The Truth (6 page)

She looks at me, surprised. “What?”

“You stayed like everybody else. If what I had to say bothered you so much, why didn't you leave?”

I'm not sure where my words are coming from, but they seem to have shut her up. She keeps opening her mouth, then closing it.

A part of me is saying I should shut up now. But my words keep coming. “In fact, why'd you come over with everybody in the first place? Must have been a little curious about the gory details, I guess.”

Abruptly, she turns and walks away quickly, almost knocking into Terry, who's coming back eating a brownie, another one in his hand.

Terry reaches the table. “What'd she want?” he asks with a glint in his eye.

“I gotta get to my locker,” I say, standing up.

“You're not gonna tell me? Your best friend?”

The look I give him makes him back up.

“Hey, I didn't mean… You want this brownie?”

I know I shouldn't be snapping at him like this; he's my best friend. Maybe my only friend. But I'm too irritated by my conversation with Rita to do any more than turn and head for the exit. I sense him hesitating behind me a moment before following me like a hurt puppy.

Then

Terry has band practice after school on Mondays, so I walk home alone. Not that he would want to walk with me, the way I've been treating him lately. I should say something to him. Tomorrow.

I've gone two blocks when I hear, “You're right. I was curious.”

Turning, I see Rita stepping out from behind a mailbox, as if she's been waiting for me. “I let Matt and them talk me into going over to you, and by the time you were finished, I was mad at myself for agreeing to go and for listening, so I took it out on you. I'm sorry for snapping at you the way I did.”

I stare at her a moment, not sure how to respond.

I guess I take a little too long because she nods and says, “Okay, well, I just wanted to tell you that,” and starts to turn away.

“I never said it was
nothing
,” I hear myself say.

She turns back. “What?”

“You said I was talking like what happened was nothing. But I never said it was nothing.”

“I said I'm sorry.”

“And I didn't ask for it. I wish it hadn't happened at all.”

“But you said it was cool.”

“What am I supposed to say?” I ask. “Do you think Matt and them want to hear that I was scared? And wishing I hadn't gone downstairs in the first place?”

“If that's the truth.”

“They don't want to hear the truth.” Suddenly, I don't like the direction this is going.

“But you liked it, right? All the attention?”

“I'm sorry for what I said to you before,” I tell her. “It was uncalled for. I've gotta go.”

“You can tell
me
the truth,” Rita says, surprising me.

I stare at her.

“If you want to…I mean.”

I look down. Part of me is telling myself to walk away. Truth, she says? Like telling me she couldn't go to the dance when really she just didn't want to go with
me
? Why should I tell her the truth? Why should I care what she thinks?

But this whole conversation is freaking weird. Like an alien or something has taken over my body, making me stay here and talk to her.

“What happened to you,” Rita says, “having to shoot someone, I don't know what I'd do if—”

I cut her off. “I really…don't want to talk about it anymore. Is that okay?”

“Sure,” she says. Then she hesitates before asking, “Are you heading home? Can I walk with you?”

I shrug. “If you want to.”

She comes forward until she's next to me, and we begin walking. “What would you…
like
to talk about?”

“Just not…” I respond.

She nods.

For the next three blocks, we walk in silence. Maybe it's going to be like this the whole way. Maybe nobody's going to be able to talk to me about anything else ever again.

“How do you think you did on Gallagher's test?” Rita asks.

“All right, I guess. There was a lot more from the textbook than I thought there'd be.”

“Did you read the chapters?”

“A couple times.”

“I crammed it all in last night. Had all weekend but I waited until the last minute.”

“Do you think you passed?”

“Passed, yes. Did well?” She shrugged. “Now I'm really going to have to ace the final if I'm going to keep my A.”

“I'm happy if I get a B in that class.”

“My parents would flip out if I only got a B.”

We walk on for another block or so.

Suddenly, Rita surprises me with, “I'm sorry I didn't say yes when you asked me to the dance.”

Her abrupt apology makes me stop. She turns around to face me. “I've felt bad about it ever since,” she says.

“Not bad enough to keep yourself from going out with Matt a couple more times after the dance,” I snap back.

From the look she gives me, I'm not sure if she's going to slap me or just walk away in a huff. Instead, she surprises me again by taking a breath and saying, “I probably deserved that. I don't know what you heard about me and Matt, but I only went out with him two more times after the dance. I'm not sure what he's said about us—what I've heard is just his BS—but there was nothing between us. A couple dates. That's it.”

In the awkward silence that follows, we both look away. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to respond.

“Well,” she says, glancing in the direction of her house, “I've been wanting to tell you that. I guess I better—”

“Why did you lie to me?” I hear myself ask. Now I'm the one with surprises. “You told me you couldn't go. If Matt had already asked you, you could've just told me that.” Like I said, this conversation is freaking weird.

