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And when I got suspended a few years later, she came over every day to watch me and didn’t keep her distance as if I were toxic waste, like everybody else did, and never gave up on me and brought me the detective books to read so I’d have something to do besides feel how empty and meaningless time could be, and she talked to me about them, quizzed me on them, showed me how to pick up the clues as I read and how to think things through, and made me grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for lunch and played practical jokes on me so I’d feel normal, like putting her teeth in my glass when I wasn’t looking so I’d almost drink them or hiding Thrash so I couldn’t find him or sneaking up behind me and kissing me loud on the ear or making me hide our neighbors’ newspaper under the bushes because she didn’t like them, and she was always telling me that I was her special little man, no matter what anyone said, I was just a handful like my grandfather, that was all, or timing how fast I could run from
our house to the corner or seeing if I could jump up to touch that tree branch or that one, hugging me whether I could or couldn’t, and forcing me to tell her that I loved her.

But then she started dressing funny, like her shoes wouldn’t match or she’d have on one knee-high but not the other, or she’d talk to people who weren’t there, in a language that wasn’t really language, and she’d get confused a lot and leave the iron on or the oven on or the car running, so that she almost killed herself or us ten times, and couldn’t find her way back from the store or called the cops at two
A.M.
because some prowler had stolen the dentures that were still in her mouth, or she sat up all night on the sofa with a lit candle in her hand, saying they were coming, and we had to put her away, although all of us together could barely afford it. Since then she’d steadied a little, but was in and out more and more and was clearly getting worse, so it was only a matter of time, and mom could hardly talk about it without breaking up and someday soon we’d lose her, either the lights would be on but nobody would answer the door or the lights would go out and that would be that.

But until that happened I’d never run out on grandma or give up on her, and I’d visit her two or three times a week like I always did and look after her the best I could, because who else was gonna do it, fucking pencil-necked Bryan? Bullshit. Grandma was a bigger man right now in her wasted state than he could ever hope to be. Fuck that, if anybody was going to take care of her, I was gonna do it. She was
my
grandma. I was claiming her, even if nobody else would. And if somebody thought that was fucking
retarted
or that she was fucking
retarted
or that anybody else was fucking
retarted
just because they had problems or couldn’t answer when they were called on in class or because they were old and their brains were dying, then they shouldn’t sneak around misspelling it on the front sign under cover of night like fugitives from special-ed, but have the balls to come up and say it to my face, so I could relieve them of their lips and teeth.

No, I wasn’t gonna run from this; there was too much riding on it.

I was gonna stay right where I was, see it through till the end, and make goddamn sure that somebody paid.

I was still
crouched down on the side of the house when I heard Neecey turn on the water in the kitchen sink and rinse out her glass. I was just on the other side of the wall, maybe three or four feet away, directly beneath the window where she couldn’t see me, and it took about a thousand years for her to clean that glass, or at least that’s the way it seemed, because it was absolute murder to keep myself still. My insides were taut, jumpy, and drawn, like the spring-loaded arm of a pinball machine pulled all the way back, ready to blast forward. I heard the window lock above me shift and the panes scrape upward. The aluminum siding felt like a cheese grater against my back. Mom was right about one thing—I’d need deodorant soon, because I could smell myself a little, and it wasn’t the fresh, clean scent of Irish Spring. The doorknob to the back door turned and the door squeaked open.
Fuck
. Neecey was coming out to check around the sides of the house; I just knew it. Any second now she’d turn the corner and see me and then I didn’t know what would happen, but whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good. If I were younger, I would’ve covered my face, thinking that if I couldn’t see Neecey, then she couldn’t see me. But I was too old for that shit. So I just took a deep breath, lowered my head, and closed my eyes.

The seconds ached by like hours, but nothing happened. Then Neecey said, “Hey, Mrs. Murdock,” and while the sound of her voice was like metal fingernails raked across a chalkboard, what she said was oddly soothing. Mrs. Murdock was Cynthia’s mom—that’s who she was calling. Neecey hadn’t seen me, she hadn’t come out to check the side of the house; she’d just opened the window and the back door to get the cross breeze because it was always stuffy in the kitchen in the summer. Everything loosened up, and I suddenly felt so relaxed that I could’ve fallen asleep. But I wasn’t in the clear just yet.

