The Cemetery Boys (8 page)

Wind whipped by me, pulling my hair from my face, ruffling my clothes as we fell. Terrified, I clutched Devon. He was clutching me, too, but his grip seemed far less panicked, far less certain that we were going to die. My thoughts were a scramble of terror. DeadI'mdeadI'mdeadI'mdeadI'mdead!

“Stephen!” Devon's voice sounded very far away, even
though his face was right there by my left ear. “Get ready!”

The rocks below grew larger and larger. The water reached up for us, hungry. It was going to swallow us whole.

DeadI'mdeadI'mdeadI'mdeadI'mdead!

“Look at me, Stephen!”

I couldn't. I couldn't take my eyes off the rocks, the water, our impending demise.

DeadI'mdeadI'mdeadI'mdeadI'mdead!!!

“Now!”

With enormous effort, I met Devon's eyes. They were the last thing that I would ever see. He was the last person I would ever look at. Because I was going to die. Devon was my murderer. Devon was my friend. And it was all over. I screamed.

And screamed.

And screamed.

Devon landed on the balls of his feet and stumbled back, catching me as we hit a ledge that I couldn't see from where we had been standing overhead. He pulled me back from the edge and I whipped my head around, wondering how I could have missed the outcropping of land that we were now standing on, how I hadn't been able to see it from up top. My screams died down pitifully as the realization hit me that I was safe. I was alive. My right ankle was throbbing from the awkward way I'd hit the ground, but I was alive.

Still catching his breath, Devon pointed to the trail that led up the side of the cliff back to the cemetery. “You should've seen your face. Classic.”

I shoved Devon hard with both hands. He wavered, but didn't fall. His jaw clenched when my hands made contact, as if I were
this close
to pissing him off. I didn't care. “What the hell, Devon! What the hell was that?”

As I stormed up the cliff's trail, Devon called after me through the chorus of laughter. Laughter from his friends—not my friends, not our friends,
his
friends. “It was just a joke, Stephen. Lighten up.”

I didn't want to lighten up. I didn't want to be the butt of his joke. I just wanted to forget this night had ever happened.

But on my walk home, all I could picture were Devon's eyes, and how it had felt to know he'd be the last person I'd ever see. I wasn't going to forget that any time soon.

The next morning I was up by dawn, but I didn't move more than an inch or so from my bed. My mind was still spinning with thoughts that I couldn't wrap my brain around, swirling like the water of the reservoir had the night before. The image played over and over again inside my mind, as if the backs of my eyelids were a movie screen and I was the unwilling audience to a film I'd rather forget. We'd been standing in the cemetery, joking around, and then suddenly I'd thought I was dying. I'd known I was dying. And it was all just a big joke.

Not to mention the fact that I was pretty sure I was
actually dying now . . . owing to all the booze I'd drunk.

This might have been a hangover, but I really had no frame of reference. My head felt like a big, pain-filled balloon, and the room was kind of tilting on its own. Apparently, I couldn't hold my liquor. I was okay with that. I didn't want to hold liquor—mine or anybody else's. I didn't ever want to see alcohol again. I just wanted to puke my guts out and fall asleep for several millennia. But that wasn't going to happen. Because I didn't live with people who believed in peace and quiet. I lived with—

“Where is that boy?”

—my grandmother and—

“Stephen! For crying out loud, it's noon. Get up!”

—my dad, who either didn't give a crap that I was hungover, or else had no clue. I was hoping for that last one.

I rolled carefully out of bed to a semi-standing, semi-hunched-over position, bracing myself on the footboard, then the doorjamb as I made my way out of my room and down the hall to the kitchen. The moment the light from the front bay window hit my eyes, a sharp pain slashed through my head. I didn't just feel like I was going to die. I kind of wanted to. But first, I wanted to puke and get it over with.

My dad was sitting in a kitchen chair, and the moment he looked at me, as I fell into the chair beside him, I could tell he knew that I'd been out drinking the night before. I
tried to sit up straight and pretend that I was fine, but when I did, something sick coated the back of my throat. So I slumped down in my seat and laid my head on the table. You know. Praying for death and all that.

“Stephen, maybe you should go take a shower before joining your grandmother and me for lunch.”

I muttered something unintelligible in response.

“Stephen.” His tone was calm, but I could tell that he was in the mood to shout. So I dragged myself out of the chair and down the hall to the bathroom, swaying this way and that as the room tilted even more dramatically.

To my credit, I didn't get sick. Despite the fact that the toilet was right there and on my side completely.
It's okay, buddy
, the toilet said.
I've got your back. Toss those cookies in here and get on with your day.

I have no idea why the toilet called me buddy. Give me a break, I was hungover.