“He didn't,” she says after a moment, head down. “I mean he hadn't yet.”

“So it wasn't that you couldn't go,” I say. “You didn't want to go. With me.”

“But I thought there was a chance he might…” She sighs. “Oh, hell. Truth, right? I just didn't want to go with you. So shoot me. It's nothing personal. You seem like a nice guy and I knew you had a crush on me.”

I look at her. “You did? I mean, you thought I had a crush on you?”

“Come on, you did. I knew you did. It was obvious. Look, I'm sorry. You weren't on my radar, okay? Matt Fisher seemed to be interested in me.
The
Matt Fisher. There were a couple of other boys I thought might ask me out too if he didn't. You weren't one of them. When you asked, I…I panicked. Made up something to say I couldn't go. And then Matt did ask me…”

“So you got what you wanted,” I say softly.

“I thought so,” she says, grimacing. “Mr. Popular, Mr. Handsome. Yeah, I went out with him a couple more times. I thought that was what you did with someone like him. Big mistake. As far as he's concerned, everything's about him. It's not fun, believe me.”

Another awkward silence. Then she looks at me again and says, “You want to say good-bye now and never talk to me again, I'd understand. But it's true what I said. I've always felt bad about what I said to you. So we could try again.”

I look back at her. “What do you mean?”

“There's Matt's party this Saturday,” she says.

“Won't Matt have a problem with me bringing you?”

“He's moved on, believe me.”

“He may not even have the party.”

“He will. His parents never refuse him anything.”

I shrug. “Okay.”

“Okay…?”

“Okay, if you say he's having the party, I guess he is.”

“Hey, if you don't want to take me—”

“No, I…I do.”

“You do?”

I look at her.

She steps toward me. “But…you're mad at me?”

“No. Well, maybe a little. You did say you wouldn't go out with me if I was the only—”

“Shut up,” she says, but she's smiling. I smile back.

“They're gonna want to talk to me about…you know,” I add. “Is that okay with you?”

“Maybe we can just make an appearance then go somewhere else.”

“Okay. But I…I have to check… My mother might have to work and then I'd have to watch Devon.”

“Your brother, right?”

I nod. “He's ten.”

“She can't get a sitter?”

“We really can't afford… I'm usually the one to…”

“I get it,” she says quietly. “It's nice, you taking care of your little brother like that. I guess we don't have to go to the party if your mom needs you. If you don't mind me helping you watch your brother.”

I look at her. “No. I…I wouldn't.”

“Good. So, are you asking me to the party?”

My heart does little flutters. “Sure. I mean, yes.”

Rita smiles. “I accept.” She turns. “This is my street.”

“Right. I'll see you later. Tomorrow.”

“Yes, you will.” Rita puts her hand on mine. “You're kind of funny, you know?”

“Funny?” I say.

“In a good way. Really.” She lets her hand linger for a moment. Then, as if suddenly aware of what she's doing, Rita pulls away and moves off down her street. After a few steps though, she looks back over her shoulder to wave at me. She's smiling.

I wave back.

Like I said, a weird conversation. But a good one.

My heart is still fluttering as I keep walking.

Now

“So killing my brother got you a girlfriend,” Derek growls. “And some new friends.” He sounds like he might start coughing again any minute.

“It wasn't like that.” The garden shears are still in place, but at least he hasn't increased the pressure.

“It wasn't? Suddenly you're Mr. Popular after showing everybody what a badass you are. And all it took was my brother's
life
!”

I don't know what to say. I expect the blades to start shredding my flesh any minute now.

He leans in. “You told them killing my brother was
cool
,” he hisses, his voice a thin rasp.

“I said it because I knew it was what Matt and the others wanted to hear.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.” My gaze is still on the shears.

“Look at me!”

My eyes dart up.

“Tell me the truth,” he says. “You liked Matt talking to you in front of everybody like that, treating you like you're one of the
cool
kids.”

“I…”

“What?”

My mouth is dry again, and I swallow. “You're right,” I say. “I did like it.”

“And you liked Rita talking to you, right? Showing interest? Even if she did treat you like crap before.”

I feel the pressure from the blades where the blood from before has dried. “She explained that,” I whisper against the pain.

“Do you think she would've given you the time of day if you didn't have such a tough-guy story to tell?”

My eyes are still on the garden shears. “Maybe not. I…I don't know.” I look at him. “Did you hurt her?”

“What do you mean?” He stares back at me.

“Before you grabbed me at her house… Rita was opening the door. Did she see you? Did you hurt her?”

“Why? It's not like you can do anything about it.”

Bastard! Suddenly, I want to grab him, make him tell me what he did to her. See how he likes knowing he could lose a finger any minute. But he's right. There's nothing I can do. Not right now. He's still staring at me as he slowly tightens his grip on the shears.

“Keep going,” he says.

Then

I get home thinking about my promise to Mom this morning.

