No. Forget it,” he added, with great vehemence. But he was stalking along with long, fierce strides, and I thought perhaps he was
forcing
himself to confront the idea of making a friend. It wouldn't be an easy thought for someone like Jason.

However, when he spoke, it wasn't about friendship at all. “Listen.” He sounded angry. “Are you
seriously
going to let me use your guitar? Because if you're messing with me, I'll—I'll—you better not be messing with me.”

“I'm not messing with you,” I assured him. “You can seriously use my guitar.”

“Don't you have a book of chords or something that came with it?”

“Not anymore.” Shaun had thrown the book away when he discovered it under his bed, stiff from an ancient spill of some unidentified liquid.

“Oh.” One word, but this time the emotion behind it
was clear. Jason's tone was flat with disappointment.

I had never played guitar, but in theory I knew the finger placement of various chords. However, in theory I also knew how to type. The actuality, alas, was quite different.

So I didn't offer any assistance.

 

Tonight's dinner, unlike previous ones, was rather disturbing. It started when Shaun's mother set a roast chicken on the table. The chicken lay there glistening, and unlike a hot dog or a Quarter Pounder, it had clearly once been
alive
. It still had musculature. And when Shaun's mom pulled and cut loose a leg for Jason's plate, the bones swiveled juicily in their sockets.

I stared, fascinated yet repelled. The thing looked like it could get up and
walk
.

“You want a breast or thigh, Shaun?” she asked me, her knife hovering.

I thought,
If that were Peanut lying there, she'd be screaming her head off
. “What do I usually have?” I asked, telling myself I shouldn't be feeling disgusted. Shaun wouldn't have.

“Huh?”

“Oh. Breast,” I said, remembering. “I'll have some breast. Just…not much. Please.”

She gave me a few small slices, and then served her
self. As she and Jason dug in, I poked at the chicken on my plate, undecided whether to taste it.

I tried the creamed corn instead. Yes, that was good.

“Mom,” Jason asked, “do you think I could have guitar lessons?”

“
Guitar
lessons?” Her fork hesitated halfway to her mouth. “Um. I don't know. Why the sudden interest?”

For once, Jason didn't shrug. And he actually looked up from his plate. “I was just thinking it would be fun,” he said, eyes on his mother's face.

“Out of the blue, you thought it would be fun?” The fork still hovered there.

“He tried Bailey's guitar today,” I told her.

“Oh.” She began eating again. “But Jason,
you
don't have a guitar. You can't take lessons without pract—”

“Shaun said I can use his.”

“
Shaun
said that? Hmm. I didn't know he still had that thing. It's nice of him to let you borrow it.”

“So can I?”

“I need to check into it, Jason. I'm not sure how much it'd cost. And the car's been making that funny noise—I need to get it looked at first.”

I finished the corn. The small slices of chicken still sat on my plate, looking harmless enough. But before me was the mutilated carcass, cooked muscles hanging in shreds from the skeleton.

I stabbed a green bean and tried that instead.

“I'm through.” Jason pushed his plate away. “Can I go get your guitar now, Shaun?”

“Yes.” The green bean tasted a little metallic, I thought. Not one of my favorites thus far. Nevertheless, I proceeded to stab and eat more.

“Hey. You be
sure
to put that guitar back when you're finished,” Shaun's mother warned Jason.

“I will.”

“And be careful with it. And what do you say to your brother for being so generous?” his mother reminded him, but it was too late. Jason was already halfway down the hall.

I ate all the green beans. As I did so, an idea occurred to me.

“You could pay Bailey to give Jason lessons,” I suggested. “He'd do it for cheap. He's always looking for ways to make money.”

“Or you could show Jason what you know.”

“I don't remember any chords,” I lied. “Bailey still plays.” I had finished all the corn, as well as the green beans. Now I eyed the chicken again.

You're supposed to be Shaun. Just try it
.

I slid the tines of my fork into a tiny piece, and lifted it. The meat hung there, white and sinewy.

I stuck it in my mouth and started chewing. Hmm. It wasn't terrible.

“It's really good to see you and your brother getting along,” I heard Shaun's mother say.

If you didn't
look
at it, if you didn't
think
about it, it was almost palatable.

“My brother and I were never close,” Shaun's mom added as I swallowed my first bite. “It's something I missed.”

I deliberately kept my eyes off the decimated corpse in the center of the table and, focusing on my own plate, cut another small piece. “You could try getting close now,” I told her.

She shook her head. “Our lives are just too different.”

I thought about that. Her brother—Shaun's uncle—was married, with two daughters. He lived one town over. “There's no time like the present to reach out,” I said, then ate the second piece.

“You sound like a phone commercial. Anyway, it's not like you're deprived. You get to see your cousins at Christmas.”

“I wasn't thinking of my cousins,” I told her. “I was thinking of you.”

“I'm fine,” she said firmly. “Once a year is enough for me to listen to lectures.”

“Lectures?”

“Lectures. ‘The secret to marriage is that both partners have to give one hundred percent.' The implication being that
I
didn't. That
I'm
a screwup. And that everything my brother does is perfect. Ah, I'm going to get aggravated if I think about it.”

I saw what she meant. I considered the matter while examining the chicken that remained on my plate, wondering whether I should try a bit more. “Sometimes,” I remarked to Shaun's mom, “people like to feel that any good fortune they have is due to their own wise choices. That's true sometimes, but a lot of the time it just comes down to random chance.”

“I'm not following you.”

“If your bro—if Uncle Mark likes to believe he can keep bad things from happening to him, then he
has
to believe that the reason bad things happened to you was that you didn't try hard enough.” I decided I'd had enough chicken for today. If only it had a different appearance! I'm sure I would have enjoyed it.

When I looked up, Shaun's mom was staring at me with an odd expression. “Wow. Where did all that come from?”

I realized that I'd forgotten to try to sound like Shaun again. I didn't answer, but gave a Shaunian shrug.

“Anyway, you're right,” Shaun's mom said. “That's
exactly why I feel uncomfortable around him. I never thought of it that way before.” She was silent for a few moments, apparently deep in thought.

“May I be excused?” I asked.

She nodded and watched me pick up my plate, then stack Jason's on top of it. “I noticed you've been putting the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, too,” she said as I reached for Jason's used silverware. “Who stole my son and replaced him with an angel?”

I stopped, hand on a fork, and looked at her.

“My goodness, don't look so alarmed. I didn't mean anything,” she said quickly. “What I should have said was that I've noticed everything you've been doing to help lately, and I really appreciate it. You're a good kid, Shaun.”

She'd said that last night, too. But I wasn't a kid. And I wasn't Shaun.

“I love you,” she added.

I didn't know what to say to that. I just turned and took the dishes into the kitchen without a word.

I certainly liked Shaun's mother well enough, I reflected as I set the dishes in the sink. I just didn't love her as a son would.

I'd already known that, though. Why should the thought seem bothersome now? It wasn't as if I was hurting her by not loving her. Shaun was gone; his place was
empty. If anything, I was
helping
his mother by putting off her grief.

I pushed the discomfort out of my head and began to rinse the dirty dishes. I put them in the washer, then headed to Shaun's room to do homework. I could hear Jason thrumming away at Shaun's guitar through his closed bedroom door.

I shut Shaun's door, sat at his desk, and pulled out his English folder. I started working, as I had the previous two nights.

But I'd already run the gamut when it came to selecting writing implements. I'd moved them over the paper in every way I could think of.