Stalked

CHAPTER TWENTY

Nine Years Ago

I kept to myself my freshman year of high school.

I was smart, but that didn’t make me popular. I wasn’t an athlete because I was too short and, when I was younger, Grams didn’t have the energy to take me to practices or games. I had told her I didn’t care about playing soccer or football or lacrosse, even though I kind of did. But she needed me and I wasn’t going to let Grams down. And then she died and I was back where it all began, and hiding behind Grams’s last name no longer helped.

Being smart has its advantages, and I kept telling myself if I could just get through four years of high school I could go to any college I wanted, far away. I didn’t make many friends. Maybe because I didn’t try and use Rachel as an excuse. I was, after all, the kid whose sister had been murdered by a pervert who went to his parents’ sex parties. It didn’t matter that my parents divorced, my father moved across the country, or I hated my mother. I was the freak. People either felt sorry for me or thought my misfortunes would rub off on them. I don’t know. Maybe it was just because of me.

It didn’t help that everyone knew about the book. The book that reminded me that I was nobody except Rachel McMahon’s little brother.

Most of the kids left me alone. They probably thought I was going to blow up the school. I guess I looked like the type of kid who would do that-short; shaggy hair; dressed in black; friendless; and a geek. Sometimes, I thought about doing something big. Not blowing up the school, I didn’t want to hurt anyone, except one person. My mom. Or maybe something bigger, like blowing up the prison where Rachel’s killer sat filing appeal after appeal in his attempt at gaming the system.

Someone, though, had it out for me. All that year, watching me.

It started with the note in my locker, but it got worse. I never knew when-sometimes weeks would pass, sometimes only a day or two. A picture of my sister. Copies of the articles from the murder investigation. And on the anniversary of Rachel’s death, the creep filled my locker with worms.

But on the last day of school, I think my latent instincts kicked into high gear, and I believed for the first time that someone wanted to kill me.

I hadn’t planned on going to school. It was a half day, everyone was signing yearbooks, and there wasn’t anyone I cared to sign mine. But Mr. Doherty had graded our English essays, and he said he wanted to talk to me about mine. So I rode my bike to school, kept my head down so no one would feel like they had to ask me to sign their yearbook, and went upstairs to Mr. Doherty’s class. I waited until he was done talking to some students; then when they left I stepped inside and cleared my throat.

“Hey.” Mr. Doherty was my favorite teacher. His was the only class I really liked. He loved to read and loaned me books. I never talked to anyone about what happened to Rachel, but I told him about Grams. Having him listen helped, and every time I thought about running away I remembered I had a book I needed to return or an essay I wanted to finish. He always wore a blazer with leather patches on the elbows, either a tweed coat or a dark blue coat, and the familiarity was comforting, like the smell of my grams’s soap.

He smiled. “Peter, come in, please.”

I stood in front of his desk, still and silent, my backpack slung over my shoulder. I slid back my hoodie as a sign of respect, the most I’d do for a teacher I liked.

“Sit down.”

I didn’t want to, but I pulled one of the desks up and sat on the edge of the attached chair. “Do you have my essay?” I had my grades already. The school mailed them to my mother, but since my teachers liked me I just asked them. All A’s except a B in P.E. and a B+ in honors physics. I could live with that.

Mr. Doherty smiled. “You have a lot of talent, Peter.”

I shrugged. I liked writing. I was good at it. But that didn’t make me talented.

He slid the essay over, upside down. I took it, looked at the cover page. A+. I smiled. I knew I’d nailed the assignment, but the validation felt good.

“I’m a little concerned about the pessimism in your story.”

I shrugged.

“A couple other teachers have come to me and asked if they need to be concerned about you.”

Why’d anyone talk to Mr. Doherty about me? I was quiet and maybe antisocial, but I wasn’t a troublemaker. Didn’t these people have anything more important to worry about? Like the kid who brought a knife to school last month or the group who smoked pot on the roof nearly every Friday?

“I’m fine,” I said. Fine. I suppose I’d never be fine, but really, what else could I say? I showed up, I got good grades, and I didn’t bother anyone. What more did these people want?

“I know this year has been hard on you-”

“No shit,” I said. Then I thought of Grams and how much she hated swearing. “Sorry.”

“I told them not to be concerned; then I read your story. I could see you in your character Thomas. I was completely hooked by the story, the depth of character, your keen sense of description, the emotions you evoke in just a few words. Then Thomas kills himself. And the comments from your teachers made me concerned that I’m missing signs. I like you, Peter. You have a lot to offer.”

