Repossessed (7 page)

I realized that I was being very un-Shaun-like, and gave a guilty glance around.

Jason and Bailey were still actively engaged with their game.

Reluctantly, I let the beads fall—slowly, through my
fingers—to hang silent and still, and moved on to look at other things.

On another shelf was a stack of photographs. The top one was of Bailey leaning over a table that had a cake on it. He appeared to be blowing out the candles that stood on the cake. His latest birthday, I realized.

I lifted the top photo. The one underneath showed Bailey, apparently within moments after the last picture. This one, however, was taken from a slightly different angle that showed Shaun sitting next to him.

Shaun wasn't doing anything much. He wasn't even looking at the camera, just sitting there, leaned back in his chair. He wore a faint smile—likely he'd been watching Bailey clown around, while waiting for a slice of cake.

I looked at the next photo. The only part of Shaun showing was one of his hands. It rested on the table, an afterthought, something that wasn't meant to be noticed.

I
noticed.

I lifted my hand and looked at it. It was the same as the one in the picture. Had Shaun seen this hand the same way when he'd looked at it? What had he thought, what had he felt, that day at Bailey's?

These were memories that I didn't have. I supposed they must be somewhere in Shaun's brain, hidden within the folds of gray matter that I had acquired by squatter's right. But I didn't have the key that unlocked them.

Shaun was gone. No one else knew it, but he was no longer here.

Something rose inside me, so strange that at first I didn't recognize it, although I have experienced a duller, overriding version of it almost every moment of my existence. It lurched in my body like a jagged yet leaden rock, shot through with regret and loneliness and lost chances. I had never felt it myself, only through others.

I put the photos down and turned away. I didn't want to feel grief for the loss of Shaun. Didn't want to feel
guilt
. Of all beings, I knew how pointless it was. Shaun would have died whether I'd stepped in or not. Those last moments I took from him would have been filled with either pain or nothingness.

I went back to sit on the floor next to Jason and Bailey. I said nothing, did nothing—just watched Shaun's brother and best friend. They were happily engrossed in their game, both completely unaware that the only things left of Shaun Simmons were a few photos and an empty space.

“D
id you have a good time?” I asked Jason later, as we were walking home.

“It was okay.”

I thought this meant that he'd enjoyed himself. If he hadn't, wouldn't he have said something sarcastic? Or blunt, like “It sucked”?

I wasn't positive, though. “Do you want to do this again tomorrow?” I asked Jason, testing. It pleased me to think of his being happy.

It
really
pleased me to think that I might have influenced another being's emotions.

“I guess,” he said, shrugging.

He did like it
, I told myself. Even though I wasn't positive.

At the house, I decided to go do Shaun's homework. While Jason turned on the television, I went straight to Shaun's room.

As soon as I crossed the threshold, I saw that Peanut was on the bed. He sat in such a fashion that he appeared to have no paws; all four legs were tucked neatly under him. He looked like a blob with a cat's head.

I had been reaching down for Shaun's backpack, which sat just inside the doorway, but now I straightened slowly. The slashes on my fingertips still stung.

I did not speak, because I thought Peanut might not like it. And I didn't want to do anything Peanut didn't like.

I thought of the photos in Bailey's room.
Peanut
knew I was an imposter. He didn't care what motivations I had, or whether I was doing any harm. He just knew that I was a thief.

I waited a few moments, but he didn't attack.

Nor did he move to leave.

I would have liked to win him over. Would have liked to try, anyway. But the way he was staring at me—steadily, unblinking, his pupils dark slits in the pale green—well, he
blamed
me, I could tell. For going against the Creator's will. For leaving my assigned place in the universe.

It was hard to meet his little cat gaze.

Slowly, carefully, I sidled out of the room.

Peanut just watched, eyes unfathomable, the victor.

 

For dinner that night, Shaun's mom brought home McDonald's. I had a Quarter Pounder with cheese, fries, and a Coke. This time the ketchup didn't come in a bottle, but in foil packets, each of which had a tiny dotted line marked across the corner, and little words saying “Tear Here.” After tearing, I had to turn the packet upside down and squeeze to get the ketchup to come out.

