The Truth (10 page)

Now

Derek is shaking his head, a sneer on his face. “What a coward,” he mutters.

“What—?”

He cuts me off. “All this talk about taking care of your brother, how important it is you be there for him, all the sacrifices you've made.”

“I didn't—”

“‘I was thinking about my mother. She really might need me,'” he says in a high-pitched voice, mimicking what I told Rita. “You were trying to get out of taking her.”

“I was nervous—”

“About meeting me, yeah, I get it,” Derek says. “But maybe nervous about going out with Rita too, huh? So you try falling back on your old excuse.
My mommy needs me to watch Devon.
Only this time you can't use it 'cause Mommy's got other plans. I swear to God, I don't know how you got the courage to ask her to that stupid dance in the first place. She was right to tell you no.”

For the first time, real anger is overpowering this knot of pain I've had since I first woke up in this dingy room, and I blurt out, “You don't have the right—!”

“Oh, are you really going to bring that up again? Tell me what
I
have the right to talk about?” I expect him to produce the garden shears again, but instead, he just stares at me, as if I'm an animal he's studying in a cage. “You tell yourself your brother comes first, and it's okay. Poor you. But really he's just an excuse. An excuse to hide behind, so you don't have to
do
anything or take any risks.”

Suddenly, in that singsong, high-pitched voice, made worse by its roughness, he mimics me again. “I can't go to the party. I've got to take care of my brother. I can't do things with my friends. I can't sing in the choir. I've got to take care of Devon. I can't have a life except for going to my brother's dumb baseball games because my daddy died and I've got to take care of—”

“Shut the hell up!” I shout. “That's enough!” To my surprise, he laughs then seems about to cough again, but this time he manages to stop himself.

“Now, now,” he says in what is the closest to a playful tone he can probably muster, “remember the rules.” He holds up the shears, smiling. “Truth,” he says, “always truth. Admit it”—his voice gradually increases in volume and tension—“you didn't just decide to start taking care of your brother because of any obligation to your dad. You also did it so you could hide from everybody else, and it took you killing my thirteen-year-old brother to finally get yourself out of your shell!”

If I say what he wants me to say, what happens next? Is this what he's been looking for? A reason his brother is dead that goes beyond the simple fact he broke into our house? Will I be off the hook if I just
admit it
?

Maybe I should, but I tell him, “No!”

I'm glad they're starting that fall league and Devon's going to get a chance to play baseball some more.

“You're wrong. I love my brother.”

You wait and see. Your brother's hitting is going to get a lot better.

“I'd do anything for him.”

When he starts getting hits, they're gonna be monsters.

“Anything.”

“Anything, huh?” Derek says. “But why? Because you love him? No. It's because you've always resented him, and now you feel guilty about it.”

My stomach flip-flops. But I refuse to answer and hold his gaze. Whatever he's going to do, I want him to just do it!

After a while though, he finally sighs and says, “I'm going to give you a break about that one. If you're able to lie to yourself like that, then I guess I can't blame you for lying to me. So keep going.”

Then

The Wendy's is not as crowded as I thought it'd be. Five or six people are all. I was hoping for more—witnesses, just in case—if I was going to sit with the brother of the boy who died on my kitchen floor. Terry had something after school, so I didn't have to lie to him about not walking home with him.
What if Rita stops by the Wendy's though, sees me, and realizes I lied to her?
I look back, expecting to see her walking by at that moment. I tell myself to calm down.

It might have been better if I had come up with an excuse to stay home from school after making that call this morning. I left two homework assignments at home that were due today. In two different classes after lunch, teachers had to ask me the same questions several times before I heard them. I had to make additional stops at my locker because I'd grabbed the wrong book for class. By the end of school, I wasn't even sure I could make my legs work.

Derek Brannick is already here, sitting in a far corner booth with a Coke in front of him. He hasn't noticed me standing at the window. I reach for the door to pull it open and hesitate. No, it's more like I can't get my arm to move.

What the hell am I doing here? To talk to this guy about his brother? Why, to make him feel better? How can I do that? I certainly didn't know Caleb Brannick before he came into our house, and I don't know anything more about him now. What about making myself feel better? Will I stop feeling guilty if Derek Brannick tells me he forgives me, that he understands why I went searching for a gun before going downstairs? Do I even have the right to expect that?