“Hey, babe,” Neecey chirped. “Yeah, I just got back.”

Great, this was just what I needed. I was trapped into hearing one of Neecey and Cynthia’s girlie gossip sessions, and the way they went at it, I could be here all day.

“Okay, I guess. It’s like we both knew it would happen sooner or later, with him going off to college and everything.”

It sounded like they were talking about Gary, and my only hope was that he’d dropped her like a water balloon off the Empire State Building.

“By the way, I totally told you he was seeing Jessica Whitmore. Yeah, he told me, but like who couldn’t figure it out with all the pizza deliveries she’s been getting lately?”

Nice one, Gary—giving Neecey a taste of her own medicine. All of a sudden I was almost sorry to see that wood post go.

“Meat lovers!”
Neecey screamed and laughed. “Ohmigod, Cyn, you’re a total slut!”

As far as I knew, Cynthia had never even held hands with a guy, so if she was a slut, then I was the pope.

“Darren? Uh-huh, I told him, but he already knew. Not really. He said he’d started hooking up with Jessica about the same time, so he didn’t think it would be fair to like have a canary on me, or hold me back from finding someone new, because he was totally leaving anyway. I know, right? That’s what I’ll miss about him most, I guess. He’s just, I don’t know, he’s always been like so
decent.”

If you asked me, Gary letting Neecey run around with Darren wasn’t decent—it was stupid.

“Yeah, we talked for a while, said what we had to say and all, promised we’d still be friends, and that was like it.”

Fucking Gary. He’d had a chance to twist the knife as they called it quits but punked out instead.

“No, hon, I feel totally fine, seriously. I’m not like melancholy or anything. It’s like I’ll miss him, but it was time, you know? Yeah, I hope so. He was my first, Cyn, and he was totally gentle and he
always did everything he could to make things easy for me and I’ll always be completely grateful for that, because a lot of guys are total selfish pricks and he could’ve been that way, too, but he wasn’t.”

I wondered what that was worth—the gratitude of a two-timing fink.

“Totally. Uh-huh. Maybe I was lucky, because he’s like older, more experienced, and way laid-back and all. But your first is always special, ask anybody, even if he’s like this grodie skeezer, and once you’ve had yours, you’ll completely know what I mean. Which reminds me …” Neecey’s voice faded, and I couldn’t hear her. She had a habit of walking in and out of the kitchen while she was on the phone, twisting herself in circles so that the cord wrapped around her waist, which was probably what she was doing.

After a few seconds, she was back in the kitchen. “Hook up tonight?” she laughed. “Who? You? Cynthia Murdock? Hook up? Ohmigod, you are
so
full of shit. With who?” I could hear Neecey screaming “eeiew” and “no” and giggling like a Munchkin from the living room. “Aw, c’mon, honey, I’m just busting on you. If you think he’s cute, then you should totally go for it, and I’ll still love you, no matter what. Just remember, guys don’t understand ‘no’ unless you say it like fifteen times and totally shove them around when you do.”

Gratitude for Gary, undying love for Cynthia—was there anyone outside our family that Neecey didn’t care about
more
than she cared about us?

“I was like
completely
skeeved, Cyn; ohmigod, you don’t
even
know. Nuh-uh, not the foggiest. But it’s like, who can really say what’s going on in somebody else’s head, right? Especially a helmet head like his. Yeah, he
so
totally does, but I’m sure he wouldn’t know it, not even if someone took the time to like explain it to him.”

I wondered if she was talking about Razor, or someone else. Then Neecey said “all kinds of thorny” or “horny” and then “last night” or “the other night,” but I couldn’t be sure about any of it, because she’d
walked into the living room again. But that figured. The only part of the conversation I wanted to listen to and I couldn’t hear it.

