Blank Confession (11 page)

“Mr. Rawls, you have one too many cups of coffee today?”

At that moment, Rawls wondered if he was capable of murder. Wart must have wondered too, because he held up his hands and backed away, saying, “Easy, Mr. Rawls. I didn't do nothing!”

Rawls managed to stifle his rage, in part because he sensed that he was close to destroying his own life along with Wart's, and partly because the off-duty cop hired by McDonald's was running toward them with one hand on his baton. Fortunately the cop assumed that Wart was the troublemaker, and Rawls was able to get back into his own car and drive off, knowing as he made his way across town that he had messed up badly. Wart Hale could get him fired. All he had to do was make a complaint, and Rawls's career as a teacher would be over.

As it turned out, Wart Hale had something else in mind.

A buzzing cell phone startled Rawls from his reverie. How long had it been ringing? Seconds? Minutes?

It was Kramoski. “Pizza's here,” he said.

A few minutes later, Shayne and Rawls were eating, Rawls working on the veggie half as the kid munched his way through the pepperoni. Neither of them was saying much.

Midway through his third slice, Shayne asked Rawls if he had any kids.

Rawls shook his head.

“How come?” Shayne asked.

“Just never got around to it, I guess,” said Rawls.

But he was thinking about Wart Hale.

Rawls had been surprised when Wart hadn't gone straight to the police or the school administration. He'd spent the next couple of days expecting a phone call or a hand on his shoulder:
Mr. Rawls, we've received a complaint …

But Wart didn't do that. Instead, three days after the incident, Rawls looked out his classroom window to see several policemen going through his car. He put one of the students in charge of the class and ran outside. Moments later, Rawls was in handcuffs.

The police had discovered half a kilo of marijuana in his trunk, along with a broken, blackened crack pipe and several empty prescription bottles with labels that read Vicodin, Adderall, and oxycodone.

All he could say was, “I've never seen this stuff before,” and, “What were you doing searching my car?”

Not that there was any question in his mind—the drugs had been planted there by Wart Hale, and it was Wart who had made the anonymous call to the police.

Rawls had spent the night in jail. The next day, bailed out by his lawyer, Rawls learned that the marijuana was of such poor quality that it was worthless on the drug market, but that didn't make it any less illegal. Wart had used a bad batch of pot to frame him.

Eventually, Rawls and his lawyer were able to convince the police to investigate further. They found that Rawls's fingerprints appeared nowhere on the bagged drugs or paraphernalia. They found no trace of drugs in his home. And they located a witness—a student named Stephanie Kelso—who had seen two boys break into Rawls's car and throw something into his trunk. She could not—or would not—name them.

Rawls was cleared of all charges, but when he returned to school, the principal took him aside and told him that the school had received a complaint from a student—Rawls did not have to ask who—about the altercation at the McDonald's. The student's story had been corroborated by the off-duty cop working there.

“If you leave now, none of this will go on record,” the principal said. He didn't seem angry, just sad and tired.

“I just wanted to make a difference,” Rawls said. It was all he could do to keep from bursting into tears.

The principal, who was not a bad man, said, “I'm doing you a favor, son. Find another way to make a difference. And learn to control your temper.”

Two months later, Rawls had registered at the university with a double load of classes in criminology. By the end of the following year he had joined the police force.

Rawls pointed at the last remaining slice of veggie pizza. “Help yourself,” he said.

Shayne picked up the slice, took a bite, made a face, and set it back in the box. “Olives,” he said.

“You don't like olives?”

Shayne shook his head.

“You were telling me about stealing a mirror,” Rawls said.

“Oh yeah, the mirror. It fit on my bike just fine.”

Rawls waited.

Shayne said, “Okay, it was sort of an impulsive thing to do.”

“You think? Jon had already beat the hell out of you. Why would you want to make him any angrier?”

“He broke my mirror.”

“I thought you said it was the other kid, Trey.”

