Colin Fischer (18 page)

Finally, Wayne looked away. “Oh,” he said.

Mr. Fischer answered
the phone on the third ring.

“Hello, Dad. This is Colin.”

“Colin?” Mr. Fischer asked with feigned confusion. “Colin who?”

“Your son,” Colin explained helpfully.

“Oh,
that
Colin,” Mr. Fischer replied. “I almost forgot I had a son named Colin because he missed dinner.”

“I missed dinner because I’m at the Vons grocery store in Sylmar. And I have no money for a bus, and I need a ride home.”

“Sylmar,” Mr. Fischer repeated, enunciating the word carefully to make certain he’d heard Colin correctly. He looked at his wife, who had just entered the living room. “It’s Colin,” he explained, covering the receiver, “He’s in Sylmar.”

“
Sylmar
? Holy sh—!”

“Shhh.” Mr. Fischer said, holding a finger to his lips. Mrs. Fischer pursed her own lips as tight as she could, a little afraid herself of what might come out.

“Dad?” Colin asked through the phone.

“Yes, son. I’m here.”

Mrs. Fischer gave her husband the
MOM FACE
, the one that demanded to be told what was going on. He waved her off. He didn’t really know what was going on, and he suspected getting Colin to tell him anything substantial would take some effort.

“My friend Wayne needs a ride too.”

“Wayne…Connelly?” Mr. Fischer guessed, trying to mask his concern. This was as much for his wife’s benefit as Colin’s. He knew that nothing was more dangerous and unpredictable than a mother who believed her child was in distress.

“
Wayne Connelly?
” Mrs. Fischer exclaimed. “Holy sh—!”

“Shhh!” Mr. Fischer turned away from her, shielding the phone with his body.

“Oh, I hate you,” she declared. He blew her a kiss over his shoulder.

“Yes,” Colin finally said. “Wayne Connelly. Can you give him a ride?”

“Of course,” his father said. “I’m coming, Colin. Just sit tight.”

“Thank you.”

There was a brief silence before Colin spoke again. “Dad?”

“Yes, son.”

“You should look for a parking spot very close to the door. As close as you can get—even if it takes you more time.” Then there was silence at the other end of the line. Colin had hung up, having said everything he’d intended to say.

Danny loped into the room. “Was that the spaz?” he asked.

“Your brother is in Sylmar with Wayne Connelly,” Mr. Fischer explained.

“Don’t call him
the spaz
,” Mrs. Fischer warned.

“Sylmar. Not the library?” A broad smile spread across Danny’s face. He burst into triumphant laughter, which ended with a light smack to the back of his head.

“Say it,” his mother warned, “and I’ll end all of your troubles forever.”

Danny made a face, but he knew well enough to keep any further I-told-you-so to himself. He wandered back to the kitchen in a funk. Even a moment of vindication could be stymied by his brother’s weirdness.

Mr. Fischer grabbed his wallet and keys and headed for the door.

“I’m coming with you,” Mrs. Fischer said.

Mr. Fischer held up a hand and shook his head. “Let me explain something about boys,” he began.
“Sometimes, the last thing in the world a boy wants is his mother—especially when he needs her the most.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Yes.”

With that, Mr. Fischer set out alone into the night to rescue his boy.

Colin stared at his cell phone
a moment before stuffing it into his backpack. Something about his father’s tone confused him, but he couldn’t quite identify it. He wondered about the loud sounds from his mother and the laughter from his brother. Did his family know he’d lied? Either way, Colin knew he’d find out soon enough.

“Well?” Wayne asked behind him.

“My father is coming to get us.”

For a moment, Wayne’s face froze. He turned away from Colin, perhaps realizing that his uneasy ally was trying to read his expression. “Great,” Wayne muttered.

“Yes.”

Then, thinking nothing more of it, Colin produced his Notebook and a green-ink pen and began to write.

Wayne wandered back toward
the magazine section, where Colin sat writing. “They’re still there,” he announced. “I think they’re trying to wait us out.”

Colin nodded, not really paying attention. He was too focused on recording his thoughts on everything that happened since Wayne instructed him to put his Notebook away. He had many.

“Did you hear me?” Wayne asked.

Colin blinked at him behind his glasses. “Yes,” he replied. “They’re still there. You think they’re trying to wait us out.” He went back to writing.

Wayne stared at Colin with a
CURIOUS
frown, trying to make sense of this weird kid. It was impossible. So he did the only thing he could do—he grabbed a car magazine to pass the time while they awaited rescue. He flipped through it, mainly looking at pictures of the sports cars he desperately wanted to drive someday when he had a license.

“What’s in that Notebook, anyway?” Wayne asked, reading.

“Facts,” Colin answered, still writing.

“Facts about what?”

“Facts about everything.”

“Oh.”

Wayne opened to a photo of a new Porsche 911 and smiled. “Porsche,” he said. “My dad had one of these. My real dad.” Wayne closed the magazine with a frown and jammed it back into the rack a little too hard, crinkling the binding.

“You have a real dad?” Colin asked.

“Yeah.” Wayne reached for another magazine. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Colin was still writing. “Are you writing that down?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you said it was all facts.”

“It is. And thoughts.”

Wayne looked at Colin seriously. “Can I read it? Your Notebook, I mean.”

“No.”

There was a long silence between them. Low-grade alarm tickled Colin’s chest. He was vaguely concerned that Wayne would simply take it from him. Experience told him this wasn’t an unreasonable worry.

“Okay,” Wayne said finally. He consumed an article about modified power trains, but only with halfhearted interest. His eyes kept drifting toward Colin and his Notebook. If Colin was aware of the attention, he gave no indication.

“Is there other stuff about me in there?” Wayne asked, trying to sound offhand.

“Oh, yes,” Colin replied. “There are several entries about you. In fact, I would say that you appear in these pages more often than anyone outside my family or possibly Melissa Greer.” Colin thought a moment and then added, “Melissa is my friend.”

“Your friend,” Wayne repeated.

“Yes,” Colin said. “Melissa has always been nice to me.”

“Do you, um…just write about nice things that people do?”

“Oh, no.”

“And how long have you been writing in that thing?”

“Since preschool,” Colin explained.

“Right.”

Wayne put back the second magazine and slumped down next to Colin.

“Seriously, dude,” he said. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Asperger’s syndrome is a neurological condition related to—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Wayne interrupted him. “I know you’re like a really smart retard or something. I mean…
what the hell is wrong with you
? What are you doing here? Why are you trying to help me?”