Veneer (48 page)

Deron shivered uncontrollably for seconds at a time but not because of the weather. Each little attack coincided with his thoughts of Russo, of the impending confrontation that for all its planning could still end in a fight. The symmetry was not lost on him.

It started with Russo.

It would end with Russo.

Although a hefty price, Deron was determined to pay it if it meant putting things back the way they were. His only regret was not preparing ahead of time for another violent encounter. He wasn’t sure when Agent Ruiz would make his appearance, which gave Russo anywhere from a few seconds to several minutes to beat Deron back to the first grade. Just the thought of taking another punch to the face made him cringe, made his stomach gnarl with anxiety. On a purely physical level, he was no match for Russo, which severely limited his tactics. Running was not an option; he would have to take the beating as best he could and hope that the agent showed before Russo put him into another coma.

A spike of lightning illuminated the small concession stand, exposing the gray containers on the wall. The empty bins made Deron think of food, but with football season over, all that remained were condiments and non-perishables. In his mind where he could still reconcile reliably, he imagined a dinner table full of his mom’s cooking. And though it smelled great and looked appetizing, all he could do was stare at her face as she sat there smiling back at him, delighted that her efforts had brought him joy. Her expression was comforting and it drew his thoughts towards home, then his bedroom, and finally his bed. He figured everything would be okay if he could just get back between those sheets.

The sound of faraway voices kept him from nodding off. They were masculine but indistinct, barely audible over the rain pounding on the roof. Deron sat up slowly, tried to ignore the cries of his muscles as they unwound from the fetal position. Straining to see through the downpour, he made out two figures standing at midfield. They were looking at each other and at the waterlogged grass around them. One of them was unmistakably an agent; Deron had become adept at picking out their trench coats. The other, cloaked in a hooded slicker, was slightly smaller. His forward lean, that aggressive posture, identified him as Russo. The rain was dripping from his arms like two spouts of water, curling over clenched fists. The sight of Ruiz and Russo together brought on a wave of relief, made Deron think for one beautiful moment that things might work out painlessly after all.

Emerging from the stand, Deron stepped into the rain and went from moderately dry to soaked in the span of three steps. The muddy grass squished under his feet, making the walk seem surreal, as if he would never get to the center of the field, would never see Ruiz slap the cuffs on Russo. It was sweet revenge, not the kind his enemy deserved, but revenge nonetheless. He wondered idly if he would have to participate in the trial, take the stand, and give testimony about... a murder?

It was only then the agent’s words hit him. What the hell was Russo up to while he was away? It was unlikely that a thug like Russo would be capable of actually taking a life. Murder wasn’t something a student from Easton Central did. Shaking his head, Deron tried to remember the last time he’d even heard of a high school student killing someone, but there was nothing. If it were true, if his archenemy had really crossed the line, then Deron’s plan of capturing him had been more dangerous than he imagined. As he got closer to midfield, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he should have stayed hidden.

“Deron,” said Agent Ruiz. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show.”

“I got him,” he replied, looking over at Russo, bewildered by the smile on his shadowy face.

“
I
got him,” repeated Russo.

The agent nodded thoughtfully and looked from one boy to the other. Rain dripped down the side of his face, but it could have been blood and he would have taken no more notice of it. His eyes seemed set in determination, as if he were puzzling his next move.

Deron offered some encouragement. “Aren’t you going to arrest him?”

Russo’s eyes flickered, but his smile didn’t waver. Speaking through gnashed teeth, he said, “I want to take care of him myself.”

Again, Ruiz nodded as if considering Russo’s nonsensical statements. “You’re both right,” he said at last, clapping once and sending a spray of water between them. “And you’re both wrong.”

“You said,” protested Deron.

“I know what I said. To both of you. But the truth is that I only need one resolution to close this case. Either I bring in Russo Rivera for the murder of an agent or I silence Deron Bishop and stop him from exposing the veneer.” He moved his hand to his chin and put on a show.

For the first time, Russo’s façade faltered, showed disappointment. Had he been trying to deliver Deron to Ruiz?

