This choice: Talk to the guys about that problem • Go Back...Chapter #16Certain Dramatic Incidents by: Seuzz   Fuck it. This is for Mom, you think. Then, in another voice you add, For Mrs. Mitchell. To make up a little for losing another—
"It's Bickelmeir," you tell Laurent. His expression tightens. "It's getting worse."
"I thought you were going to give him some distance," Laurent says. "You know, what you can't see won't piss you off." That was the quote Sean had given him the last time he and Laurent talked about the issue.
"Well, he's closing the distance. He's started parking in front of my house. Not when I'm there, though. When my mom is. When she's there by herself."
Laurent's eyes go wide. Then they narrow. A purple flush rises up his swarthy cheeks, and his black hair visibly bristles. He's part Iroquois—the best part: dark, with hard cheekbones and a strong chin—and to watch his anger rise is almost like watching an aboriginal warrior stepping from out from behind a tree.
"And you know this because?" he asks.
"Because my mom told me about this car that's been parking in front of the house, and I caught it there last week and it was Bickelmeir." Sean's own hot anger starts rising in your gorge. "I told him to get lost, but my mom said he was back there again on Friday, and I think I saw him drive past on Sunday. He was definitely there yesterday, though, for almost an hour, she said, and he only drove off just before I got home. Like, he must have been watching for me."
Laurent pulls at his nose, and looks away. "This is fucked up, Mitchell," he says.
"Just try telling me it isn't. No, I don't think he's going to do anything" —Laurent looks over at you sharply— "because he knows I won't wait for any cops if he does. It'll be me and him and then it'll just be me. But I don't want it to get that far."
Laurent goes back to staring over your shoulder. Something catches his attention, and he shouts, "Hold him, Mull! You're wrestling with him, not spooning with him!" Then he turns back to you with a sigh. "Who else knows about this?"
"About him hassling my mom? Just you. I've talked to Cameron about the general situation—"
"Yeah, I heard you and Scott almost tore each other's faces off a week or two back."
"Right. But Cameron's got his own problems, and Bickelmeir's not someone he can exactly afford to piss off."
"Uh huh." Laurent's interest is either fading or deepening, for his gaze has gone very distant. But after a moment he retrieves it. "What lunch you have? Fourth?" You nod. "Go find Brownie in the library then. Talk to him. Tell him everything."
"Look, I'm not looking for any favors—"
"Then you're not likely to get any," Laurent says, and he smiles tightly. "As my grandfather used to say."
"I'm not looking for any favors," you repeat. "You just asked where my head is, and—"
"And I don't want you losing it." Laurent claps you on the arm.
* * * * *
It was Sean's plan, but you've got it bubbling your brain now—to get Laurent's help with Scott. That's what you meant when, on instinct, you told Mrs. Mitchell you would "talk to some guys" about it. But as you talked to Laurent you felt Sean's own prickly pride erecting a barrier. I should take care of this myself, you kept telling yourself.
But still it came out. The anger and (yes) the fear that comes from knowing that a creep has been watching your mother in defiance of your warnings. It comes bubbling out more strongly when you sit down with Alec "Brownie" Brown in the library during fourth period. "I always thought of Scott as a good guy," the other wrestler says after you've talked a bit.
Your hands clench under the table. Not that grabbing Brownie would do any good, for even though he's not as massive as you, he is quicker and he knows lots more moves. (He grew up in a family of fighters—literally. They're Army brats.) Besides, Brownie is just about the straightest-shooter Sean knows. That's probably why Laurent wanted you to talk to him. If you can convince Brownie that there's something the matter with Bickelmeir, he can carry half the sports teams at the school with him.
Brownie's comment comes after you've told him what Scott Bickelmeir, the school's wide receiver, has been doing at your house. You have to admit that, in isolation, it sounds like a weird but not necessarily malicious thing. So when Brownie asks if there's a "history" between you and Scott, you plunge into it.
"It goes back to him hanging out with my brother Taylor," you say. "You know about Taylor, right?"
Brownie blinks. "I've heard, but never from you. Tell me yourself so I've got it straight."
You feel the old anger building again. "Taylor was my twin brother. We were close. Always close. Forever close."
