Invisible (8 page)

The policeman says, “What time did you go to bed, son?”

“Nine fifty-six.”

“You know the exact time?”

“I always check the clock.”

“You're sure you weren't over in Woodland Trails?”

“I've been in bed,” I say. “I don't even know what you're talking about.”

“You're a lying little pervert,” says Mr. Haverman.
“I know it was you in that tree!”

“IF HE SAYS HE WAS SLEEPING, HE WAS SLEEPING!”

“Please, sirs,” the policeman says, giving both of them a look. He steps toward me and puts his hands on my shoulders. Each hand weighs about ten pounds. “Look me in the eye, son, and tell me where you were tonight.”

“I was asleep,” I say, the lie coming easily. “I was sleeping in my bed.”

The policeman keeps his hands on my shoulders for a few seconds as he stares into my eyes, then he turns to Mr. Haverman and says, “Sir, the boy says he's been at home.”

“I
know
what he
says
. He's lying.”

“I'm not lying,” I lie.

“MY son is NOT A LIAR!”

“He's been harassing my daughter at school. Staring at her. Everybody knows about him.”

“Sir, did you actually see him? I know you saw someone up in that tree, but did you see him clearly enough to identify him?”

“It was him.”

“You might be asked to swear to that in court, sir.”

Mr. Haverman's face changes. “I know it was him,” he says.

The policeman releases his grip on my shoulders.

“Yes, but did you actually get a good look at his face?”

Mr. Haverman looks about to shatter.

“Would you excuse us for a moment,” the policeman says to my father. He guides Mr. Haverman out the door. They stand on the front steps talking in low voices for almost two minutes, then the policeman turns to my father and says, “Sorry to have bothered you, sir. Have a good night.”

My father closes the door, then stands looking at me, his face twitching and pulsing. I think he is about to start shouting again, but after several seconds of that he shakes his head wearily and says, “Go to bed, Douglas.”

M
y parents think I'm socially backward because I don't have a lot of friends. I don't see it as a problem. Most kids are stupid. If I have a problem, it's that I don't like to talk about nothing. When I listen to other kids talking to each other, they mostly don't actually
say
anything.

For example, I am at my locker. Two girls are standing a few feet away. Here is what they say:

 

GIRL 1
: So I was like, no way! But my mom, you know, she was like gonna have a fit or something.

GIRL 2
: Yeah, and then, my mom, like … waita-minute … what
is
that anyways? Can I have one? What are they?

GIRL 1
: Tangerine Sours. Have you heard about Angela?

GIRL 2
: Omigod, yes, she's got this
thing
on her foot, y'know? It is
so
disgusting. You know?

GIRL 1
: And that sweater she's wearing, can you believe it?

GIRL 2
: She's like this homeless person. Can I have another one?

I have tried to talk like that, but it doesn't work for me. Here is what would happen if I joined the conversation:

 

GIRL 1
: So I was like, no way! But my mom, you know, she was like gonna have a fit or something.

ME
: Does she have epilepsy?

GIRL 1
: No, stupid!

GIRL 2
: Yeah, and then, my mom, like … waita-minute … what
is
that anyways? Can I have one? What are they?

GIRL 1
: Tangerine Sours.

ME
: They put acid in the sugar to make it sour.

GIRL 2
: That is so rude!

GIRL 1
: Have you heard about Angela?

GIRL 2
: Omigod, yes, she's got this
thing
on her foot, y'know? It is
so
disgusting. You know?

ME
: She must have plantar warts. I had plantar warts
last year. The doctor had to burn them off. It smelled weird.

GIRL 1
: You are so disgusting. Get lost, worm.

I'm just not very good at small talk.

I don't see Melissa Haverman in the lunchroom, which is just as well. I have a feeling she would not be happy to see me. I carry my tray to my usual table. Today's lunch is spaghetti and meatballs, my favorite. As long as lunch is good, I don't care that no one sits with me.

I am on my thirteenth bite when something warm and wet slaps me across the forehead. Meatball chunks slide down my face on a river of red sauce. I see Freddie Perdue, one of the football goons, holding his spoon like a catapult and grinning at me. The rest of the goons are laughing.

He says, “Oops.”

I wipe my face clean.

“You need another napkin, perv?” says Chuckles Gorman.

Freddie is loading another meatball onto his spoon. “Hey, peeper, get a load of this!”

He lets fly. I duck and the meatball goes sailing over my head. I hear an outraged screech from the beautiful girls' table. An instant later a plate goes flying past my ear and hits Freddie in the chest, decorating him with spaghetti squiggles on a field of red—what Mrs. Felko would call abstract expressionism.

“Food fight!” yells one of the football goons.

I hit the deck.

As the lunchroom erupts in a storm of meatballs, spaghetti, and screams, I am crawling wormlike for the door. I've got enough problems in my life. I don't need to be blamed for this one too.

The thing I don't understand is, tomorrow all those kids who were throwing food at one another will still be friends. They'll be laughing and making small talk and everything will be okay. But they won't be laughing and making small talk with me.

I don't understand. I think there is something wrong with them.

I
am running down the hall, looking for Andy to tell him about the food fight, when Mr. Dunphey, who teaches American literature, grabs me by the arm.

“Whoa, slow down, son. What's your hurry?”

“I got hit by a meatball,” I say.

He takes in my sauce-coated face, and his own face turns pink. He is pressing his lips together and shaking. I think at first that he is angry, but then I realize that he is trying not to laugh. He takes a few seconds to get himself under control, then asks me who meatballed me.

