Page 7 of No Capes
“Mr. Kills, you mean. Hehatesme. God, I can’t wait to graduate.” Kristen shoulders her knitted tote bag. “Don’t think I forgot about your near-death experience last night. Text me later, please. Byeeeeeeee.”
As Kristen’s boots squeak down the hall, Fox, Damian, and Molly strut toward the student parking lot, where they will climb into Fox’s tacky, zero-to-sixty-in-4.5 seconds SUV, skip second practice, and have a blast and a half.
I can’t take part in such activities (even if they had invited me) because of my after-school job. Her name is Lily, she’s six, and those are the first two things she says whenever she sees me. I’m not sure what to make of her greeting. I mean, she remembers me, right? I see her three times a week…?
I start to close my locker, but something flutters behind my leaning tower of junk. I reach for the object—a folded sheet of blue construction paper, the same paper that D.S. used last night. The note’s written in that same handwriting: tall and scribbled, like a movie star’s autograph. I’m sure that I haven’t seen handwriting like his before. I don’t cross paths with blue construction paper often either. (Lily only lets me use her green paper. Green is her least favorite color.)
Roberts—
Congratulations, here is your second secret letter. This is exciting. Your shoulders are raised to your earlobes, but don’t be nervous. Why am I writing? First, I wanted to let you know that Mr. Gary Slate is no longer available for further alleyway rendezvous. I took care of it, though I suggest investing in some pepper spray for your next midnight promenade. Second, I’ve decided what you can help me with. Don’t worry. I’ll deliver all the details face-to-face.
See you soon,
—D.S.
P.S. What happened to your mom was no accident. I have proof.
I look up and down the hall. It seems perfectly empty, but I can’t shake the feeling of being watched.
How did he get in my locker? How could he know about my shoulders? How did he “take care” of Gary?
And. My mom?
Howdarehe.
A plug somewhere inside me loosens, on the verge of twisting undone, but I force it to stay put. Not now. Not at school.
It’s ironic that here I am, one year away from graduating high school and venturing out into the “real” world, and I don’t feel at all prepared for it. In math, we learn how to divide, but not how to make ourselves whole again. In history, we learn about the past, but nothing about how to prepare for the future. In literature, we study life’s great themes, love and death and good and evil, but we don’t learn how to act when you love someone and they don’t love you back. We don’t learn what to tell people after the person you care for the most disappears. We don’t learn what to do when our lives explode in a single second. We don’t learn how to live with being human.
Things stop spinning. I close my locker. During all of that, the hallway has gone silent. I am the only one left.
There might be something worse than being invisible.
Being seen.
Four
After last night, I’m anxious about the commute back from Lily’s, but fortunately, her father returns before dinner, and I can make it home before dark.
When my mom died, our house had been too empty and too expensive, so my dad and I moved to an apartment near my school. It’s a duplex townhouse, with us on the right side, and our landlady, Ms. Pellingham, and her three brown Dobermans; Snoopy, Linus, and Lucy, on the left. A wire fence closes off Ms. Pellingham’s half of the yard, and the dobermans keep watch. The dogs miss nothing. If a squirrel drops a nut from the oak tree across the street, they’ll bark and claw the dirt like they’ve hidden thousands of nuts in it, just to send a message.
The dobermans bound up to the fence when I reach the porch. Their tails wag a happy greeting, so their kibble must have been edible. I normally deliver their food because it helps Ms. Pellingham, the store is on the way to Lily’s, and my dad and I get to stay on our landlady’s good side.
“What’s up, guys?” I’m not allowed to feed them treats, but I’ve seen Ms. Pellingham give them part of a granola bar, so I dig through my pockets for a peanut butter one and toss them each a tiny bite. “I have to be quick, okay? Before your mom comes out.” As I add that, Ms. Pellingham’s door creaks open. I rush inside and they bark after me.
My dad occupies the kitchen and fiddles with the stove. He’s changed since work, but black grease still smudges his forehead. An occupational hazard of being an auto mechanic is that there’s always grease on his face.
“Smells like spaghetti,” I say. I dump my backpack and beeline for a glass of water and some headache meds, which he’s already left for me on the counter.
“And how’s Lily today?” he asks, noting the marker stains on my jeans. A pot boils over on its burner, and he hops over to rescue the pasta.
“I feel like a dragon swallowed me, decided I taste like sardines, and spit me out into a pile of babysitter carcasses.”
“Nothing new, then.” He nods.
Today, Lily gathered her stash of markers and turned their family’s new, state-of-the-art kitchenette into what she defined as the “pretty princess castle for pretty princesses,” which includes Lily and excludes me. Even though I’m bigger, stronger, and faster than she is, she locked me out and I never witnessed her finished product. I’ve seen the mural she gave her room, however, and definitely would not call it museum material.
“I can’t believe they keep asking me back,” I say.
