At the Edge (9 page)

“No, but Billy did.”

“He did? When? Why?”

“It happened sometime last week,” Morgan said. “But Billy didn't tell me about it until the weekend. James asked about you, and Billy told him that you were seeing someone. That was what you wanted him to say, right? I mean, you don't want James chasing after someone who isn't available, do you? Besides, Britt Anderson has been making eyes at him.”

“She has?” Britt was in my French class. Guys drooled over her because she was super attractive, with pouty lips and perky breasts and a reputation for, well, knowing how to have a good time.

“I saw her talking to James in the library during my spare,” Morgan said. “I told you, Robyn. He's cute. And that shy thing really works for him. It makes him seem vulnerable. It was only a matter of time before someone decided to sweep him up.”

“Great,” I muttered.

“I thought you weren't interested.”

“I'm not.” At least, I didn't think I was. “It's just that everyone seems to have someone—except me.”

We walked down to a downtown shopping street and headed for the pet store. We were about to go inside when I stopped short.

“Maybe you got it backwards,” I said. “Maybe Britt wasn't hitting on James. Maybe it was the other way around—he was hitting on her.” And maybe that was why James had been less than enthusiastic about my presence at dinner. Maybe he'd been wishing Britt was there instead.

Morgan frowned. “Why? What makes you—” She turned to look where I was looking. “Oh,” she said.

James was coming out of a florist's shop a few doors down from the pet store. He was carrying flowers.

“Well, they're not for Britt,” Morgan said, “unless she's into the whole Goth thing and no one told me.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Look.”

I looked. Then I turned back to her. “I don't—”

“Those aren't date-type flowers, Robyn—unless you're dating a vampire. Calla lilies and white roses? That's something you'd see at a funeral.”

Or on a grave. I stared at Morgan for a moment. Then I turned and watched James get into his car and drive away.

  .    .    .

There were dozens of things I could have done after Morgan and I split up. I could have gone home and done my homework. I could have cleaned up my room. I could have stopped by Nick's place to see if he was home. I could have gone for a run to let off some steam—and I seriously needed to let off steam.

Maybe Morgan was right. Maybe Nick wasn't the best person for me. But if that were true, why was I so miserable whenever I thought about losing him? Or maybe that was Morgan's point. Maybe when you really cared about another person, it wasn't supposed to make you miserable and afraid. Besides, if I cared so much about Nick, why was I thinking about James? Why wasn't I tracking Nick down and trying to have a heart-to-heart with him? Why had I decided to go looking for James instead?

If Morgan was right about those flowers, then I had a pretty good idea where James had gone—the cemetery, the one he had a map for. A map that, for some reason, he hadn't wanted his father to see. Maybe James was acting the way he was because of whoever was buried in Plot XI, Lot 333. Maybe it had something to do with what his dad had said to him yesterday. Maybe he needed someone to talk to. Maybe I could help.

It took me two buses and forty-five minutes to get to the cemetery—which turned out to be even larger than I had expected. Just inside the cemetery gates, on a large display board, was a full-color version of the map that I had seen in James's car. Plot XI was on the far side of the cemetery, down a path in what turned out to be a lovely green valley. Lot 333 was tucked away against a hedge. I recognized it instantly by the fresh calla lilies and white roses that had been set into a metal vase in front of the headstone. I looked around. No sign of James. I approached the stone and read the name on it: Gregory Paul Johnson.

Greg—like the tattoo on James's arm.

I looked at the dates on the tombstone. Gregory Johnson had been nine years old when he died—exactly five years ago. I thought about the photos I had seen in Mr. Derrick's room. That boy looked about nine. Were they pictures of Gregory Johnson? Who was he? What role had James played in his death? And why did that name sound vaguely familiar?

  .    .    .

“Have you guys seen James today?” I asked Morgan and Billy when I caught up with them the next day at lunch. “He wasn't in homeroom this morning.”

“I haven't seen him,” Billy said.

“Maybe he's sick,” Morgan said.

“Maybe.” But I was pretty sure he wasn't. He had been at the cemetery yesterday, delivering flowers on the fifth anniversary of the death of a nine-year-old boy—a boy whose death James might have been involved in. “I think I'll go by his place after school and see how he is.”

“Good idea,” Morgan said, winking at me. “Get over there before you-know-who gets her claws into him.”

I thought about telling her that wasn't the reason I wanted to check up on him. I also thought—not for the first time—about telling her what I had seen and overheard at James's house. Usually I let Morgan in on everything. But something stopped me. James was so shy, so vulnerable, and so obviously unhappy. It just didn't seem right to be saying things about him when, really, I had no idea what was going on. Given how Morgan had reacted to the pictures in James's phone, I decided to keep my mouth shut. I would respect James's privacy and get my facts straight before I said a word.

  .    .    .

It was a warm afternoon, and the windows of the Derrick house were open, which was how I heard Mr. Derrick before I even got to the porch.

“Pull yourself together, Dee,” he said. “I'm counting on you. Your brother is counting on you.”

Brother? Those pictures I had seen in Mr. Derrick's room ...

“You can't mess up this time, Dee. This is your last chance. It has to be done right.”

“It will be,” James said. “I did exactly what you told me to do. I know where to find him. That's the most important part, isn't it?”

Where to find who? Was he still talking about Gregory Johnson and the cemetery? I thought about the strange pictures that Morgan and I had found in James's cell phone.