“Trey did it because of Jon. Look, I'm not saying it was smart for me to take off with the mirror, but guys do stupid stuff when they get mad. You ever do anything stupid?”

Rawls thought about losing it that day in the McDonald's parking lot.

“Never,” he said.

It wasn't just me that Shayne decided to unfriend. The next day he unfriended Marie, too.

I passed them in the hall that afternoon. Marie was firing all her guns—playing with her hair, batting her eyes, licking her lips, the whole package—but Shayne had on his impenetrable, invulnerable, hard-eyed face, the same look he'd used on me at lunch. It gave me a little boost to see Marie about to get the same treatment.

At the end of the day, right as I was leaving school, I saw Marie in the parking lot by the motorcycles, talking to Kyle. Shayne, whose bike was parked a few spaces down, walked right past them. Marie never looked his way. She knew he was there—Marie's guydar is practically a superpower—but she pointedly ignored him. Shayne got on his bike and sat there. Marie went into her hair-flipping, lip-licking routine with Kyle. It was all for Shayne—Marie was not interested in Kyle. But a few seconds later she climbed onto the back of Kyle's bike and rode off with him. Shayne watched them until they turned out of sight, then started his bike and headed in the same direction.

Apparently, although he had unfriended Marie, he still cared what happened to her.

Even then, in the midst of my feeling sorry for myself and resentful and angry and all the other negative crap that goes on along with being told to get lost, I understood what Shayne thought he was doing.

He thought he was protecting us.

I took the long way home and found myself walking past Pépé and Mémé's place, so I stopped by for a visit. Pépé immediately got out the checkerboard. Mémé was lying down with a headache, so I didn't get bombarded with food, but that was okay. I really just wanted to ask Pépé about
djabs
. I waited until we were several moves into the game.

“I've been thinking about what you said, about
djabs,
” I said.

“That was just an old man talking,” he said.

“Yeah, but it kind of made sense.”

Pépé pushed one of his pieces forward, offering me a jump. I examined the board carefully. If I jumped him, he would get a double jump and have one potential king on my side of the board. I tried to think it out, then saw how I could advance another piece and force him to make a jump that would set me up for a triple.

I made the move. Pépé grinned.

“Wondered if you'd see that,” he said, resignedly making the move.

I said, “Do you think people are like checkers?”

“No.” He sat back in his chair. “I think checkers are like people.”

“What's the difference?”

“People came first.”

I made my triple jump. “King me.”

Pépé kinged me.

“These boys you know,” he said. “They are just boys. Not checkers. Not
djabs.
You should stay away from them, even the one who takes your side.”

“No problem there. He doesn't want to be friends anymore.”

“You see? A
djab
would not give up.”

“I didn't say he's given up. I think he doesn't want to be my friend because he thinks it'll make problems for me.”

“Maybe he is right.”

“Yeah, but why would he do that?”

“That is one thing you don't know—what is in another person's head. What of the other boy?”

“He still thinks I owe him money.”

“That is not good.” Pépé moved a piece forward. “Your mémé may be right. Maybe you should talk to your teachers.”

“Jon hasn't been in school. I think he dropped out.”

“Then the police.”

I imagined myself walking into the police station. What would they do? Nothing. I had no proof of anything, just accusations.

Pépé watched me, as if following my thoughts.

He said, “Your move.”

I looked down at the board. He was offering me another jump. I concentrated for a long time, thinking ahead, until I understood every possible way the game could go for the next three moves. Pépé waited patiently. The problem was that while I had figured out how to make that triple jump two moves earlier, Pépé had been thinking even further ahead, and all of a sudden things didn't look so good for me.

I finally looked up and said, “I have no good moves.” Pépé nodded.

“That happens sometimes.”

