The Truth (9 page)

Now

“Devon was in the kitchen with you?” Derek says in a quiet voice, though sitting up straight now.

“Yes,” I say after a moment. “I didn't know he came in behind me until he called my name and your brother turned and…”

“Why didn't you want to tell the police that?”

“I wanted him involved as little as possible,” I tell him. “It was bad enough. He shouldn't have to—”

“It was because he saw it, didn't he? He saw you shoot Caleb. He saw that my brother didn't have a gun and you shot him anyway.”

“No, that's not true.”

“Yes, it is. I knew there was something.” Derek leans in. “That's what you're trying to hide. You knew Caleb did not have a gun, but you shot him anyway. Killed him. Your brother knows that, and you don't want him telling the police!”

“No.”

Suddenly, Derek presses harder on the garden shears, and I cry out.

“I told you I wanted the truth. Only the truth!”

I'm sweating, and my heart is beating so hard against my chest it hurts, and the sharp pain in my finger is intense and threatening to grow worse any minute. “Don't you think I knew how it would sound to you if I told you this just now? But I did it because you said you wanted the truth. That I
had
to tell the truth or…” I falter, but then manage to hold his gaze as I hiss through clenched teeth, “If you really believe I'm lying, then go ahead and cut my finger off! Just get it over with!”

We remain this way for a long time, staring at each other, as I wait for sudden, excruciating pain.

But instead, he eases the pressure and pulls the garden shears away. This time, I can't help showing my relief. Looking down, I see a fresh trickle of blood.

“What would your brother tell me he saw if I just asked him?” Derek says.

I don't answer—what's the point? I've gotten this far. If I can just hang on a little longer…

Derek does nothing. Doesn't move. Only stares at me.

Finally, he leans back and waits for me to continue.

This time, he keeps the garden shears in his lap as I go on.

Then

The next morning, Devon seems better, though after our conversation last night, I find myself keeping my eye on him as the three of us have breakfast in the dining room again, even though the kitchen has been thoroughly cleaned. Even the bloodstain on the counter is gone.

A couple of times I think I catch Devon eyeing me, as if to say,
Remember, you promised not to say anything
. But I'm not going to tell Mom or Detective Fyfe or anyone. If he wants to talk with me about it, he can. But the fact that he lied about being in that room will remain our secret. He's been through enough. We all have.

Mom has made a good breakfast. Pancakes, Devon's favorite. He's always had a healthy appetite, and today he eats his usual four, a good sign. I eat my usual one. He still wants to walk to school alone. This time I get a hug, and I feel a little pain in my chest as I walk him to the door and watch him head up the sidewalk alone. But it's different this time. It feels good.

“You think he's okay?” Mom asks as I come back into the dining room. “I thought I saw him giving you a couple of funny looks there.”

“He's fine,” I tell her a little too quickly. She frowns, and I add, “We talked some more last night after I came back in.”

“Why didn't you wake me?”

I shrug. “You were sound asleep. I didn't want to disturb you.”

“What I said to you was horrible,” she says, “and I'm sorry. I had no business… It's just I heard what he said about your father, and I was telling myself if you hadn't pushed him… I don't want Devon to hate him.”

“He doesn't,” I assure her. “He misses him. That's all. After what happened the other night, he's worried that the same thing that happened to Dad could happen to me. Or you.”

“Jesus,” Mom whispers. “I thought after three years, maybe…”

“He's okay now,” I tell her.

“He certainly seemed okay just now,” she says. “It must have been a good talk.” She pauses then smiles. “You're so good with him. You're a better parent than I am.”

“Mom.”

She holds up her hand. “It's true, whether you want to admit it or not. I put too much pressure on you, expect more of you than what's fair. You've given up so much to be there for him. But things are gonna change around here. It's my turn to be the parent. Your turn to be a teenager. You're going to that party Saturday night and I'm watching Devon. You got that?”

My initial reaction is to object. But after thinking about it—especially imagining walking into that party with Rita next to me—I smile. “Thanks, Mom.”