“The most important part is that you get it right this time,” Mr. Derrick said. “That you focus. Concentrate. Remember every single thing I told you. The most important thing is that you don't let me down this time, that you don't let Greg and your mother down—again.”

“I won't let them down,” James said. He sounded upset. “I told you that, didn't I? I promised.”

I backed away from the porch steps. Maybe this wasn't the best time to drop by. Maybe—

The front door flew open, and James burst out. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me. Then he thumped down the steps and ran past me.

“James, wait!” I said.

He was at the car already and was opening the door.

“James!”

He paused and looked evenly at me. “What?” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“You weren't in school today. I was worried.”

“Worried? Worried about what?” He was angry now. Once again, I wished I hadn't come to this house.

“You skipped tutoring yesterday.”

“I told you, I had something to do. God, I wish everybody would just get off my back!” His eyes shifted from me to the house behind me. I turned and saw Mr. Derrick framed in the living room window.

“Come on,” James said. “I'll take you home.”

He kept his eyes steady on his father as he turned the key in the ignition and backed out of the driveway. He drove in silence for a few blocks before pulling over to the curb and killing the engine. It took a few moments before he turned to face me.

“Yesterday was a kind of anniversary for me,” he said. “But not the anniversary of anything good.”

Even though I already knew what he was talking about, I held my tongue. There were some things that you just couldn't force.

“My little brother died five years ago,” he said.

“I'm sorry,” I murmured.

James stared out the windshield.

“What happened?” I asked.

James still didn't look at me. “He was murdered.”

J

ames was silent for a few moments. So was I. Gregory Johnson, nine years old, had died five years ago. James had the name Greg tattooed onto his arm. His father had just warned him that he couldn't let Greg down again. It didn't make perfect sense, but Gregory Johnson seemed to be James's brother.

“Are you busy right now?” James said.

“Well, I—”

“I'd like to show you something.” His eyes burned into mine. “It won't take long. I promise.”

  .    .    .

We drove to a place that I had visited for the first time only one day earlier. James pulled the car over to the side of the road and sat for a moment, gripping the steering wheel. I gazed at the fence and the expanse of lawn and trees beyond. It looked like a beautiful, well-kept park—if you ignored the headstones standing in rows under the shade of stately trees.

James stared out through the windshield. After a few moments, he drew in a deep breath and got out of the car. I scrambled after him and followed him through the gate and into the cemetery.

We walked in silence, James's face rigid, his limp pronounced—as I realized it was whenever he was tired or upset. We followed a different path from the one I had taken earlier. This one wound its way through what looked like the oldest part of the cemetery—I glanced at dates on headstones and mausoleums as we walked—and then slowly downward into the familiar valley and back toward the thick hedge. James stopped in front of Gregory Paul Johnson's headstone and bowed his head.

“I know you saw the tattoo,” he said quietly.

“James, I didn't mean—”

He pushed up his sleeve and showed me his left arm.

“My dad hates it. He'd burn it off if he could.”

I didn't know what to say.

“You heard what he said to me, didn't you?” he said. “You heard him say it was my fault.”

“I didn't mean to eavesdrop,” I murmured.

“The way my dad yells, you'd have to be deaf not to hear him.” He reached out and touched the letters that had been carved deep into the stone. “Greg was my brother. He was shot.”

Shot?

“It was my fault.”

I stared first at the stone and then at the anguished expression on James's face. What did he mean? Surely he hadn't shot his own brother.

“What happened, James?”

James traced the letters of his brother's name one by one.

“The night it happened, our dad took us to a movie,” he said finally. “Greg really loved seeing movies. He liked to go to the theater where there were other people. Lots of other people. He liked the comfortable seats and the smell of popcorn and the darkness in the theater. My dad took him to every kids' movie that came out.

“Dad couldn't find a parking space close to the movie theater. He finally left the car in an alley. He said it would be safe there and that he wouldn't get a ticket. When we got out of the movie, we walked back to where the car was. My dad wanted to stop and get cigarettes. He used to smoke. Greg was totally hyper from the movie and from the candy my dad had let him eat, even though my mom kept telling him too much candy wasn't a good idea. Greg could get really excited, you know? He was running all over the place, so my dad told me to go on ahead with Greg, you know, so Greg wouldn't act up in the store. He said to wait for him in the car. He gave me the keys.”

He stared at the stone, his head bowed slightly.

“It was my job to watch out for Greg. It was always my job to watch out for him, because I'm older—I was older.” He looked up at me. “We moved to this place out in the suburbs right after Mom married my dad. My real dad died when I was a baby. Mom married Richard. She had Greg when I was three.”

“So he's your half-brother,” I said.

“He was my brother,” James said fiercely. Nick had reacted the same way when I'd called Joey his stepbrother. “My mom told me that a million times. Maybe we had different dads, but he was my brother. And he was younger, so it was my job to look after him. And I did. I always did my best. But—”

Suddenly I wished that I hadn't come with him. I wished I didn't have to see the look of anguish on his face or hear the grief in his voice.

“There was a creek out behind our house. In the spring, when the snow was melting or when there was a big rain, the creek would swell and the water would run really fast. We weren't supposed to go near it when that happened. When we went outside, it was my job to make sure that Greg stayed away from the water.” He touched the cold stone again with his fingertips. “I turned my head for a minute. I swear, it was just one minute. Maybe less. I heard Greg scream. I don't know how it happened, but he was in the water, being swept away. I yelled for help. I yelled until I lost my voice. I ran along the creek—but the water was so fast, and I was scared.”