Life Before (16 page)

And maybe Jill is right. Maybe I can just walk around like a normal person. That would change things. I could be cautious without being paranoid.

I take off the stupid Mariners hat and raise my head in full sun. Who’s hiding?

_______

Hours later, after eking out every last second at the library, I’m making my way very slowly to the deli, trying to compose myself for meeting Curt’s dad. I have seen Big Curt a lot, but I’ve never talked to him. I hope he can see in me whatever it is he likes in employees.

I desperately need that job.

And I hope Curt has found a bed. I hope I’m not being a nag. I mean, he offered. I hate asking for things. I hate being the guy who needs things—a bed, a job. But even if there’s only a 5-percent chance he’s found something, I can be that needy guy.

I’m all tied up in knots over this.

And it’s all in vain, because Curt’s is closed.

A sign on the door reads
CLOSED FOR A FEW DUE TO EMERGENCY
.

Really? Really. Would he have closed the deli early to avoid talking to me? Maybe he thinks I’m a pariah. Closed for a few could mean I should wait to see whether they open again tonight. Should I? The convenience store down the street has lots of options. I buy the biggest jar of crunchy peanut butter and a loaf of the cheapest bread and shove both into my backpack.

I head back to Curt’s to see whether the “few” is over, but it’s still closed.

Shit. Now what? Without new income, my quickly diminishing wad of cash needs to stretch as far as possible.

At least I’m not hiding anymore. There’s that. Life is half normal again. Except that Mom is still dead. And I am still away. And my friends are just carrying on like nothing has changed.

Everything has changed. I’m living in the woods.

Settled into a new campsite, I realize that a smart person would have picked up a plastic butter knife from the convenience store. My stolen fish knife will do in a pinch, I guess.
Sorry, Dale.

A peanut butter sandwich is a fine idea—protein, and all that—but washing it down with saliva is just stupid. I can’t shake the feeling that a little bit of sandwich is stuck in my throat. As I sleep, that little bit of sandwich becomes Gary trying to strangle me, and Oreos stifling my breathing, and Mom’s casket dancing in my windpipe.

T
WENTY-FOUR

I still hate mornings. I drag my ass to Curt’s, which is still closed.

Whatever. My convenience store carries tall bottles of water, and I practically down one in a single gulp. Totally worth the money, since I can keep refilling it in the library sink as long as my camping life lasts.

Convenience store bacon, egg, and cheese bagels cost three bucks, so this is my new lunch place. I’m starting over. Again.

The bagel puts me below the Greyhound Threshold; I can’t even afford a bus home. What the hell am I doing?

I’m not hiding anymore, but I am carrying a load of crap, and I’m starting to stink. Not a good recipe for going full-on tourist. Between the convenience store and the library, I spy exactly one H
ELP
W
ANTED
sign—at a boutique where my help is absolutely not wanted.

Ten minutes before the library closes, I slip into the bathroom. A tube sock makes a surprisingly good washcloth, though library soap smells like Froot Loops.

Someone comes into the bathroom as I’m scrubbing my left pit with my sock. Clamping my arm down to hold the washcloth, I do a pretty decent impression of checking out my zits in the mirror. I have lots of zits now.

“Can I help you?” He’s wearing a Free Library name tag.

The tube sock soaks my shirt and dribbles onto my shorts. “I’m fine, thanks!”

“We’re closing. I need to escort you out.”

“Of the bathroom?”

His smile is a sneer, for sure. “We escort out anyone we think might
accidentally
get locked in overnight.”

Who does he think I am? I’m a guy who smells like Froot Loops. Still, Froot Loops are better than BO. I follow the guy out of the john and straight out the front door.

My convenience store marks down food when it’s a little stale, so for a buck fifty I get to choke down a ham and cheese sandwich. For a buck fifty, I can handle slimy ham and sweaty lettuce. And I’ll be Frooty fresh for my call with Jill.

_______

That sandwich is a rock in my stomach as heat rises in my chest again. It’s ridiculous to hold out hope for something impossible, but I hold out a little anyway.