Staring into the agent’s eyes, Deron tried to remember the way they looked the night of Paramel. Of course, then they had been a veneer, the reconciled friendliness that Ruiz
wanted
people to see.

“I don’t care,” said Ruiz, waving his hand. “You two sort it out.” A faux smile flashed on his face. “The winner gets my vote.” Turning, he headed off towards the bleachers and sat down.

“The winner of what?” asked Deron.

“Don’t worry about it,” replied Russo, “you’re not going to win.” The raincoat slipped off his shoulders, revealing a thin t-shirt that turned transparent instantly.

Deron took a step back as Russo faked his first attack. His fist stopped midway and hung there.

“It remembers you,” he said.

There was barely time to think before the real fight began, but Deron’s brain crammed all it could into that microsecond. It was still reeling from the agent’s suggestion that they fight it out. Did he not know how unfair that was? He knew Russo would win, so why not just take Deron away and be done with it? Another beating wasn’t necessary.

What
was
necessary was to lift his arms to his face to protect his nose, but by the time the message made it to his muscles, Russo’s fist had already clipped him on the chin. Deron retreated as best as he could under the barrage, but Russo had been waiting a long time for this moment and was savoring every second of it. There was pain, but Deron knew his body would overcome it eventually, settle into a numb haze. But that was a bridge he had yet to cross.

Russo laughed as he feinted with his right arm and then tested the waters with a kick to the shin. Deron felt the pain ripple up his leg and had to fight the urge to lower his hands. Surprisingly, he saw them reach down on their own, intent on rubbing away the hurt immediately. Russo picked up on the involuntary reaction and sent a left hook flying for Deron’s face. It landed just below the cheek and as if to drive the severity home, a nearby bolt of lightning illuminated the world. Shutting his eyes and staggering backwards, Deron tried to regroup.

Out there, on the other side of darkness, Russo was taunting. Every part of his body was begging for a retreat, but Deron didn’t listen. It was time to take control, at least put up some kind of fight. Just one hit would be nice, one moment of pain for Russo to show him that he could bleed like any other human.

Deron’s eyes slid open, lubricated by tears or rain or both. He saw Russo standing a few yards off, looking different, maybe shinier. It wasn’t until he noticed the school that he realized he could see the veneer again. There were lights on in the windows, reconciled strips on the ceilings that glowed night and day. Not only that, they were pulsing in time with his breathing, dimming on the intake and flaring as he breathed out angrily.

Angrily, he repeated to himself.

He imagined all the things he wanted to do to Russo, all the pain that he wanted to inflict, and with each image a little more of the world came into view. The bleachers took on their tan color, the white stripes on the football field became vibrant again, and Russo’s eyes, those previously black portals, became the color of hate, a fiery red meant to instill fear in his enemies.

Dropping to a knee, Deron put a hand on the ground and tried to reconcile white veneer. At first, the grass merely shimmered, but with a guttural cry, it transformed into glossy porcelain. The change in the landscape made Russo stand out in silhouette.

Russo scoffed at the pointless display, but off to the left, the agent sat up a little straighter.

While Deron’s head was turned, a boot appeared by the side of his face. Rolling to the left, he used the momentum to open the distance between them. He popped to his feet and recalled the window in his dad’s apartment, the way he had reconciled the world outside without having to touch it. Gritting his teeth, Deron pushed the command out without knowing if it would truly work. To his surprise, the white field changed to black.

Russo advanced, but Deron shuffled away and turned the ground white again. Over and over, faster and faster, he made the two colors alternate until finally the agent was standing and Russo was shielding his eyes from the strobe.

“Fucking fight me!” screamed Russo.

Deron smiled at his frustration, but then noticed Ruiz taking a knee and placing his hand to the ground. The original design returned; he had leveled the field again.

“Thank you,” yelled Russo.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Deron rushed forward and swung his arm at Russo’s chest. It made contact, but his forward momentum pushed the rest of his body into Russo and they fell to the ground. Tasting mud and water, Deron gasped for air, but strong arms already had him by the neck. His ability to breathe suddenly fell to zero.

Time slowed as his oxygen diminished. His thoughts turned to Rosalia, to what he would say to her if he didn’t die right there in the mud.