“What is that grin?” she says. “Do you have a date for this party?” When I bow my head, she pokes me in the shoulder, grinning herself, and says, “You do, don't you? Who is it? No, don't tell me. You just have fun.”

Why not?
I ask myself.
Always having to take care of my little brother. Put him first. Mom's got this. Saturday night I'm putting myself first and having a good time with Rita
.

When Devon gets home in the afternoon, he seems even better. More relaxed. As if our conversation last night released such a burden from his shoulders that he can now be his old self again. And any other concerns I have are wiped away by the game he has Wednesday night. It's the second round of the playoffs, and Devon has one of his monster games. His biggest ever. Facing the Mariners again, who beat us to get the second seed, Devon goes five for five with three home runs, one of them a grand slam, while knocking in nine runs in a game. The White Sox win easily, 12–2, putting them into the finals, a best of three series, starting Saturday.

The team is ecstatic, the boys all jumping on each other in celebration, forming another big pileup.

It's the happiest I've seen Devon in a long time.

Now

“Wait a minute,” Derek says, straightening. “I just thought of something. Something you said earlier…”

I wait. At least he's not putting the garden shears back around my finger. He holds them loosely in his right hand.

“You said there was a certain way your brother looked at you during that game when he let that pitch go by and took the strikeout. You said it was the third time you had seen that expression on his face. The second time was just before he knocked over the catcher coming home.”

My heart is back to pounding hard against my chest.

He leans forward. “When was the first time?”

“I…I don't understand what—”

“When was the first time you saw that expression on his face?”

“I didn't say second or third—”

“Yes, you—”

“No,” I say, cutting him off. “You must have misunderstood me. Or maybe I just said it wrong.”

Despite the pounding in my chest as he stares at me, I hold my gaze on him. We remain that way for a long time. Even with my arms and legs aching because of how long I've been in this chair, and my butt is long past sore to numb, I manage not to avert my eyes. Maybe I'm getting good at this, because all he does finally is shake his head and wave his hand. “Go on.”

I close my eyes briefly before I continue.

Then

Thursday night, after putting Devon to bed, I lie in my room and allow myself, for the first time in a few days, to think about the conversation I had with Derek Brannick at the ball field this past Monday.

I pull the card he gave me out of my wallet. Just a business card for some stupid-sounding clown who does birthday parties. I stare at it for a long time. I can hear Detective Fyfe's voice in the back of my mind.

Don't even think about it! Tear it up right now and forget about it. Move on with your life
.

Maybe it's too late in the evening to call.

Tear it up!

I put the card back in my wallet.

I'm still thinking about it when I wake up Friday morning. Now that I don't walk Devon to school anymore, I don't have to get to school until homeroom. It's not like I have any extracurricular activities to get to. Mom now leaves before I do, so I have a little time to myself. I tell her good-bye and wait until the car is out of the driveway and down the street before pulling the card out again. Take out my cell phone.

What do you think you're doing?

I dial the number on the card. Bring the phone to my ear.

Glancing out through the front living room window, I can see it's going to be another gorgeous day. The weather forecast earlier said warm but not a lot of humidity. The same for tomorrow, good weather for Devon's game.

After four rings, I expect a voice mail to come on, but it doesn't. After eight rings, I'm thinking maybe I dialed the number wrong and I should try again. After ten rings, I'm thinking I should take it as a hint and forget all about this.

I put my finger on the disconnect button.

“Hello?” a voice on the other end answers. Rough, hoarse. And sounding annoyed.

“Derek Brannick?”

A pause. “Yes?”

“This is Chris Russo.”

Another pause. Then, “You decided to call.”

“Yes,” I say.

“I'm glad.” A pause. “To be honest, I wasn't expecting it,” he says.

For just a few seconds, I panic. Detective Fyfe is right. I should hang up.

“So…how do you want to do this?” I ask.

“What day is it today?”

“Friday.” It sounds like I've just woken him up or something.
Doesn't he have school like I do? No, I guess not.

“What about after school? We can pick a place.”

“I have to get home to my brother.”