Promise me you'll talk to him.

Less than five minutes later, the phone rings.

“I just called to see how you're doing,” I hear Detective Fyfe say.

“I'm okay,” I tell him, surprised by his call.

“I guess you read the articles in the paper over the weekend.”

“Yeah.”

“What he said about your father… It was unnecessary.”

“Nothing I haven't heard already, Detective Fyfe.”

“I guess that's true. Hey, call me Bob.”

I hesitate. “All right.”

“Are reporters still trying to talk to you?”

“They've backed off.”

“Good.”

The silence on the other end grows heavy. I glance at the clock. Devon will be home in less than twenty minutes.

“Well, as long you're okay,” Detective—I mean Bob—finally says.

“Did my dad…?”

Silence on the other end. He's waiting for me to continue. But what am I trying to say?

“What about him, Chris?” he says finally.

It feels, again, as if some other voice has taken me over, trying to keep this man on the phone. This man who knew my father in ways I never did.

The question is out of my mouth before I know I'm going to ask it. “Did my dad ever shoot anyone? On the job?”

After a moment, Detective Fyfe says, “No.”

“Did you?”

“No. Most cops don't ever pull their guns. All that crap on TV is just that.”

“What it said in the article—do you think if my dad hadn't given up his gun…?”

I don't let myself finish the question. But in my head I have another one.

When Dad took the bullet for that girl, was he thinking of me and Devon and what it would mean to the two of us to lose our father?

Several long seconds go by before Detective Fyfe—I can't get myself to call him Bob—responds. “He died doing his job,” he says. “Protecting people. That's what we do. He saved that little girl's life. That means something. Something you'll always know about him. Something you can tell your own kids when you tell them about their grandfather. Whenever you
honor
him. You'll know that your father was a hero.”

“The man who killed him,” I say in a quiet voice, “died in prison, didn't he?”

“Yes,” Detective Fyfe says. “That was justice, son.”

Don't worry, Chris. The punk who did this is gonna pay.

“I'd better go,” I say. “Devon's gonna be home soon.”

“Is Devon doing okay?”

I hesitate. “Yes.”

“He's very lucky to have you for an older brother.”

I feel my stomach twisting into another knot.

“Tell him I said hi. Your mom too.”

“Sure.” I watch my hand return the phone to the cradle.

Devon comes home ten minutes later. He usually has a hug for me but not this time. I'm going to talk to him, I tell myself. But I forgot about the social studies project he's been working on that is due tomorrow, and it turns out he's got math, spelling, and reading, all of which he needs to work on right away, with his game in a couple of hours.

“Okay,” I tell him. “I don't have a lot of homework, so when you're ready, I'll help you warm up.”

“I might just throw against the wall,” he says in a low voice, looking down.

I always help him warm up. My heart thumps so hard it hurts. “Need any help with your homework?”

“No, I'm okay.” He takes his snack and backpack upstairs to his room.

It seems to take longer for him to finish his homework than it should. When he comes downstairs, we have half an hour until we need to leave for the game. I insist on throwing to him in the backyard as we usually do before a game, but within a few minutes, it's clear he's not into it. He lets easy ground balls get by him and doesn't go after lazy fly balls. Is it because he's still pissed at me? Or is it more than that? I don't want to distract him from his game. We can talk tonight.

I lie and tell Devon there's something inside I forgot to do, go ahead and throw against the wall if he wants.

Mom arrives home a little later than usual, five minutes before we have to leave. On game nights, I often grab dinner from the snack bar at the field; Devon, having eaten a snack, eats after the game. Devon gets in the backseat first. Normally before a game like this, he's all excited and chirping away, but not now. He just sits in the backseat, saying nothing.

Mom asks in a low voice, “Did you talk to him?”

“Not yet,” I tell her.

She frowns and gets in behind the wheel. He'll be better once he gets there.

He jumps out of the car at the ball field before we've even come to a complete stop. “Have a good game, sweetheart,” Mom calls to him. He waves back. Coach Neville greets him with his usual enthusiasm. I watch Devon carefully. He's smiling.
A good sign
, I tell myself.

On the bleachers, Terry comes over and sits next to me. “Big game tonight,” he says, stating the obvious. “Devon up for it?”

“Why wouldn't he be?” I growl.

Terry frowns, says nothing.

We sit in silence for a moment. Then Terry leans in and says in a low voice, “Glad you're going to the party. I am too.”

“Party? What party?” Mom asks.

I frown at Terry before turning to her. “A kid at school invited me.”

“Do I know him?” Mom asks.

“His name's Matt. It's this Saturday. But I don't know…”

“Are his parents gonna be there?”

“I think so.”

“You should go. I'll watch Devon.”

“You don't have a date?”

“I'm not seeing that guy anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Doesn't matter. I'll watch Devon. You go to the party.”

“I don't know if I will go.”