No, this is stupid! Detective Fyfe has told me again and again. Nothing will be accomplished by talking to the family. His brother is dead. It's not my fault he broke into our house. Had a gun. What were we supposed to do? We have the right to protect ourselves.

Talking to this guy is only going to make things worse. Things are changing. Devon seems to be doing better. Life is improving. Rita is going out with me this Saturday. A month ago, if that had happened, I'd be ecstatic. Don't I have a right to be happy now? Don't I have the right to move on?

I back away. Derek Brannick still hasn't noticed me.

I let out a deep breath, trying to relax.

This is the right decision
, I tell myself as I walk away.
Detective Fyfe is right; it's time to move on
.

I'm sorry his brother was killed, but I can't help Derek Brannick.

I can't.

Now

“So you were there,” Derek says. “You just decided not to come in.”

I don't say anything. What's the point now? If I'd gone in there, talked to him, would that have been enough? Would I not be here now if I had?

I wait for him to say something, but he doesn't. Instead, he puts the garden shears in his lap and covers his face with both hands. I wait for him to say something, but he doesn't.

Finally, I take a breath.

This time, I don't need him to tell me to continue.

My story's almost over anyway.

Then

Saturday morning, I take Mom to work; she tells me not to worry about picking her up, she'll get a ride to the game from one of Dad's old cop buddies who frequent the diner. Devon's awake by the time I return; he's so excited about the game, I don't get a chance to go back to bed.

I try to calm him down with a game of PlayStation
MLB
. I'm excited too, thinking about my date with Rita tonight.

After a while, Devon and I go outside and throw a ball around. We're not outside five minutes and Brady comes over, and the two of them throw to each other in the backyard. “Don't overdo it,” I remind them. “Save some for the game.”

Inside, the phone rings. It's Terry.

“Brady's at your house, right?”

“He and Devon are in the backyard.”

“Man, I can't get him to calm down. They should have scheduled the game for nine o'clock. Make sure you send him back before ten. My parents have got some kind of errand to run before we head over to the field.”

“Okay.”

“What time do you think you and Rita will get to Matt's party?”

“We're not going.”

“What do you mean you're not going?” Terry says.

“My mom's taking Devon to a movie, so we're thinking of just coming here to my house, getting a pizza, and watching a movie ourselves.”

There's a long silence on the other end. Then he says, “You're gonna get some tonight, aren't you?”

“I…I don't know.”

“Boy, when you make your move, you move fast.”

“It was her idea.”

“Even better.”

“We still might come by—”

“Don't come by on my account. Go for it. But I want all the dirty details later.”

“Come on, Terry.”

“Didn't I tell you everything about Allison and me last summer? You owe me. Later.”

I hang up the phone, a ridiculous smile on my face.

It gets to be ten thirty. Brady left a little before ten. Devon stayed outside, throwing the ball against the wall, a constant beat that I've long grown used to.

It's a little early, but I call out, “Do you wanna get your uniform on?”

As he races upstairs, the phone rings again.

“Hey, there, what 'cha doing?” It's Rita.

My ridiculous grin returns. “Getting ready to take my brother to his game.”

“After you drop him off, you want to swing by and pick me up?”

“Swing by?”

“Mom and Dad had something to do this morning. I'm here by myself. I thought maybe I could go with you to watch his game.”

My heart beats faster. The thought of her sitting next to me on the bleachers watching the game, with people seeing us together, both excites me and scares me for some reason. “Sure,” I say. And just saying that makes my grin even bigger. Spending part of the day with her, then seeing her again tonight, just the two of us here at my house—this day is looking better and better. I deserve a day like this after everything that's happened.

Devon comes racing back down the stairs, his equipment bag on his shoulder. “Let's go!” he says.

“Shh,” I tell him, indicating the phone in my hand, then ask him, “You got your water bottles?” As he hurries into the kitchen, I say into the receiver, “I've got to get Devon to the field by eleven.”

“Can you come get me first then take him to the field? I'd like to meet your brother.”