“Your brother…right. I read in the local paper he had a big game the other night.”

Silence.

“I guess I could meet you for about a half hour,” I offer. “If that's enough time.”

“Whatever you can give me. Really. I'd appreciate it.”

More silence.

“There's a Wendy's and a McDonald's right next to each other down the street from the school,” I tell him. “I can meet you at one of those.”

“Wendy's sounds good.”

“There are a lot of people in there at that time of day,” I feel the urge to add.

An awkward silence. “I'll see you then. I really appreciate this.” Abruptly, he hangs up.

I look at the phone in my hand, wondering what it is I've just done.

• • •

I don't tell anyone what I'm planning, of course, not even Terry. I've been thinking about meeting Derek Brannick after school all day, feeling more and more nervous about it. My hands shake a little as Terry and I go through the cafeteria line. Rita and I have been sitting together during lunch these last few days, while Terry insists he sit somewhere else. But what if she can tell how nervous I am today and asks me why? I see her sitting by herself, looking in my direction, expecting me to come over. I hesitate, then feel myself start to turn the other way. “Aren't you sitting with Rita?” Terry asks.

“I…I don't have to,” I tell him. “I thought I'd sit with you today.”

“Yeah right,” he says with a smirk. Then he looks at me, and I can see him about to ask if I'm okay. But he stops himself. “You're still taking her to Matt's party tomorrow night, right?”

“Right.”

“Well then, get over there.” He gives me a friendly push, then heads off to join a group at another table. I walk over and sit next to Rita.

“Terry could have sat with us,” Rita says.

“I think he knows that.” I arrange the food on my tray, reaching to open my milk.

“It looked like you weren't going to come over.”

“No. I…” I almost drop the milk carton. “I was just talking to Terry.”

She stares, as if studying me. “Are you nervous about the party tomorrow night?”

“No.”

“I told you, if you ever wanted to talk…”

“Yes, you did. I'm sorry.”

“It's all right if you are,” she says.

“Okay. Well, yeah, I guess I am a little.”

“That's fine. Actually, I like that you're kind of shy.”

“You think I'm shy?”

“Unassuming then. That was a word in the vocabulary test today, and it definitely describes you.”

I look down at my food, not sure what to say.

“Hey, that's a good thing,” she says. “A lot of guys around here, if what happened to you happened to them, they'd still be bragging about it big time.” Suddenly, she shakes her head and says, “Look at me. I said I wouldn't talk about it and here I am doing just that.”

“It's okay.”

“No, it isn't.” She looks at me again. “Are you having second thoughts?”

“Second—?”

“About taking me to the party?”

“No! I was thinking about my mother. She really might need me.”

“I thought she was taking your brother to a movie.”

“She is.” God, I sound like an idiot. But I don't want to tell her the real reason why I'm nervous, that I'm meeting Derek Brannick in a few hours and the fantasy I've been having about him pulling a gun on me, no matter how crowded the Wendy's might be. “I just—”

“Because I've been thinking,” she says. “We don't have to go to the party at all.”

I look at her, surprised.

“If all everyone's going to want to do is talk about, you know, then maybe we won't go at all. We'll just go to your house, order pizza or something, watch our own movie.”

Her hip touches mine. I feel my heart pounding. “I think Matt's expecting me to be at his party.”

“So what?”

I open my mouth, close it. “You're right,” I say. “So what? We'll go to my house.” She smiles and starts eating her lunch. Rita can make something as simple as chewing look sexy.

Later, when the end-of-lunch bell rings, Rita says, “I'll see you after school.”

“I…I can't,” I stutter. “I've got something…”

“Your brother?”

“I, uh, have to meet him at his school for something then walk him home. Normally, he gets a ride with a neighbor.” I hate lying to her.

“Okay. I understand.” She seems disappointed. But then she brightens up. “Tomorrow night then.”

“I'll walk over to meet you. If you don't mind the two of us walking back, I mean.”

“Sounds fun.”

I'd like to think that just being with her like this is enough to make me stop worrying about the meeting after school.

But it isn't.