“Go. I trust you.”

“I'll think about it,” I tell her after a moment.

Mom looks at me, frowning, then turns toward the field. “Whatever. But I'm taking Devon to a movie that night. And you're not invited.”

Turning, I give Terry an irritated look. Then I stand, announcing, “I'm getting a hot dog. You want something, Mom?”

“Maybe later.”

Terry and I climb down off the bleachers. As soon as we're clear, Terry says, “Great. You can go.”

“I haven't decided yet.”

“But your mom said—”

“I know.”

“But you're taking Rita.”

I look at him. “Where'd you hear that?”

“Come on, news like that isn't gonna stay secret for long. She's hot.”

We walk in silence for a few seconds.

“Hey, she isn't the only girl who would go out with you now if you asked.”

I don't say anything.

“Hey, are…are you okay?”

“When are you gonna stop asking me that?”

Terry just gives me a wounded look and says nothing.

At the snack bar, we each get a hot dog and a bottle of water. Like last time, Mrs. Wheat doesn't charge me.

“Jeez,” Terry says, “if I'd known all I had to do was shoot someone to get free food…”

I decide to ignore his lame joke.

We stop at the fence, watch the boys warm up. Brady fields a grounder, throws it to Devon at first. It ticks off Devon's glove. Devon didn't try very hard. Or am I just imagining it?

“Brady's so excited about this game, he couldn't eat,” Terry says. “They lose this, it's over.”

“They'll still be playing baseball. They'll both be on the tournament team,” I say.

“Still…” A few minutes of silence pass before Terry blurts out, “Are you mad at me? Is that why you didn't tell me about Rita?”

“Mad about what?”

“For, I don't know, always asking, ‘Are you all right?' For telling Matt and them it was okay to talk to you about it. For making that lame joke at the snack bar just now. For everything. Like a jerk, I've been saying the wrong thing all the time—I can tell from the way you look at me—when I should be, I don't know, a better friend. Doing something to help you. I'm sorry, Chris. I can't imagine what it's like, what happened to you. But you know, really…if you need to talk about it…about anything…”

I feel like a schmuck as I turn to him. “It's okay,” I tell him. What have I been doing, treating him like this? Sure, he acts like a big puppy dog sometimes, but he really is my best friend. We were eight years old when I helped Terry rebuild his fort after some bullies tore it down because he was the new kid in the neighborhood, and we officially declared ourselves best friends forever. He was with me when I was nine and fell off my bike, scraping my knee, and didn't say a word about me crying like a baby. He was with me when I broke my ankle four years ago just stepping off a curb and he half carried me all the way home to my mom and dad. “I've been the jerk,” I say. “All you've been doing since this happened is trying to help me, and I've been treating you like shit. I'm sorry, Terry. I really am. It's just… I've never dealt with something like this. A lot of times I don't know what to do or say when people ask about it. And I worry a lot about Devon. About whether I'm there for him enough…ever since Dad died…” I stop, surprised to hear myself choking up.

“Hey, no problem. Best friends forever,” Terry says, quoting the words our eight-year-old selves chanted right after we had finished rebuilding the fort. “And, as for Devon, are you kidding? He couldn't ask for a better brother. He loves you more than anything.”

“Do you really think that's true?” I want to ask. But then I hear, “Hey, Chris,” and as I turn, Matt slaps me on the back, grinning. Eric and Ben are with him. “We thought we'd come and watch your brother play.”

I hesitate. “Sure,” I say with a shrug.

“You doing anything after the game?”

“I'm going to have to get him home.”

“Your mom can't do that? Come on, Chris, let loose a little.”

“It's a school night…”

“Right, right. A school night.” He rolls his eyes. “At least tell us how you bagged Rita for my party.”

When I look at him, he says, “Hey, she and I had our fling; I've moved on. She's all yours.” He leans in again. “Of course, if you want any tips on what she likes, talk to me before Saturday.” He motions to the others. “Come on, let's do this right. Let's get a dog. Go White Sox!”

They walk away, toward the snack bar.

We hear Coach Neville call the White Sox in. The game is going to start in a few minutes.

I turn back to Terry, feeling like I should say more. “You sitting with them?” he asks before I can.

“No. With my mom, as usual.”

“See you around the third inning.”

As he begins to turn, I say, “Hey, Terry, I think I'm doing okay…well, the best I can. But if you're worried about me, you can ask me how I'm doing anytime you want. Okay?”

“Sure, Chris,” he says, offering me a lame thumbs-up that makes me smile and his goofy puppy-dog grin. “See you in the third.” He turns and heads toward the bleachers. Watching the team head into the dugout, I notice Devon moving slowly, his head down, while most of his teammates run in, passing him by. I consider saying something to him, but I let it go.

As I turn toward the bleachers, I hear a voice behind me. “Chris? Chris Russo?”