Everything bathed in white, he imagined, blinking slowly to concentrate on the order. When he opened his eyes, he found not only the bleachers and the trees cloaked in pristine light, but also the rain drops that fell around him. They were encased in a white film and obscured everything behind them, compacting into two dimensions as another surface he could reconcile. Deron thought of a squad of regular uniforms, guns drawn, ready to shoot Russo to stop him from killing an innocent civilian. There was so much rain falling that they almost looked real. The question was whether Russo would believe his own eyes.

“Look,” he gurgled, “They’re here for you.”

Russo finally looked away and upon seeing the police, his grip lessened. His shoulders bounced as if he were ready to put his hands up.

Slipping his arm out from under a leg, Deron punched up as hard as he could, knocking Russo’s mouth shut in a large clap of teeth on teeth. The sudden attack sent him sprawling backwards onto the grass, dousing him in mud again. As he struggled to regain his footing, Deron unreconciled the surrounding uniforms, turning the world back to normal.

Russo stared at him, confused and angry.

Deron simply smiled in return.

63 - Rosalia

They had arrived to find Deron already wrestling with Russo and it was clear he was losing, overpowered by a bigger and stronger opponent. Now, hiding behind the end zone bleachers with Sebo, Rosalia watched in horror as Deron struggled to hold his own. She could barely stand to listen to it; his screams pierced her eardrums and each one weakened her knees. Rosalia wanted nothing more than to run to his aid, do what little she could to stem his anguish, but Sebo was gripping her tightly, had his sturdy arms wrapped around her body. That she couldn’t break free was akin to torture—he was forcing her to watch Deron die at the hands of a maniac.

Then something happened, something so strange and bewildering that she stopped trying to break free, even felt Sebo’s grip loosen in shock. One moment, Easton was as she knew it, sparkling veneers under a torrent of rain. The next, a circle of brilliant light expanded out from under Deron, overtaking everything in its path. It crossed the entire field in a matter of seconds, flashed past Rosalia and Sebo, forcing them to shut their eyes against the blinding glow. Like looking into the sun, it took a moment for the green and blue afterimages to fade, but when Rosalia could see again, she found a world bathed in a pristine veneer, a white canvas that stretched from horizon to horizon. Even Sebo’s arms draped loosely around her had taken on the appearance of porcelain, virtually indistinguishable from her own body.

The sturdy texture bent unnaturally when Sebo let go of her to examine his arms. They stood apart, looking at their bodies and then at each other. The white had seeped into every crevice of Sebo’s skin, turning his face into a featureless mannequin or some kind of doll that had yet to be painted. His eyelids moved as porcelain could never move, blinking slowly, exposing the miniature billiard balls underneath. They were so empty, so devoid of soul, that Rosalia wondered if anything still lived behind them.

His entire persona, wiped clean from his body, leaving only a blank template, a palette on which to reconcile a whole new life.

More unsettling was the fact that no matter how hard she tried, she could not reconcile herself back to normal. The foreign veneer was tenacious, preventing her from restoring her skin color. There were variations on her arm, but those were caused by the raindrops that accumulated there before flickering white themselves.

Sebo let out a croaking sound where there should have been coherent words. Staring at his face again, Rosalia watched the field of rain between them flash opaque. The new veneer moved in waves, radiating out from the school, towards the neighborhoods, towards downtown. There, pearlescent towers faded, hidden behind a curtain of veneered raindrops.

It’s everywhere, she observed. Everyone in the city must have seen it.

And just like that, something sucked it back in, drew off the white sheets to let the world shine through again. As it passed over Sebo, she saw astonishment return to his face and the paralyzing confusion in his eyes. It had been a simple veneer after all; nothing underneath had changed.

When Rosalia looked back at Deron, she was surprised to see an army of uniforms encircling him. As frightening as it was to watch, she could see a stronger fear emanating from Russo. He was so distracted that Deron was able to get in a few jabs, ending with a kick that separated the two of them, left them staring at each other and gasping for air. She took a step forward and once again felt Sebo’s hands around her arm.