The Boy Who Killed Grant Parker (10 page)

It was … surreal. It was as if I, the lowly Luke Grayson, was something … someone. Don explained it as best he could.

“Nobody has ever stood up to Grant Parker before. It's like … a brave new world,” Don said, gesturing dramatically with his Go-Gurt, the most nutritious part of the lunch that day. And not just a Go-Gurt, but a
Star Wars
–themed Go-Gurt.

He threw his Yoda wisdom at me as I finished my sandwich and tried not to look in the direction of Grant's table.

“I mean, sure it was a stupid thing to do, taking Grant on, because now he's just going to bide his time until he figures out the best way to kill you.”

“Thanks a lot.”

Don shrugged. “You probably should have stayed away from the cafeteria for lunch. You need to lay low.”

“This is ridiculous. You know, I don't care anything about Grant Parker, this town.…”

Don just shook his head emphatically, his chin down and eyes closed. “It doesn't matter. Look, you're new here, so you don't know. But Grant is a serious sadist. You ever noticed how Josh is really quiet?”

Before Don mentioned his name I hadn't even noticed that Josh had disappeared from our lunch table like vapor. Because he was always so quiet it was like he wasn't there even when he
was
there.

“Yeah,” I said. “Actually, I thought he was a mute.”

“He used to talk,” Don said, dropping his voice as he glanced around to make sure we weren't being overheard. “Used to have kind of a big mouth, actually. First week of sophomore year Grant was ragging on him, and Josh made some smart-ass remark back at him, embarrassed Grant a little bit. Grant didn't do anything right away. He waited, bided his time, then came after Josh one afternoon when no one was around. I don't know what happened exactly, because Josh hasn't said much since, but he spent the entire night locked in a gym locker. They found Josh during first period the next day in a puddle of his own piss. They never could get Josh to rat out who had done it to him, but we all know it was Grant. Probably with Tony's help.”

“So you're saying,” I asked as I pushed my lunch away, my appetite gone, “I'm like chum in the water now, attracting sharks, and Josh doesn't want to be around me? That's why he hasn't been coming around at lunch?”

“That's exactly what I'm saying. Josh is smart, even though he doesn't talk.”

“And, by extension, the fact that I stood up to Grant Parker makes me an idiot?” I asked Don.

“Well, an idiot-hero, which isn't the worst thing, I suppose.”

 

14

Against my better judgment I told Don I would go to a party with him on Friday night. Since I was grounded for two weeks after my “attack” on Grant, I had to sneak out of my first-floor window once Dad and Doris had gone to their room to watch television. Don met me a few doors down from my house. He was leaning against one of the massive old trees that lined the block, the only person I saw during my walk on an otherwise perfectly still evening. We walked through the quiet neighborhood until we turned onto a dead-end street with one lone streetlight. The pavement ended at a stand of trees, a natural path worn into the underbrush from the passage of many feet. As we walked beyond the edge of the woods, we were suddenly plunged into darkness, the tree canopy blocking the moonlight completely.

It was creepy quiet, with none of the background noise of a city. I fell in line behind Don as he moved confidently through the woods. My eyes adjusted to the dark, and the total blackness developed some recognizable shapes and outlines. After a few minutes, the sound of voices and laughter reached us—still distant, but at least guiding us in a direction.

If I had been regretting my decision to attend Don's party earlier, I was now rehearsing in my head excuses to leave. This was going to suck.

I don't know what I had been expecting. Maybe a few social rejects talking about
Star Wars
. Nothing could have prepared me for what the party turned out to actually be. Don and I entered a large clearing that looked as if it had been crafted by several generations of delinquents—an honest-to-God fort built in the middle of the woods. The clearing was lined with fallen logs, the surrounding vegetation beaten into submission. There was a lean-to built of two-by-fours sagging dejectedly against a large oak tree, in case they needed to take the party inside due to inclement weather. A large cooler served as a makeshift refrigerator next to the lean-to and had obviously spent at least several seasons outside.