The shower was hot and calmed my headache a bit, and after I got out, I felt a bit less like the world was tilting on its side. I also didn't feel the least bit hungry. But I'd heard my dad's tone, and I figured I had better join them at the table, or else there would be hell to pay. Not that I wasn't paying it already.

When I returned to the kitchen, there were three plates on the table. My grandmother was at the stove, but she kept
glancing at the kitchen window into the backyard. Likely she was making plans for whatever household improvement Dad and I could do next.

I took my seat again and tried not to make eye contact. Dad nudged a glass of water toward me and quietly said, “Sip it slowly, but drink it all. And take these.”

Then he handed me two Tylenol. Which was the precise moment I realized that my dad was being pretty cool about this whole thing. The shower, the water, the pain meds. He was trying to help me rather than punish me. I wasn't sure why. He should have been pissed. Mom would have been pissed.

I took the pills in my hand and said, “Thanks.”

I didn't eat much lunch, but I put a lot of effort into moving food around my plate in a creative manner. Once my dad had cleared the plates away, he nodded toward my bedroom, as if to excuse me. Gratefully, I made my way back down the hall and collapsed into bed.

When I woke again, it was dark. I had managed to sleep the entire day. I didn't feel quite so much like death, at least, but the movie playing in my mind about Devon, the cliff, and my imminent doom still refused to stop playing. I had to know what exactly had happened the night before. I had to know if it really had been a joke, and it only seemed so terrifying because I was tipsy, or if Devon really had been
trying to kill us both and just messed up. I didn't even want to consider the third option—that I was losing my mind. I mean, the idea of going crazy scared the shit out of me, what with my mom and all.

After throwing on my shoes, I made my way quietly out the front door and across town to the Playground. I wasn't surprised to see the boys there this time, or the bonfire they'd built on one of the graves. To them, it seemed, this was pleasure as usual.

The flames cast eerie shadows of the boys onto the tombstones and the trees—elongated forms that made them look alien, strange. I kept my attention on Devon, who was standing apart from the group, looking up into the night sky with a dreamlike expression on his face. He was dressed in shades of black and gray, and I suspected that the grays had all been blacks at one time. I gave his shoulder a shove—light enough not to start anything, but firm enough to show him I meant business. “What the hell was that, Devon?”

He barely flinched, but I could tell by the set of his mouth that he wanted to react. I wondered what made him stop, but then recognized his inaction for what it was: patience. I was still learning my place in their little group, and Devon was being forgiving of my actions. For now.

From his shirt pocket, he withdrew a semicrushed packet of clove cigarettes. He held it out to me, but I shook
my head. Drinking was one thing. Smoking was absolutely another, and I refused to cross that line. When he could tell I wasn't going to change my mind, he popped one into his mouth with a shrug, lit it with his skull lighter, and returned both to his pocket. It took him two inhales and exhales to formulate a response to my question. He didn't meet my eyes, but as he exhaled, he said, “What the hell was what?”

Behind us, Scot, Cam, and Thorne broke into laughter over something I hadn't heard or seen. Shortly after, I heard music playing, which meant that one of them had likely brought out a radio or iPod or something. The song was one I'd listened to myself a hundred times, the singer rambling on and on about knowing what I did in the dark.

What was I so worried about? Maybe it was just a stupid joke gone wrong. Maybe it was nothing to get pissed about in the grand scheme of things. But still. “Last night. The cliff. You know what I mean.”

“You were pretty drunk, my friend.” He sucked on his cigarette, making the ember glow brightly. As he blew out a ring of smoke, the light from the ember dimmed. His face looked gaunt in the semidarkness. “Maybe you fell. Maybe I saved your ass and you totally overreacted.”

I tried to fix the night before in my mind—recall every moment leading up to falling over the edge—but couldn't. Most of it was a blur. But Devon's eyes . . . and that sensation
of knowing I was about to die . . . that much I could recall. “I didn't fall on my own.”

“It was just a joke. Call it an initiation, if you will. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry. It's not often we accept anyone into our little group. We like you, Stephen. The boys like you. I like you. It just went too far.” He met my gaze then and held it for a good, long time. This wasn't the face of a guy who was trying to screw with me, or dupe me in any way. This was the face of a guy who'd welcomed me into his group of friends without, I guess, much hazing at all. Just a quick warning about his sister and my balls, and after that, a harmless prank. I'd known a group of guys back in Denver who'd required an act of violence in exchange for acceptance into their little club. That was serious. This was nothing. So why was I being such a jerk to him over some bad joke gone wrong?

Sighing heavily, I ran my right hand through my hair, raking it back from my face. “We could have gotten seriously hurt.”

Devon finished his cigarette and then dropped it on the ground. “Don't be such a pussy. Come on.”