Marie didn't make it home for dinner that night. We had chicken with rice and peas, which normally I like, but it was hard to enjoy with all the vibes coming off my folks. Mom was all small-mouthed and jittery and silent, eating her food with small bites and chewing them to death. Dad tried to compensate by complimenting her on the food, then going on and on about his plans to build a new fountain in the backyard. Neither of them mentioned Marie's name the whole time. I tried to lighten the mood by saying, “Isn't this nice, just the three of us!” The mood did not get lighter. In fact, Dad quit talking and his jaw started pulsing.

Later, I was in the living room trying to finish
The Catcher in the Rye
when I heard a motorcycle pull up. It was nine thirty—not an unreasonable time, even for a school night—except that Marie had promised to come straight home from school every day and not go out for a month. I put down the book and waited for the drama to reboot.

I could see the front entryway from where I was sitting.
Dad was the first to appear—he'd heard the motorcycle too. A few seconds later the door opened and Marie stepped inside. Dad didn't say anything. Marie looked up at him with the same stubborn expression she had perfected at age four. She didn't say anything either, at first. Then, after a few seconds that felt like minutes, she spoke.

“Well? Are you going to hit me, or what?”

Dad's face almost broke. He said, “Marie …”

“You're all pathetic!” She walked around him and started up the stairs, but ran into Mom halfway up and the screaming commenced.

It was pretty intense. Dad fled to the den and turned on the TV. Marie and Mom went at it right there on the stairs, yelling back and forth. I was starting to think I'd have to climb up the gutter to get to my bedroom, but after a few intense minutes of back-and-forth, Marie got past Mom and stomped off to her room and slammed the door.

Mom went into what I call her dry-cry mode, tight-faced and breathing loudly through her nose and slamming things around, as she cleaned the kitchen. I tried to finish my book but Holden Caulfield was really starting to piss me off with all his whining. I tossed the book aside with the last thirty pages unread, went up to Marie's room, and knocked on the door.

“Go away!” she yelled.

I kept knocking, one knock every five seconds, which is really irritating and impossible to ignore. About ten knocks later the door opened and Marie looked out.

“What?” she said. Her eyes were red. I couldn't tell if it was from crying or dope.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She dragged her sleeve across her eyes. “Why wouldn't I be okay?”

“I don't know. I just …are you going out with Kyle now?”

“Kyle?” She unleashed a high-pitched, hysterical laugh. “You must be joking.”

“I just wondered because you rode off with him.”

“He took me over to Jon's.” She backed away and sat down on her bed, leaving the door open. I was surprised—the number of times Marie had invited me into her room was, I think, zero. I stepped through the door cautiously. Nothing happened. She didn't start screaming at me. Her room was a disaster area, as usual. Clothes everywhere, utter chaos. The exact opposite of my room.

I sat down on the only chair, the one in front of her vanity.

Marie said, talking really fast, “Jon's brother has a really cool place. This old apartment building that they made into like condos and he has roof access so he's got it set up like for parties with a big grill and tables and chairs and stuff like a huge patio in the sky. Tracy and Maura were there and a couple of Wart's friends—sort of creepy—and Wart's girlfriend, Greta. She was cool. We were on the roof. Did I say that already?”

“Who's Wart?” I couldn't get over the fact that my sister was talking to me, but it was weird how fast she was talking. I wondered which drug—or drugs—she'd been taking.

“Jon's brother. Stepbrother. It's short for Stewart. Wart is. He's like a biker. He has a Harley in his living room. So cool.”

“What's Wart like?” I pictured a guy with an incredibly ugly lump for a head.

“He's okay.” She began picking at a small scab on the back of her hand. “A little scary. Not like he
did
anything, but he seemed kind of tense. He wasn't mean to me, but he treated Jon like his slave. You know: ‘Grab me a beer. Do this. Don't do that. Clean that up.' I think he's pissed that Jon had to come and live with him—probably why he made us all leave so early—but he likes having somebody to order around. He ordered Jon around a lot.” She managed to lift off the scab; a bead of blood formed. She stared at it, fascinated.

“Are you
sure
you're okay?” I asked her.