You feel the sudden tears in your throat. Brownie's eyes soften.
"You know we were at Eastman up until last year. Bickelmeir too, you know. Him and Taylor started hanging out the start of last summer. They started working at the same place, too. I saw less and less of Taylor. I felt it but didn't say anything. I mean, we're twins, but we're not the same person, you know?" Brownie nods slightly.
You have to swallow before you can say the next few words: "The last time I saw Taylor, he was driving off with Scott."
Silence envelops you, and the titter of freshmen girls at the next table suddenly seems very loud.
"Did Scott have anything to do with the accident?" Brownie asks.
The question explodes your resentments.
"I don't know!" You grab the edge of the table to keep from flying off. "He won't say anything about it! Him and Taylor and some other kid from work, they went up to the school, to Eastman, together. The next thing anyone knows, Taylor's in a car wreck."
Brownie's eyes narrow. "What makes you think Scott had anything to do with it?"
"Because it wasn't just Taylor! There were three of them out there that day. Taylor was in a wreck, and the other guy went into a coma, all on the same day. Only Scott made it home that day."
"Have you tried asking him about it?"
"He won't tell me anything!"
Brownie bites the inside of his cheek. "That doesn't mean—"
"Look, there were two casualties that day, both under really funny circumstances. And the third guy who was out there sure is acting like he's guilty of something!"
You sink back in your chair. "And then he started following me," you continue. "I moved to Westside this year, for a fresh start." You wipe your brow and your hand touches the cap. Taylor's cap. Your father's cap, before he died. "And then Bickelmeir followed me over. It's like he's haunting me, but he won't say why."
"And now he's started haunting your mom," Brownie says.
"I said 'haunting', but 'stalking' is probably better," you growl. "I told him to stay the fuck away, but he won't. And he's scaring her."
Brownie nods. "Well, thanks for telling me this," he says, and he abruptly gets up. "Hang out here till I get back."
* * * * *
But you don't see Brownie again until the start of fifth period, when you're already inside Mr. Hartford's classroom. That's when you glance over and notice him loitering in the doorway.
Then you notice Laurent loitering there too. And Eli Anders. And Austin Mull and Chris Ratliff and Devin Haney. All clustered in the doorway. They've not looking at you, though. They're standing there, waiting.
Then Scott appears. The gang closes about him.
For a moment he looks confused. Then the cluster moves, and he is swept out of sight down the hallway.
Your heart beats for a solid minute, and you squirm in your seat. What have you done?
The bell rings and class starts and Scott is absent.
No, actually, he's just tardy. He is pale when he comes in five minutes later, but he looks healthy.
He doesn't look at you.
And he doesn't look at you during football practice either.
* * * * *
"Get me out of this thing," you snarl as you run down into the basement after work. Will Prescott (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) clatters down after you.
Caleb looks up in alarm. "What's wrong?"
"Sean's life is just too dramatic for my taste," you reply. You throw yourself onto a table and grab at your face. But you pause long enough to point to your placeholder. "Get the mask off him—take your clothes off!" you bark. "We're gonna try putting Sean's mask on him, see what happens."
Caleb's reply is swallowed in the swirling darkness as you rip Sean's face from your own.
* * * * *
"The next time we pull a stunt," you tell Caleb after you're awake and are in your jeans if not your shirt, "we research the asshole first, make sure his life isn't stressful."
"What's wrong with Sean's life?" Caleb asks. He's peering out the window of the basement. "He seems like a guy who has his shit together."
You tick the items off your fingers. "His dad's dead, his twin brother's dead, his mom is barely hanging onto her own shit, and he's being stalked by Scott Bickelmeir."
Caleb turns wide eyes on you. "Who?"
"Scott Bickelmeir. You know, he plays football."
"And he's stalking Sean? As in, following him around?" Caleb's eyes are like saucers.
"Basically. He—"
Caleb dives under a table at the same time the basement door bangs open. You stand rooted to the spot—like the petrified Sean at your elbow—as Scott Bickelmeir comes down the stairs.
He looks around. He stares at Sean. He stares at the masks on the table.
Then he looks at you and says, "What the fuck did you do to my brother?" You have the following choice:  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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