Thrash suggested that I get a little closer, so I edged up the wall until my head was just under the window and craned my neck to hear better. It didn’t really help, but at least I wasn’t just sitting on my ass in a puddle of my own sweat doing nothing anymore. Neecey was well into the living room and her voice was low, so I couldn’t catch anything, and then it was quiet, as if she were listening to Cynthia—or something else.

For a second I thought maybe Neecey had heard me and I was about to slide down the wall again, when she came back into the kitchen. I froze where I was and tried to breathe as little and as quietly as I could.

“Yeah, I totally wish they’d quit, too, before they go any further and get completely busted. I know. Then what would we do? No, it’s not the worst thing in the world, I guess. But there are like so many other ways to get your kicks.”

It sounded like she was talking about Darren and the crew, and either the tags they dropped or the weed they smoked.

“Did I get the stuff? C’mon, Cyn, you
know
I got
the stuff
. Darren would have a total seizure if I didn’t. He’d be all, ‘Dude’”—Neecey made her voice gravelly and slow—“‘this is so not a righteous party without the stuff.’ Omigod,” Neecey laughed, “I’d be
so
cut off.”

I had to admit it, she did a pretty good impersonation of Darren. But what it seemed to mean sent air-raid sirens off in my head.

“Not a clue, I don’t think,” she went on. “But I’m still kind of worried. He can be a serious brainiac when he’s not going all Cujo and everything. Ohmigod, don’t
say
that. You’ve never seen him go off, but I have, so like trust me, okay? Total fucking shitstorm.”

If I
had
to guess, I’d say that Neecey could’ve been talking about me.

“What-ev. Let’s talk about it when I come over. I want to outtie before he gets home.”

Bingo.

“Me? No. I totally know how to handle him. It’s just he’s been acting all suspicious and slick lately and I so don’t want to be around him when he’s like that because, sooner or later, it’s like this switch goes off and he totally loses his shit. No, why?
Follow me?
C’mon, Cyn, get real. Even if he tried to,
he’d have to be home before dark.”

Neecey cackled at her own cheap shot. And suddenly, putting a tail on her didn’t seem like a half-bad idea.

“Pool? Hello? Have you looked outside? The weather’s totally beat. Oh, I know! Maybe we can go tanning. C’mon, Cyn, whadayasay? Please? Cynnie-Cyn-Cyn? Yea! Cool. Around eight, so we can deliver the stuff and help set up—you know how the guys are. I don’t know. I’ll wear something of yours. All right, love you, too, cutie. Kisses, bye.”

Neecey hung up the phone, closed the back door, shut and locked the kitchen window, and went upstairs. And I just slid down the wall onto my butt again to let it all sink in.

FOURTEEN

I’d always heard there were moments in life when
things you didn’t understand suddenly lined up and came together—all the different pieces gravitated mysteriously into place like the last few Cheerios at the bottom of the cereal bowl—and then,
bam
, everything that confused you made sense, the lights came on, the fog lifted, you could see things for what they were, and everything was clear and easy to grasp and almost too goddamn simple to believe. After Neecey had left and I’d gone back up to my room, it struck me that what I’d experienced beneath the kitchen-sink window was definitely
not
one of those moments. If I’d learned anything new from overhearing Neecey’s conversation with Cynthia, it wasn’t all that much, and what little I’d learned didn’t seem very different from the little I’d known before.

It
was
different, though;
everything
was different. And as I began to hash it all out, I realized it was a hell of a lot worse than I’d ever imagined. I’d already known that Neecey had changed—her behavior, her choice of friends, her absence from home, her sniveling stool pigeon complicity with mom. But what I hadn’t known was that
she’d changed
because of Darren
. Not only had she acted as his messenger after he’d stolen my bike, but now she also did what he told her to do, so he wouldn’t “cut her off.” It gave me an empty, gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach because I knew Marlowe had already seen the same damn thing in
Farewell, My Lovely:
in between real and false sightings of the mountainous Moose Malloy and getting sapped in the back of the head like four or five times, Marlowe had found Marriott’s killer by delving into the shadowy realms of juju, tea, American hashish, marijuana—“the stuff.” And, as was almost always the case for some screwed-up head case of a gorgeous chick in Marlowe’s investigations, it was a trail that ended in tears.