The scene was
Brigadoon
-like, a spectacle so unlikely I thought at first I must be imagining the whole thing. A small bonfire cast a dance of light over the improbable gathering of people, who, though Halloween was still over a month away, were dressed in … armor? A few people, their gender indeterminate in the low light, wore long capes with oversized hoods; a few were dressed as medieval knights, complete with chain mail and swords. Still others wore costumes that could not be defined by any time or place, fantastical costumes with masks and other handmade accessories.

“What the hell?” I asked.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Don asked, a smile in his voice.

“Uh…” Cool wasn't exactly what I was thinking.
Pretty crazy,
my inner voice sneered. “What is this?” I asked.

“We're LARPers,” he said simply, as if that statement could explain this alternate dimension.

“LARPers?” I asked, my voice rising to a squeak.

“Sure. Live-action role-playing. I thought you were from the city. You don't know about LARPers?”

“Sure, uh, yeah,” I said, wondering if I should actually be concerned for my well-being, like this was going to turn into a parody of a bad horror movie—life imitating art. “I mean, I've seen YouTube videos, but I've never actually seen it … live.”

“You want a beer?” Don asked.

“You have beer?”

“Of course,” Don said scornfully. “What did you think? We're total dorks or something?”

No comment.

“Come on,” Don said as he nudged my elbow, and I followed him across the clearing just as two of the knights prepared to engage in a mock sword battle. A girl dressed in a robe was lobbing Ping-Pong balls as if they were some kind of magical weapon against the faux-leather hide of a … well, I wasn't really sure what it was. Maybe a half werewolf, half dragon.

Jesus.

After Don handed me a lukewarm can of beer, I stood at the edge of the ring of firelight watching the mock battle. Don wanted to move in closer and gestured for me to follow him, but I just shook my head and stayed where I was. People were really into it, laughing and cheering for the combatants, and Don moved to a spot where he could get an unobstructed view.

When Delilah arrived at the clearing, I noticed her right away. Mostly because she was the only other person at the gathering who wasn't dressed as if she attended Hogwarts instead of a regular high school. She drifted through the crowd as if she wasn't really part of anything or there to see anyone, which, I was starting to notice, was pretty much how Delilah went through life.

As she drew close to me she still hadn't noticed me, so I said, “Hello, Delilah.”

She turned with some surprise at the sound of my voice, but she was smiling as she said, “Hey.”

“Does your daddy know you're here?” I asked, one eye narrowed skeptically.

“I snuck out,” she said. “If he notices I'm gone he'll go out cruising all the places along the lake where couples go to make out in their cars. He seems to think every boy in Ashland is trying to get into my pants.”

“Yeah,” I said with a nod. “I kind of got that sense when I met him.”

“How about you?” she asked. “Does
your
daddy know you're out partying?”

“I was nonspecific when I told him I was going out,” I said with an indifferent shrug. I kept to myself the fact that I had snuck out, too. Even though she had admitted as much to me, I still felt like I needed to reserve that information. “I'm surprised to see you hanging out down here.”

“Why?” she shot back. “Because my dad's a cop? You think that means I don't know how to have a good time?”

“Clearly you have no idea how to have a good time if you're hanging out down here,” I said, glancing around with mild distaste, still unsure why I had not turned and run in the other direction as soon as I saw what I was getting myself into. “I just meant I'm surprised to see you hanging out with Don and his buddies. I didn't get the impression they talk to many girls … or any girls at all.”

“Well, I'm a total whore since my dad's a cop,” she said, no sarcasm evident in her tone. “I prefer to deflower virgins, so, you know, I come down here because these guys have never been with a woman before. They're completely unspoiled when I get them.”

“Awesome,” I said.

“Are you wearing that shirt ironically?” she asked as I was still mining my brain for a better comeback. “Because if you are, I would totally respect you for that.”

“Well,” I said, with an involuntary glance down at my Beastie Boys T-shirt, “that's good to hear. Because your respect is what I live for.”