Once we reached the group, Devon made the kill sign, slashing his finger across his neck. Immediately, Thorne turned off the music and all eyes were on Devon. Devon said, “So, Stephen just asked me what the hell we were doing last night here in the Playground.”

To my left, Markus snorted. “If I remember it right, a shitload of vodka.”

“But mostly schnapps,” Nick chimed in.

Devon let them have their laugh, but then said something that made the very air change. It felt heavier, somehow, and tasted kind of metallic. But maybe that was the last of the hangover talking. Devon said, “He seems pretty worried that we might throw him off a cliff or something.”

I glanced at the others, who were all watching him quietly, fearfully, as if waiting for him to speak again. I cleared my throat in embarrassment. Why had I come here tonight? Even if I was remembering right about the cliff and all, why did I feel the need to break up the party? Maybe I was determined to ruin the small bit of happiness I'd found here in Spencer. Maybe I didn't really believe that I deserved happiness anywhere.

Without waiting for their response or approval—he needed neither, when it boiled down to it—Devon looked directly at me. “Like I said last night: once you know it, you can't unknow it. You're either in, or you're out. We want you in. In on all of our secrets. In on all of our fun. But we don't let people in lightly. So be careful with your choice here, Stephen.”

Everyone seemed very concerned about my ability to make the right choices lately. Everyone but me. I seemed
happy enough to let everyone else make the decisions for me.

Devon stepped up to me. The group hushed, like maybe we were going to brawl or something. I hoped not. Devon was lean, but he looked tough. And I'd never been in a fistfight before. In a low voice, he said, “So. Are you in . . . or not?”

I looked around at the boys and, last, at Devon. “What happens if I'm not?”

Markus and the other boys laughed like I'd just said the funniest thing they'd ever heard. Devon shrugged casually, but something about the light in his eyes said that he was feeling anything but casual at the moment. Maybe I'd surprised him with my response. Or maybe I was wrong and he didn't really give a crap what I wanted. “Only one way to find out.”

I glanced at Markus, who offered me a reassuring smile. Then I met Devon's eyes, wondering what exactly I was getting myself into. I swallowed hard. It was my life. And it was my choice how I decided to live it. With a nod, I said, “I'm in.”

Devon wore a small, knowing smile, as if he'd never had a doubt. “Then let's do this.” Thorne turned up the music again and Markus placed a bottle in my hand. I had no idea what was in it, or even whether I could really trust this group of guys. I just knew that I wanted this moment to last, and I didn't care what came next.

Now mattered. Not
then
. Not
someday
. But
now
.

I pressed the bottle to my lips, tipping it up, letting the clear fluid empty into my mouth, burning my throat. A hand backlit by the bonfire reached out and lifted the bottle farther, and I drank and drank until it was empty. I knew that hand belonged to Devon. I knew that he and the boys probably got piss drunk in the cemetery every night, all summer long. But I didn't care. I just wanted to belong. And forget. And enjoy.

The evening became a happy blur. At one point, Devon challenged me to a race back into town—just him and me. The boys all paused then, watching us with expectant looks on their faces. I wasn't sure how to read them. Did they feel left out? Annoyed? I wasn't sure.

Once Devon said the words, we both stood there, facing each other, waiting to see if the other would go through with it and run. Devon moved first, so fast that I might have fallen behind if I'd hesitated for even a moment more. But I darted after him, my lungs burning, my legs aching as we moved from dirt path to asphalt to sidewalk. We ran until my stomach cramped from laughter, and when we reached William Spencer's mansion, Devon began to climb. I followed, pulling myself up on grates and pipes while planting my feet on bricks that stood out from the building's surface. I used whatever footholds and handholds I could find, and we scaled the building all the way to the roof. Devon was
first to reach it, and he balanced his way to the small tower at the very top, gripping the weather vane with his right hand to steady himself. I climbed up beside him, knowing that Devon had won the race, but not giving a damn.

The night sky stretched out above us, an endless velvet blanket riddled with millions of bright holes. I was feeling breathless, but not out of breath. Tired, but not at all ready to sleep. This was our time—the midnight hour—and there wasn't a single damn thing that anyone else could do about it.

From way up here, the town of Spencer looked beautiful. Magical, almost. I took it all in for a moment before speaking. “So, I gotta ask. What would you have done to me if I'd said I wasn't in?”

“Killed you.”

He hadn't even hesitated before answering, and there wasn't so much as a hint of a smile in his expression.

“You're full of shit.” I was pretty sure he wasn't, but what did I know? Too little, I feared.

“So's the world, Stephen. It's also full of monsters with friendly faces.”

I shrugged. “Yeah, well. You're still full of shit.”

A smile touched his lips, but faded quickly as he looked out over the town. “From up here, it almost looks like a nice place to live.”