“Everybody.”

“Everybody?”

“There's a food fight in the cafeteria. I'm lucky they missed me with the spaghetti.”

This time he can't stop himself from laughing. He lets go of my arm and walks off, shaking his head and giggling. I think maybe Mr. Dunphey has a mental disorder.

I hole up in one of the study halls and work on my sigil for the rest of the lunch period. The new version is quite exciting. It looks like a devil's face, or two people burning.

What I really like is that I am the only one who can find the letters in it. That is, until I show it to Andy, then he'll be able to read it too.

For the next couple of classes everybody is talking about the food fight. The teachers, of course, are angry. And the janitors are furious. Six kids got suspended for three days, and they have to come in after school to clean the cafeteria. One of the suspended kids was Freddie Perdue. That is what you call justice. The bad news is that there will be no ice cream or soft drink sales in the cafeteria until after the first of the year, more than seven weeks away. A lot of kids will be drinking milk or water.

I wash my face three times, but I still smell like a meatball when school lets out. Maybe I will take a shower as soon as I get home. Or maybe I'll work on my bridge for a while first.

I am walking down Fourteenth Street, thinking about the bridge, when I hear running footsteps behind me. I step to the right side, giving them room to pass, when something smacks me hard on the back of my head. I pitch forward and hit the sidewalk with my palms. My backpack goes flying, books skidding down the sidewalk.

“Where ya think yer goin',
perv
?” Freddie Perdue's voice. His size fourteen Nikes are a few inches in front of my face. I push myself up to my hands and knees; my palms are on fire and the back of my head is throbbing.

“I asked you a question,
perv
.”

I look up. Freddie is not alone. He is with Ty Bridger and Aron Metz, two of his football goon friends.

“I'm going home,” I say.

“You sure you aren't going over to Woodland? Gonna do some more window peeping?”

“No,” I say. “That wasn't me.”

“Liar!”
Freddie draws back one enormous foot and kicks me hard in the ribs, I curl up and try to roll away, but they are on me, three of them, kicking at me from every side.

“Asshole.” A boot slams into my back.

“Pervert.” A tennis shoe smashes into my ear and I hear myself scream.

“Goddamn peeper.” One of them stomps on my chest; air hisses from my lungs. I shape my mouth to call for Andy, but there is nothing there, no air to shout with, and then a shoe crashes into my temple, and they kick me again, and again, and I go to a place where there are no people and there is no pain, only the distant sound of rubber toes thudding into flesh and bone.

I
remember every blow. I can count them. I have made a list:

 

1. Hit on back of head (Freddie)

2. Kick to ribs (Freddie)

3. Kick to left leg (Aron or Ty)

4. Kick to ribs (Freddie)

5. Kick to left buttock (Aron or Ty)

6. Kick to ear (Freddie)

7. Stomp to chest (Aron)

8. Kick to right knee (Ty)

9. Kick to back (Aron or Ty)

10. Kick to ribs (Freddie)

11. Kick to back (Aron or Ty)

12. Kick to thigh (Aron or Ty)

13. Kick to temple (Freddie)

The policeman who comes to see me in the hospital in room 317 is the same policeman who came to my house. I find this to be very significant. I give him a complete report of the incident, including the list above. He was very impressed.

“You remember all that?” he says.

“I have a very organized mind.”

The policeman attaches the list to his clipboard.

“Are you going to arrest them?”

He ignores my question. “Do you know why you were attacked?”

“No.”

“Did it have anything to do with the food fight at school?”

“I don't know.”

“You have no idea why they beat you up?”

“I think they were trying to kill me. You should arrest them for attempted murder.”

“We'll see about that.”

“I might have a concussion. I could have internal bleeding.”

“The doctor told me you were going to be fine, son.”

“I have stitches in my ear.”

“They're just keeping you here overnight as a precaution. The doctor told me you'll be going home first thing tomorrow morning.” The policeman stands up.
“Believe me, son, we are taking this assault very seriously.”

“I have bruised ribs.”

“Don't worry, son. Nobody is getting away with anything. I'll talk to these three young men. And I'll get that window peeper, too.” He smiles, winks, and walks out of the room.

My mom stays with me the rest of the afternoon and evening, sitting by the side of my bed. She works on a new crossword puzzle while I lie there thinking of ways to get back at Freddie and his goons. One way would be to catch that rat that lives in the football stadium and put it in a steel box with a hole in it and strap it to Freddie with the hole against his body so that the only way for the rat to get out is to chew its way through Freddie's stomach. Or I could soak his Nikes in gasoline and light them on fire while they are on his feet. Or I could just ask Andy to beat the crap out of him.

Where is Andy, anyway? I figured he would come as soon as he heard I was in the hospital.

Of course, since Freddie will be in jail, I probably won't get a chance to do any of that, but thinking about it helps me forget about the pain in my chest, my head, and my ear.

When visiting hours are over, Andy still hasn't shown up. My mother packs up her pencils and graph paper.

“Did you tell Andy I'm here?” I ask.

She sighs. “No, dear, I did not.”

“Why not?”

“I'm sorry, Douglas.” She smiles her weariest smile. “I must have forgotten.”

I don't sleep well in strange places, and the hospital is as strange as it gets, with all the weird noises and smells and the scratchy sheets, and it doesn't help that I still ache all over my body. I am still not asleep at 10:30 when Andy strolls into the room.