Breaking Point (18 page)

“I'm getting back together with Gray.”

It took me a moment to remember who Gray was. Or to care. I stared at Amanda. Around us, people were getting their books and going to class like it was a normal day, like nothing unusual had happened. Could they not know about David? Could Amanda not know? That must be it—they didn't know.

“Paul?” Amanda's voice.

“I'm sorry. What did you say?” I asked.

“I'm getting back together with Gray.”

“Oh.” Seconds passed before I realized. “Oh, you mean St. John.”

“Right.” She smiled, touched my shoulder. “I didn't want to hurt you, Paul. It's just… Gray and I … we've been together since cotillion in grade school. He gave me my first kiss behind the cabanas at the yacht club.” She removed her hand from my shoulder. “We come from more similar backgrounds than you and I.”

Similar backgrounds
. Well, that summed it up nicely. Someone like her didn't go for someone like me. And suddenly, I knew she did know about David. She just didn't care. None of them cared.

I said, “Whatever,” and walked away.

All day, I had the same sick feeling I'd had after Mom and Dad broke up. That feeling there's something wrong. You should do something. Then, you realize there's nothing to do.

I don't know how I expected Gate to deal with David's suicide. They dealt with it like they dealt with everything, by not dealing with it. I'd read about school disasters where they had grief counselors and stuff to help students. Not here. Not even a mention in the morning announcements. Was I the only one feeling grief about David? I remembered Binky's words,
David Blanco isn't one of them
. After what Amanda had said, I knew I wasn't either.

Waiting in line at Mickey D's that day, Meat tapped me on the shoulder.

“Hey, Richmond,” he said. “What's red and green and definitely can't fly?”

I shrugged.

“David Blanco.” He laughed.

I didn't move. Meat's laughter rang in my ears long after he'd stopped laughing. He turned to Pierre to share the joke. I watched the hamburger helpers, sliding yellow-wrapped burgers onto trays. Fat dripped from the fries in the fryer. I couldn't eat. Meat shoved me forward.

“Look!” Pierre's voice behind me broke my daze.

I turned. We all did.

Pierre pointed toward the window. “Look, up in the sky. It's a bird!”

Another guy took it up. “It's a plane!”

Both looked up, then down, saying in unison. “Nope. It's just David Blanco.”

I'm a bat. Wanna see me fly?

I was in front by then, the tall, skinny counter guy staring at me. I just stared back. I hadn't had breakfast or dinner the night before. I'd been crazy to think I could eat lunch. From his spot in the next line, Charlie nudged me. “You okay, Einstein?”

“Yeah.” Though my stomach ached.

Charlie looked at the counter guy. “He'll just have a Coke, okay?” He dug into his wallet for the money to pay. I didn't protest. The guy handed Charlie the Coke. Charlie put it onto his tray and led me away, pushing my elbow with his free hand. My head was whirling. How embarrassing would it be if I fainted, and Charlie had to catch me?

He led me to a table away from the others. We sat. “Do you need to puke?” he said.

“I'm okay.”

He handed me the Coke. It still fizzed. “Mary says it's good for the stomach. She used to give me Coke syrup when I was sick as a kid.” He sort of smiled, remembering. “That was when she wasn't working—back when I still called her Mommy.”

I nodded. My mother had done the same. Charlie tapped the cup, like the patient father, and I took a sip. It was so sweet, too sweet. The bubbles hurt my throat.

Charlie gestured toward Meat and Pierre and the others. “They're assholes, huh?” When I didn't answer, he said, “Bet it was weird, being with him when he did it.”

I hadn't been sure Charlie had known I was there. But I'd forgotten—Charlie knew everything. I took another sip. The sweet hurt felt good now. “Yeah.”

Charlie hadn't touched his chicken sandwich. Was he sick too? Because of David? He said, “He must have been in so much pain.”

I'd been trying not to think about it. “Do you think he felt it? I mean, I figured the impact killed him.”

“I don't mean when he died. I mean before. To do something like that … he must really have been hurting bad. And no one knew it.” Charlie gestured toward our friends again. “Those guys … they don't understand that kind of pain, do they? They're Teflon. Nothing ever hurts them.”

In my head, I heard Pierre's voice again,
It's a bird! It's a plane!
And David's,
Wanna see me fly?
I nodded, hating Pierre, hating all of them.

“But you and I know, don't we, Paul? We know what it's like to hurt. Don't we?”

“Yes.” A whisper.

Charlie stood and walked to the brimming garbage pail, shoved his uneaten lunch inside, then, gesturing for me to follow, walked to the door. He stopped by Meat's table. “I'm driving Paul home. He's sick.”

Once outside, Charlie called the school office on his cell phone. “No, he's okay, Mrs. Richmond … stomach flu, maybe… No, I don't think you need to leave work. I'll take him home. We're at lunch now.” He looked at me, covering the mouthpiece with his hand. “Want to talk to her?” he mouthed. I shook my head. Charlie went back to the telephone. “He's lying down now… Yes, in the backseat. I'll have him call you later.” Then, “You're welcome, Mrs. Richmond… Paul's a good friend to me, too.”

He hung up and started driving. We were headed for his house.

“I don't want to leave you alone when you're sick,” he explained. “I have to go back—got a test in religion. But Rosita will be here if you need anything. You can lie down or do your homework in my room. I'll come back after school.”

I nodded. God, he was being so nice to me.

We drove in silence. I closed my eyes, feeling my head throbbing. We were pulling into Charlie's driveway when he spoke again:

“Know what I wish sometimes?”

“What?”

