The Watcher

23

The cupboard under the sink has started to smell. I tie a knot in the top of the trash bag and head outside to toss it into one of the bins. When I turn around, Leo is standing behind me. Even though he’s wearing a baggy shirt and saggy jeans, as usual his lanky body seems thinner than ever.

I look at the time and ask him what he’s doing outside so early. School doesn’t start now, does it?

Not for another hour, is the answer, but the library is open. He usually goes there to read or study before his first class. It’s convenient since there’s a separate entrance to the school from there, which means he doesn’t have to crowd into the big coatroom inside the main entrance with everyone else.

Crowd? I wonder quietly to myself. Or risk being teased and pushed around? I look down at Leo’s feet. He’s wearing shoes, but they’re not his normal white sneakers. I ask what happened to those, and he wonders what I mean.

“Yesterday, Leo. I saw you come home in just your socks.”

He tosses his head so his bangs flip off his forehead. The infected pimples on his forehead scream at me—they’ve either gotten bigger or there are more of them. Then he jerks his head and his hair falls back over his face.

“I have to go now,” he says. “See ya.”

I get him to look me in the eye.

“What else do they do to you? Aside from sending mean notes, writing on your skin, and taking your shoes?”

Leo turns away. I think that now I’ve crossed a line. Now he’ll leave here and never come back. But he stays put with his back to me. I glance over at the Storm family’s kitchen, wonder if Veronica and Philip are maybe sitting in there right now looking out at us, although their view would be blocked by some bushes.

I take a step forward, searching for something wise to say, but it’s not easy. Really not easy.

There’s something inconsistent about Leo’s behavior, something that bewilders me. He doesn’t seem to have any problem talking about what happens at home. It’s more like he’s on the verge of not having any limits when it comes to how much and what he’s willing to tell me about his family, especially Veronica. But when it comes to what happens to him a school, the situation is different. Maybe a boy his age finds it harder to talk about things that have to do with his friends, or rather his lack of friends.

“Leo, what can I do?”

He doesn’t respond. He shrugs.

Is he crying? It really gets to me, deep down. I take another step forward.

“I really want to help you.”

Finally he turns around. He stands there looking at the ground and seems to be debating with himself.

“Maybe you could…,” he finally says. “Do you think you could take care of my house key?”

Then he raises his face and looks me in the eye, explaining briefly and quietly that sometimes they take his stuff and hide it. Shoes, keys… He takes off his backpack and pulls something out of the outer compartment. A second later, I’m holding a house key. He swings his backpack back on, says that he doesn’t need it at school, and that he can just stop by and pick it up when he comes home. He promises not to bother me for long, doesn’t actually need to come in at all. And if I’m busy or not home, I can just put the key in a flowerpot or something outside the door.

“That writing handbook I borrowed from you is in my room, by the way, next to the computer, if you need it.”

Then he’s off. And I’m holding his key, unsure about what I’ve actually agreed to.

A few hours later, I see Veronica. I’m sitting at my computer writing, pushing back the dark thoughts lurking somewhere in the background by focusing on the text that’s taking shape beneath my fingers. When Veronica pops up in her kitchen, it’s the first time I’ve seen her since the dinner that ended in tears. Since then the curtains on the second floor have not opened in the mornings, haven’t opened at all.

She’s on her way into the darkness again. A hint that she’s been through unbalanced periods before. Like when she threw her purse off the bridge. Like the previous incident with the rabbits. The rabbits… I feel like I can hear the sound of their skulls smashing against the asphalt and see bloody hunks of fur being torn off and spread across the street. Who does something like that? What kind of person, what kind of mother? I shiver and pull my sweater closer around my body.

Based on what Leo said, I guess I figured it would take another couple of days before Veronica showed herself. Or, if she did, it would be in a bathrobe with shuffling steps. But here she is with her hair up in her typical glossy, well-brushed ponytail. She’s wearing a brightly colored form-fitting top and moving energetically around the kitchen. She opens the fridge and stuffs something into her mouth, then fills a water bottle and leaves the room again. I lean forward, trying to keep my eyes on her as she goes around the corner out the door, but she’s gone.

It’s possible that Veronica is on her way back to the bedroom, that her trip downstairs was all she was up to today, but it’s also possible that she’s planning to leave the house soon. I feel my pulse speed up and look down at my own body. I’m wearing a cardigan over the tank top I slept in and have pulled on a pair of sweats. Nearly presentable, prepared. My hands are suddenly clammy. Prepared? For what? Writing. That’s what I’m going to devote myself to now, fully. Nothing will distract me—isn’t that what I decided?

The front door of the house across the way opens, and Veronica comes out. She’s wearing a thin, snug jacket over her garish top and a pair of black workout leggings underneath. In one hand, she’s holding a small black bag with a water bottle sticking out of one of its side pockets. She locks the door and strides boldly out of the yard, the same way her husband usually goes when he leaves the house, the way he went this morning as well.

I hear Leo’s voice again. There are worse things I could tell you—much worse. A moment later, I find myself in the front hall, rapidly pulling on a pair of running shoes and grabbing a down vest. Then I’m immediately out the door, on Veronica’s heels. It’s as if an external force has captured me and is leading me along.

I don’t understand anything, don’t know anything. Only this: I have to see where she’s going.