I'm not ready yet though. Which means by the time we'd pick her up, Devon would be late.

Devon rushes back from the kitchen. “I'm ready.”

“Hang on a minute,” I tell Rita, then looking at Devon, I inform him, “We've got plenty of time.”

“I want to go now.”

“I've still gotta get myself together.”

“I can walk.”

“Huh?”

“I wanna go now. I'll walk.”

I look at him. “No, that's all right. Just give me a few—”

“I'm walking to school now. I can walk to the field.”

“I guess if Brady wants to walk, you could go together.”

“They already left. They had to go do something first.”

That's right. I'd forgotten. But he's right. The Little League fields are only a couple blocks from the elementary school, so the walk wouldn't be much more than when he walks to school. And walking means he'll be there in time and I'd have time to pick up Rita.

“Chris?” I hear from the other end of the phone.

“Sorry. I'm dealing with Devon. Just a minute.” I cover the receiver. “You sure walking won't tire you for the game?” I say to Devon.

“Chriiiissss,” Devon complains.

“Okay,” I relent. “Why not? Let me give you my cell. You can call me when you get there.”

“Okay.”

“Wait a minute.” I'm not thinking. I'm not going to be here. “I'll call Terry on his cell a little after eleven. He should be at the field by then. He can tell me you're there.”

“Why can't I call you here?”

“I'm…picking a friend up. Someone who wants to see you play.”

He seems a little confused by that, then gives up and shrugs. “I gotta get going.”

“Be careful,” I tell him.

“I will.”

“See you soon.”

He waves and, pushing the screen door open, jumps outside and starts off down the street. I go to the door and watch him till he's turned the corner and gone out of sight. All he has to do is make one more turn, then it's a straight shot past the elementary school and on to the fields.

“I'm back,” I say into the phone.

“Everything work out okay?” Rita says. Does she sound a little annoyed?

“Sorry it took so long,” I tell her. “My brother's walking to the field. I was seeing him out the door. I'll come right now.”

“I'll be waiting.”

Five minutes later, I've changed and brushed my teeth, and I'm out the door and getting into the car. It's beautiful outside. Warm. Perfect for baseball. Perfect for feeling good about things.

I've thrown on a jacket, though the weather certainly doesn't call for it. I thought it'd be classier if I were dressed a little better than I'd typically be for a Little League game.

I get to her house in less than ten minutes. No car in the driveway. Like she said, she's home alone. There's plenty of time before the game. Maybe we can hang out here a little before leaving.

I get out of the car and take a minute to calm down. I don't want to come off as too jumpy or nervous.

I walk up to the door and knock. Nothing. I wait. For an insane moment, I wonder if it's possible I'm at the wrong house. I'm about to knock again when I hear from above my head, “Chris?” I look up and can't see her as she calls down, “I'll be down in a minute.”

“Okay,” I say. At first I'm not aware of my foot tapping as I wait. Then I realize I should call Terry, make sure Devon got to the field.

As I'm dialing, I hear the sound of footsteps coming downstairs. Rita on her way to open the door. What would she think if I tried saying hello by kissing her?
No, don't. Not yet. Keep cool
. I hear Terry's phone begin to ring on the other end.

All at once, it sounds as if her footsteps are behind me. Moving quickly. But I hear her calling from inside the house, “Coming!” Sounding happy. Happy to see
me
.

The pace of the footsteps increase and, confused, I turn around in time to see a figure fast approaching, reaching toward me with something in his hand. Instinctively, I try to duck.

And suddenly I'm in the dream.

“Shoot him! Shoot him!” I'm screaming at Dad. But Dad's moving toward the girl instead, so I lunge for Dad's gun on the floor because if I can get to it before the guy fires, maybe I can save him. Everything's in slow motion. The guy's about to shoot…

Only it's not a gun, it's something else. A wet rag. Shoved into my face. Accompanied by a sweet smell.

I struggle, but my eyes start feeling heavy, and my whole body begins to weaken.

Is that the sound of the front door being opened? Rita's tentative voice? “Chris?”

Or maybe I hear Terry's voice on the phone, saying, “Hello? Hello? Chris, is that you?” before everything goes dark around me.