“I wish something would happen to them. You know, not really hurt them, but just something to make their lives a little less … perfect. Maybe make them less sure of themselves for once. Does that make me a bad person?”

I shook my head. I'd been thinking the same thing all day.

“Sure it does,” Charlie said. “Bet you never wish that kind of thing.”

I didn't even have to think about it. I said, “Yeah, I do.”

My stomach felt a little better.

I ended up agreeing to what Charlie wanted. He was right, of course. It wouldn't be a big deal. And even if it was, I wanted it too—now.

After Charlie left, I tried to sleep. But each time I closed my eyes, I saw David, David falling. I heard his scream. I saw his blood, his brains on the pavement. Then, I saw Pierre and the others—even Meat, whom I'd thought was nice—laughing about it.

And I heard Charlie's words:
I wish something would happen to them … something to make their lives a little less perfect
.

I don't know if I ever slept. But an hour after Charlie left, I logged on to his computer and opened the website with the bomb instructions. That's how Charlie found me when he got home.

“Feeling any better?” he asked.

I started, turned to look. He was smiling, not a broad grin. Just a little smile. Still concerned.

“Yeah.” I gestured toward the monitor, the website. “I was thinking about it. I mean, if you're sure no one will get hurt. If it's just to scare them.”

“Relax, Paul. Have I ever steered you wrong?”

I shook my head no. He never had.

We spent the rest of the afternoon planning. We'd do it Saturday night. No one would be around. Turned out, Charlie had done the groundwork, planning on setting the bomb, even without me. “But it will be more fun together,” he said. He'd gathered the materials, like a two-liter soda bottle. He'd even stolen a fuse from the hardware store.

“Why steal it?” I asked when he showed it to me. “Couldn't we just buy it?” It didn't seem like stealing helped our situation any if we got caught.

Charlie stared at me over his sunglass tops. “You never watch the news, do you? Whenever there's a bomb scare or something, it always gets screwed up because some sales clerk remembers selling something to the guy. That's how they caught McVeigh.”

I nodded. I didn't put us in the same category as terrorists, though. I mean, McVeigh had killed people, lots of people. Killed babies, for God's sake.

“We're not killing anyone, though,” I said.

“'Course not,” Charlie said. “We're just going to scare the hell out of them—like they deserve. That's what you want, right?”

I did. I wanted to terrify them. Maybe fear of their own death would affect them as David's hadn't. Maybe it would make them less certain of their wonderful futures. I wanted
them
to justify despair. Part of me knew it was crazy, thinking that way. But, I reminded myself, no one would get hurt. Charlie had promised.

I read the instructions for about the hundredth time. They said to place the bomb in the fluorescent ceiling lights. It detonated when someone flipped the switch.

“But then, someone has to set it off. Couldn't we just—?”

“What? Light a fire and run?” Downstairs, the front door opened. Charlie heard it too and threw the fuses and stuff into the desk drawer, out of sight. “You want to be there when the fire starts?” he whispered.

I shook my head.

“Yeah, well, me neither. This way, we'll be in chapel. They'll all see it and pee their pants, but no one will get hurt. They just won't feel so safe anymore. Old Carlos comes in early and turns on the lights while everyone else is praying.”

“But Old Carlos…” I felt sick again. Old Carlos was the last one I wanted to hurt.

“Relax.” Charlie held up a hand. I heard footsteps downstairs. “There's a time-delay built in. The light has to heat up, and Old Carlos will hightail it before it burns.”

That was true. I'd seen him turn on all the lights, then head back home for a smoke or something. Kids at Gate joked about how lazy he was.

I said, “I don't know. It's still a bomb.” I looked at Charlie. I knew it sounded like I didn't trust him. But I did. He was my best friend.

“Don't worry. No one's getting hurt. And if someone does…”

“What?”

He started toward the door, gesturing for me to follow. “No one's getting hurt.” He threw the door open. “Why don't you stick around? Rosita's making paella. You could do your homework on the computer while I practice.”

“Sure.” Inexplicably, I felt my stomach twitch.

We went downstairs. Charlie opened the hall closet and took out his favorite racket. He had four or five, but he mostly used that one. The Hammer, he called it. “Need to call your mom?”

“Yeah.” I started toward the portable phone. I turned back. “Charlie?”

He looked up.

“What you told me that time? About your dad?”

He glanced outside, checking whether his father was around. On the court, Big Chuck pointed at his watch. Charlie said, “What about it?”

“Nothing. Just, my parents are weird too.”

For a second, he stood, twisting his mouth side to side, and I thought he'd say he had to go. Why was I bugging him with my problems? Then, his expression became a smile. “Yeah. I figured that out.”

“You did?” I knew he'd known the obvious things—Mom's job and the crummy place we lived. But what else?

“That stuff doesn't matter, Einstein. What matters is loyalty, having friends who'd do anything for you, no matter what.”

I nodded, started toward the telephone again. I heard myself say, “Is that why you were friends with David Blanco, too?”

It was a moon ball. He'd never mentioned David. I figured he'd laugh, say what did he know about that loser. But he said, “Sort of. He turned out not to be that good a friend, though, not best friends like we are.” A pained look crossed his face. “God, it's so weird that he's dead.”

But I was still on
best friends
. I'd been considering Charlie my best friend for a while, but he'd never said it. I probably should have asked him about the note then. But I didn't have to. Charlie had nothing to do with it. It was so obviously Binky, screwing with me.

“Anyway.” Charlie glanced outside again, bored with me, and mimed a two-handed backhand. “I have to practice.”

I didn't bother calling home.