I thought a lot about death and dying. And maybe sometimes I thought about being dead. I wondered if Rachel could see me, wondered if there was a heaven and if she was happy. Or if there was nothing. That death was final; there was no more.

“It’s fiction, Mr. Doherty.”

He stared at me. I didn’t know what he saw, but he was worried. “I think I should talk to your mother.”

My heart skipped a beat, but it was only anger I felt. My mother had no right to know anything of how I felt.

I stood. “No.”

“If not your mother, maybe I can find someone for you to talk to.”

“I’m not going to kill myself. It’s a story. That was the assignment, right? A work of fiction?”

Mr. Doherty looked away, then changed the subject. “What are your plans this summer?”

Stay out of the house as much as I could. “My dad’s making me visit him for a month.”

“Maybe that would be good for you.”

I shrugged.

“People change, Peter. You should forgive them.”

I walked out.

I could forgive Benjamin John Kreig easier than I could forgive my parents. I thought Kreig should have gotten the death penalty for killing my sister. I think my parents should get worse.

But I couldn’t do anything about it. And I wouldn’t. I just wanted my mom and dad to disappear. I didn’t want to talk to them; I didn’t want to see them; I didn’t want to be reminded of what happened in our house.

I went to my locker to get the last of my things. I opened it and a vile smell assaulted me. I stared at the bloody mess in front of me, not knowing at first what it was. Then I saw. A dead cat. Flattened, like roadkill. Flies buzzed; bugs burrowed in its wounds. Tears came fast, for the poor animal, for me, for Rachel-I had never felt so alone. Not even when Grams died. Not even when I found Rachel’s empty bed.

I slammed my locker shut and ran to the bike cage, ignoring the stares of my peers. Go to Hell! I wanted to scream at all of them. Instead, I got on my bike and rode away fast. I didn’t want to go home, so biked south, through one old Newark neighborhood after another. I didn’t have a destination; I just wanted to get away.

But maybe my heart knew best, because two hours later I ended up at the cemetery where Rachel was buried.

I found her grave. There were no flowers on it. I walked back to the office and bought her a white rose. Not because she liked them-I don’t know that she had a favorite flower-but I only had three dollars in my pocket and the rose was $2.49.

I went back to her grave and put the flower in a little cup in the ground. It looked small against the large headstone. I sat on the grass and talked to her. I told her everything that had happened at school, told her about Mr. Doherty, told her I missed her and I was sorry I hadn’t visited her since she was buried.

I think she understood. At least, I felt better. Like maybe I would get through this whole thing, that there was hope. A future.

I didn’t know how long I’d been there, but it was after six when I looked at my watch. I traced her name with my finger. “I love you, Sis.”

Three more years until I turned eighteen and could get out of my mom’s house. Then I’d never have to see her again.

It took me an hour to ride my bike home, faster than it took to get to the cemetery, but I’d taken the long way there, probably because I hadn’t planned on it.

I glided up the driveway and frowned. My mom had a visitor. I didn’t want to talk to any of her friends. Or worse, what if it was a date? She went out every weekend, so I wouldn’t be surprised if some jerk had come to pick her up.

I dropped my bike in the side yard and went in through the kitchen door. Saw a meal on the table. Two plates, both empty. A bottle of wine, also empty.

I walked through the kitchen to the living room and stared at the familiar jacket draped across the couch. A tweed jacket, with leather patches at the elbows.

A copy of my essay was on the coffee table.

Someone laughed upstairs. Then came the all-too-familiar sounds of sex.

If I’d had a gun, I might have shot them both. Right then, at that moment, I would have done it. I could see my hand with a pistol aimed at my mother, aimed at the traitor, pulling the trigger over and over and killing them.

But the murderous rage passed as quickly as it crept over me, and I broke.

Broken and free.

I went upstairs, passed her room, and quietly entered mine. I packed a backpack with everything I could carry, and stuffed in a small, framed picture of Rachel, Grams, Grandpa, and me. My family, my only family, and they were all dead.

I took all the money out of my mother’s purse-a hundred dollars-and her ATM card because I knew her code. I went into Mr. Doherty’s jacket and found his wallet-he had only forty-nine dollars. I took it, too. I packed cheese, crackers, granola bars, and water to get me through a couple of days. Then I went to the garage, got a sleeping bag from the rafters, and tied it to the back of my bike.

Then I left. It was three days before Mom canceled her ATM card, and by that time I had fifteen hundred dollars.

I never would have gone home, except the cops arrested me six months later.

And this time I was unlucky enough to be sent to live with my dad.