Jill has no news. There may never be news. Well, no news on Gary. Next Tuesday, Jill is hosting a huge birthday party at a tapas restaurant in the Flats, where I’ve never been and have always wanted to go, but that is neither here nor there.

Jill prattles about food and music and dancing and I don’t care about any of this. Honestly, if there isn’t news about Gary, she could spare me the details about all my friends having an awesome time while I’m stuck in alleged-New York.

Jill recaps her recent dates with Tucker, sparing me most of the details. “But apparently Tucker’s toilet didn’t actually flush the condom down all the way and now his dad wants to know why he was having sex with someone in his basement when he’s supposed to be dating me. I swear, the man thinks two plus two equals five.”

Two plus two
does
equal five, for large values of two. Gretchen could tell her that.

“And, for future reference,” she said, “don’t try to hide a condom from your parents by flushing it.”

Ouch. “Obviously, that won’t be a problem for me.”

Her voice is tiny. “Oh my god, I’m sorry.”

“Whatever. You know, Jill, what I really want is news. Could you tell people to send me some newsy emails?”

“No way. We agreed that email wasn’t safe.”

“Look, I really don’t think he can track me if I just log on to check.”

“He probably can’t, but I wouldn’t chance it.”

Of course she wouldn’t. She’s too busy having parties and enjoying Infinite Summer.

“I think Gary has gone into hiding.”

“Well, then, if he’s in hiding, he’s not going to come out of hiding to go on a wild goose chase looking for me.”

Actually, if Jill is right, and Gary
has
gone into hiding,
I
should be going to her party. I should be trying to talk Gretchen into another date. Or a first date. Not getting pushed around by fake cops and sleeping in the woods and eating stale sandwiches and being desperate for a not-job job.

Jill says, “So?”

“So, you can’t have it both ways. Either he’s looking for me, in which case I need to be scared shitless, or he’s not looking for me, in which case, I should be able to come back to Laurel without being put back in Dale Jail.”

“That’s not my decision. It’s Dad’s.”

“Well, then, what do you want? Me in Dale Jail with you, or you without me, enjoying your summer?”

She’s silent.

“I should go,” I say.

“But we’ve hardly talked!”

“I just need to get going is all. Jill, I hope you have a really happy birthday.”

“Uh, thanks?”

“Bye.”

Hanging up without the typical I-miss-you and lament means Jill’s moving on. I feel lamer than lame. And really pissed. If there is any silver lining here, it’s that I know where I’m sleeping tonight.

And now I have the perfect excuse to beg off the freaking Adirondacks trip. I’ve had enough camping, thankyouverymuch.

I head back to the woods. They’re my woods now, really. Halfway there, I realize Jill and I didn’t set a time for our next call. Whatever. At least I don’t feel like a common criminal anymore. No more hat over my face, just me in the air.

Huddled down in my nest—which is probably nowhere near last night’s nest, but who can tell in the dark?—I stuff my darkest clothes under me. It’s a reasonable facsimile of a pillow, but I can’t convince myself this is a reasonable facsimile of a life.

T
WENTY-FIVE

Day ten in Burlington, my new routine is on repeat: peanut butter on bread for breakfast, no Internet summons from Jill, quick check at the deli (closed for the fifth day), find a quick gross lunch, check bulletin boards for jobs and cheap places to stay (none), hole up at the library until closing, and back to the forest at dusk for peanut butter on dry bread. Peanut butter gets really old after a while.

Even though I’m out of hiding, I still look out of place, wearing the same four outfits and hauling around my duffel of crap.

I can’t go on like this. Not least of which because I can’t keep walking around town unshaven and stinking.

I’ve resorted to bird baths in the library stalls so I don’t get caught bathing in public again. Today, someone has left a plastic cup on the floor, so I also can fix the unshaven thing. I splash some water on my face and take the cup—filled with warm water—into a stall.

I can’t recommend shaving without a mirror. Now my stuff is still dank, I kind of reek, and my face is all carved up. I am the homeless guy, and I smell way worse than Froot Loops, no matter how hard I scrub.

I need something.