I found that if I squeezed too hard—or if the torn opening was too small—ketchup would spurt in unexpected directions. In this way I managed to get ketchup on my shirt, the tabletop, and Jason's arm.

“Watch it,” he complained.

“Sorry,” I said. I gripped the portion of my shirt that had ketchup on it, held it up, and licked it.

“Gross,” Jason said at the same moment that Shaun's mom, horrified, said, “Shaun!”

All right. No licking.

I grabbed a napkin and scrubbed at the ketchup instead. What a waste.

Shaun's mom had a salad in a plastic tray. It looked crisp and appealing, all different shades of green, with a few curls of purple and orange. And a few small, red round things scattered here and there.

She pulled out a larger version of a ketchup packet—this one had a man's face on it—and tore easily across the tiny line. “Jason,” she said in a bright voice as she gently squeezed a white viscous substance from the packet onto her vegetables, “why don't you call Cameron after dinner and see if he wants to come over?”

Shaun's mom had been fussing over Jason and his lack of friends for years. She used to take charge by having boys from his class over to play. They seldom reciprocated. None of the kids liked Jason enough to ask if he could visit
them
. A few parents insisted that their sons return the invitation, but these parents then complained of the way Jason wouldn't look them in the eye, the way he tended to break toys, or the way he ate Fruit Roll-Ups and then absentmindedly dropped the empty wrappers wherever he stood.

Now Jason was thirteen. He was too old for his mother to actively attempt to maneuver his social life. And she was champing at the bit to do so, you could tell by the way her voice took on an encouraging tone. “What do you think?” she urged Jason.

I swirled a fry in ketchup, getting it nicely covered. The Cameron she spoke of was a boy Jason's age who lived three houses down. I thought it would be a terrible mistake to call him. Cameron was a sower of pain. He ate kids like Jason for breakfast.

Jason apparently agreed. “I don't want to.”

“Why not?” Shaun's mom dropped the packet into one of the empty bags. “He seems nice enough.”

“He threw erasers at me.”

I watched Shaun's mom stir the salad with her small plastic fork, flipping the lettuce around expertly. I'd squirted my ketchup into a puddle next to my fries, like Jason had, but now I wished I'd put it directly on them and mixed it up with a fork. That made sense.

But there were no more plastic forks, alas. Only those with salad got forks.

I continued dipping and eating.

“That was in third grade, Jason,” I heard Shaun's mom say. “You should give him another chance.”

Jason and I both knew that he should
not
give Cameron another chance. Cameron would refuse to come over, then mock him at school the next day for daring to ask.

Of course, I couldn't say any of this. And all Jason said was “I don't want to” again.

Shaun's mom nodded, apparently engrossed in her mixing, but now her fork sent the lettuce leaping around her tray at an alarming rate.

“What about Benny?” she tried.

Benny lived a few blocks away. He cursed his parents to their faces, made hit lists, and looked up bombmaking on the Internet.

Shaun's mom would have had no way of knowing any of this. She would only see that Benny's mother was president of the PTA and made him tuck his shirts in.

“I don't want to,” Jason said again. His standard noncommunicative line.

Shaun's mom sighed. She looked worried, I thought. I felt bad for her. She was so concerned about her son—and clueless as to how to help him.

Thinking about it, I believed I knew a good possibility for a Jason friendship. There was an eighth-grade boy who lived not far from Bailey, who was shy, video-game friendly, and very uncoordinated. Just like Jason. They might enjoy each other's company.

I'd never really appreciated the problem, though, of how one might get two human beings to become friends with each other. Especially when both tended to avoid speech and eye contact.

“Jason,” his mom said, “I know it's hard, but I wish you'd get out and socialize once in a while.”

“I did,” Jason said through his last mouthful of double cheeseburger.

“Don't talk with your mouth full. Did what?”

Jason chewed and swallowed. “Got out and socialized.” He slid his chair back.

“When did you do that?”

Jason stood up. “After school.”

“You need to ask if you can be excused.”

“May I be excused?”

“Yes,” she said. “What do you mean, got out”—too late, Jason was gone, and she was talking to the empty doorway—“and socialized?” Her voice died off. She sounded confused, as if this particular phrase must have a different meaning from the usual one, when Jason used it.