I was rehearsing an excuse in my mind to walk away from her, was tired from how much work it was just to have a simple conversation with her, when she grabbed me by the hand and pulled me along with her. “Come on,” she said. “I'll introduce you to some people.” I followed her grudgingly, and she seemed to sense that I was irritated with her. “Don't be mad. I really do like your shirt. I was just teasing you.”

I followed her outside the ring of firelight to where the beer was kept. Delilah grabbed two cans of beer and handed one to me, then gestured for me to follow her as she played hostess and introduced me to some of the weirdos who dressed up like characters from The Chronicles of Narnia or Harry Potter.

“These people are insane,” I said to Delilah under my breath as we drifted among the crowd.

“Maybe,” Delilah said with a shrug. “But I've grown up with all of them. They're nice people.”

“They're wearing armor. It's insane,” I said again.

“Well, you wear ridiculous T-shirts,” she said. “You think you have room to judge other people?”

Instead of answering her I focused on drinking my beer and deadening self-awareness. How had my life gotten this fucked up? I was afraid that any minute someone was going to try to put a sword in my hand, challenge me to combat. I stayed close to Delilah, almost like she would protect me from the dork squad.

“So why are you here?” Delilah asked as she stopped and turned suddenly to face me.

“Um, Don invited me,” I said.

“No, I mean here, here. In Ashland. Why did you come here?”

“Oh. My mom made me come. I was screwing up in school a lot. Getting in trouble…”

“By attacking the school mascot?”

I leveled a look of irritation on her, my eyes narrowed. “No. My mom just got sick of it. Thought I needed a positive male role model in my life. She called my dad, told him that it was his turn. Next thing I know I'm being shipped off to this shithole.” My voice was bitter as I said this, and I gestured with my arm at the LARPer fort to illustrate my point about Ashland being a shithole.

“You do a lot of drugs or something?” she asked, and I suddenly felt like I was under interrogation. As if Delilah had learned to question suspects the way her police-chief father would. Though, as I imagined it, the worst crime wave Ashland ever saw was fertilizer theft, or rednecks driving drunk on deserted country roads, livestock their only potential victims.

“I've never done anything harder than weed or Molly,” I answered honestly.

“Give it six months in this town,” she said knowingly. “You'll be so bored you'll try just about anything.”

“I'll be gone in nine months,” I said. “I think I can make it that long without developing a meth problem.”

“You think so now. We'll see. Besides, meth is so 2008.” She blew out a weary sigh and seemed to be thinking about just how bored she really was. Maybe I was boring, too. Maybe she was so bored from talking to me she was thinking about where she could score some meth.

“What about you?” I asked. “You into hard drugs?”

“My dad's a cop,” she said, her eyes rolling back with impatience as she returned her gaze to my face. “I have to pass a urine test every month.”

“Are you serious?” I asked with genuine astonishment.

“No,” she said. “Jesus, you're gullible. You raised in a cave or something?”

“No.”

“My dad probably
would
make me take a urine test every month if it didn't violate some principle of decency,” she said, her head tipped back on her spine in a world-weary pose. “He won't even let me watch R-rated movies at home. I'm seventeen, for Christ's sake.”

“He's a scary dude,” I said. “Your mom strict like that, too?”

“My mom's dead,” Delilah said flatly. Not “passed away.” Dead.

“Sorry. I didn't know.”

“She died when I was nine. Cancer.”

“I'm sorry,” I said again. The most useless sentiment in human history. “You think that's why your dad is so overprotective of you?” I asked.

“No,” she said with a shake of her head. “He's just an asshole. My mom dying had nothing to do with that.”

“Coming here,” I said as I leaned back against a tree, one leg bent and my foot resting on the trunk. “It's been awful. People seem so friendly on the surface, but it's a lonely place.”

“Yeah, it sucks,” she said, almost sounding genuinely sympathetic. “Just don't snort any white powder. You'll be okay.”

 

15