I’ve been thinking: it’s probably safe to check my email. If I don’t send anything, checking can’t really hurt, right? If I
send
mail, there will be some kind of electronic stamp or something. But if I check, nothing bad can happen, I think.

Sitting in front of my computer at The Byte, behind the yellow backpack girl again, I am ready. I have eleven minutes left on my voucher, so I have to get online and hop right off.

I’m reasonably certain this will be okay.

A few genuine emails lay among hundreds of crap messages. Dozens from people I have never met, but they’re real messages. People wish me well and want to help me and blah, blah, blah.

Several emails from Gary.

Deep breaths
.

I thought I was past the whole Gary thing.

He’s not in Burlington. I am safe.
Not here. Safe.
The mantra helps regulate my breathing.

These are definitely from Gary, though each one is from a different email address. It’s like a trail of bread crumbs. He knows for sure that I’m gone, because the first subject is
You Didn’t Need To Run Away
.

He sent it two days after my departure. Creepy. A few days later, the subject is
I Know You’re Not Staying With Friends
. Okay, so he definitely checked that. Some subjects are questions, like
Do You Need Anything?
What, like I’m going to email him a shopping list or ask for cash?

Stay Safe.

That sounds like a threat. Maybe it includes suggestions for how to remain safe on the lam. I’m not opening it. It could just as likely include threats to my safety.

The subject from the last one, dated yesterday, reads
We Really Need to Talk
.

What could he possibly want to say to me? I know he killed Mom. He knows I know he killed her. End of story. His words can’t change anything about anything. Screw him.

I don’t know what I expected from email—some sort of relief, or lottery winnings, or something good. More than that, I want something that makes me feel normal. Something obnoxious from Tucker. He knows I’m underground, but he could at least drop a line. Jill could send me something hilarious. Grant Blakely should be sending me notices about midnight soccer.

I want something sweet from Gretchen.

She did send me three messages, none of them sweet. The first two basically say she’s worried about me. That’s sweet, sort of. The third message, from three days ago, is bad:
Dear Xander, Even though Jill won’t tell me anything, I know you’ve been talking to her. I know you two are totally platonic, but I also know we were way more than platonic, so I want to remind you that I’m here, too. I can be a good platonic friend to you, too. Please tell me how I can help. I hope you are well, my friend. And I hope you’re home safe soon. <3 Gretchen.

That little heart is good. She said we were more than platonic friends, thank god, but the past tense sours the whole message. We were more than platonic, but what are we now? I want to be more than platonic friends. I want both from her. I want everything from her, but replying is one step beyond safety.

It seems like Gary isn’t trailing me physically. But electronically? I don’t know. Maybe he’s waiting for me to send an email to someone and then he’ll pounce.

Replying is too risky. And calling her phone is way out of the question.

I have other messages to read. One from Bingham in Pittsburgh, where he found some other people who play euchre. I wish I could send him to Jill’s house, or point him toward Quaker Steak, but that will have to wait for next time.

Every one of my relationships is on hold, indefinitely.

And those messages from Gary. What the hell could he want to talk about? Why would I want to talk to him ever again? Deleting all his messages, unread, empowers me. Screw him.

In fact, screw this whole thing. In the café bathroom, I dump my duffel and start soaking my clothes in the sink. Ignoring customers who knock on the door, I methodically wash my socks and shirts and underwear. With almond-and-honey soap, which is a nice change.

Just as I’m finishing up, someone knocks loudly and shouts, “Manager!”

The door swings open and I waltz out of the bathroom, my arms full of wet laundry. “Have a great day!”

On campus, a group of people have just finished playing soccer. I hang my clothes over a bench in full sun and lie next to them in the grass. Maybe I can join them for pick-up tomorrow.

_______

Once my clothes are dry and packed, I swing by the deli. Finally—finally!—it’s open again. I am jonesing for one of Curt’s Reubens, even if I have to spend my last seven bucks to get it.

It’s been six days since he blew me off and closed the shop, but now that I have Cosley Woods, I don’t need anything but a sandwich from him.

But boy, do I need one.

I order from some other guy behind the counter.

“Oh, man.” Curt rushes out to greet me. “Graham, man! Did you find somewhere to stay?”