At this rate, she'd have to track him down, sit on him, and pull an explanation out of him word by word, on a string.

“He came with me to Bailey's house,” I explained.

“Oh.” She looked puzzled. “Why?”

“We invited him.”

“You invited him to hang out with you and Bailey?”

“Yes.”

She digested this information. “You know you're supposed to call and let me know where you are,” she said, but I thought she sounded tentative, not angry. And then she said nothing for a while, but thoughtfully ate her salad.

“What are those?” I asked her, pointing.

She looked down. “Cherry tomatoes.”

I looked at the remaining unsquished packets. “Tomato Ketchup,” they said.

“May I try one?” I asked.

“A tomato? Sure.”

I watched as she tried to stab it. It shot out from under her fork. Then she tried scooping, but it rolled away. Finally she grabbed the tomato with her fingers and handed it to me: “Here.” She sounded irritated.

I popped it into my mouth and bit down. Juices exploded onto my tongue. Disappointing. It didn't taste the least bit ketchupy. Definitely not worth the chase it required.

Must be,
I reflected,
it's the other ingredients that give ketchup its flavor. The spices and sugars and other things.

Still, I chewed and swallowed the tomato. It did have interesting textures.

Shaun's mom appeared to be deep in thought. I decided not to bother her, and silently finished my fries and burger before slurping the last drops of Coke out of the bottom of my cup. Then I gathered up the trash and prepared to take it into the kitchen and dispose of it.

“May I be excused?” I asked politely.

Shaun's mom nodded. But when I stood up, she said quickly, “Shaun.”

I paused.

“That was a very nice thing to do, taking your brother with you today. Did he enjoy it?”

“Seemed to.”

“I
really
appreciate it. He has such a hard time making
friends,” she added, and I could tell she was fretting about Jason, because she started stirring her salad again.

“Would you like me to invite him again tomorrow?” I offered magnanimously.

“Yes, if you can. It's not putting a cramp in your style, is it?”

“I don't have much of a style to cramp,” I pointed out, and turned to go. If Peanut had moved on, I wanted to sit in Shaun's room and correct a test he'd failed. The answers had to be marked on a sheet that had hundreds of tiny circles on it. I would get to select circles and bubble them in. I was looking forward to it.

“You're a good kid, Shaun,” I heard Shaun's mom say as I passed.

I hesitated. I had the feeling that this moment required something of me, some reciprocal words or gesture.

I put one hand on her shoulder and patted it awkwardly. It was the best I could do.

She looked a little surprised, but then she smiled and lifted one hand to place it briefly on mine. It felt bony, and the fingers were cold.

Bodies are rather untidy, with a somewhat gummy saclike skin holding organs in place so they won't fall out, the whole thing oozing sweat and oil and constantly shedding dead cells. Physical contact is just plain odd,
when you get down to it.

That's why I was surprised to find that I liked it.

 

Bubbling in tests sounded like fun, and it was—for about ten minutes. I tried using different pencil strokes and techniques, but it seems there are only so many ways to fill a tiny circle with graphite leavings. Still, I finished the assignment and then did Shaun's geometry homework. That wasn't much more fun, but I felt I ought to complete Shaun's obligations.

By the time I was done, Jason and his mother had both gone to bed. I thought I should get into bed, too—but then I remembered how Bailey had chastised me that morning for not getting online.

It didn't sound very interesting, talking via a keyboard and a screen. I'd much rather talk to someone face-to-face and watch their flesh slide, shift, and twitch from muscular expansion and contraction.

However, this was Shaun's life. I was determined to at least
try
to follow its structure.

I turned on Shaun's computer. It hummed quietly, as if coming to life. I sighed and brought up Instant Messenger.

Bloo-bloo-bloop!
said the computer, and a little box popped up.

That was Bailey.

I started to write “It's sore, but better than it was,” but I'd had no practice in keyboarding. Shaun was a good typist, and I knew where the keys were, but again, knowing was not the same as doing. I had to keep looking down in order to put my fingers in the proper location. It was taking too long, so I finally just wrote:

I pecked out “Stuff,” but as I clicked on
SEND
—
Bloo-bloo-bloop!
—another box popped up. I knew that Shaun often carried on several conversations at once, so I turned my attention to the new box: