You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone (3 page)

But Luke had no idea how fragile Spencer was—and neither did she, for that matter.

“Just so you know,” she told her nephew as they were driving to Luke's town house that first night, “I'll be sleeping with Luke in his room tonight. Do you have any problems with that?”

“God, it's about time,” Spencer sighed. He had one arm dangling out the window on the passenger side. The wind whipped at his unruly, dark brown hair. Their suitcases were piled in the tiny backseat. “You guys have been going out for—like, three months now. I can't believe you've waited this long . . .”

And so, though it seemed to be rushing things, Andrea and Spencer “temporarily” moved in with Luke.

In her effort to scare off Andrea, Evelyn had only thrown her and Luke closer together. But Evelyn still had an advantage—if she'd been the one who had hired that private detective. Luke's soon-to-be-ex knew Spencer's and her history. And it was just a matter of time before she told Luke.

Last week, when Luke had asked her and Spencer to consider living with him on a more permanent basis, Andrea had come very close to telling him the truth. It had seemed like the best time, and she'd wanted him to hear it from her. But she'd lost her nerve.

Except for this awful thing hanging over her head, she was the happiest she'd been in years. She was in love. After a sporadic series of “wrong guys,” she'd finally hit the jackpot with Luke. She cherished what they had together and didn't want to see it ruined.

Evelyn Shuler could do that with one phone call.

Andrea knew she had to tell him the truth today.

She found a parking spot a block from the theater, grabbed her umbrella from the floor of the passenger side, and stepped out of the VW. She made a mad dash in the rain. For this lunch she dreaded, Andrea wore—under her trench coat—a floral print sweater and khaki slacks. The pants were damp from the knees down by the time she reached the theater. The Seattle Group Theater was in a complex of buildings under the shadow of the Space Needle. Andrea knew which door they kept unlocked during the day. As she collapsed her umbrella and ducked inside, her phone rang. It played the refrain from the Beatles' “Hello, Goodbye.”

Checking her cell, she paused in the lobby by a life-size, black-and-white cardboard cut-out of Jack Kerouac, advertising the theater's current play. Andrea pressed a few digits on her phone and saw she had a text—from Luke:

Andrea felt another little pang in her stomach. She took a deep breath and headed to the main level door to the theater. She wondered if it wouldn't be better to get him alone for a few minutes and just tell him here. Why wait until they sat down at some restaurant for lunch? Why prolong this agony?

Opening the door, she saw several actors seated in a semicircle of folding chairs on the illuminated stage. They all had bound scripts in their hands or in their laps. Some held Starbucks cups or bottled water. In the center of this group was a pretty, thirty-something redhead wearing a blue T-shirt and jeans. She was reading aloud part of a monologue Luke had written for his new play: “. . . I guess I've always been jinxed in the love department. My first boyfriend turned out to be gay. We were freshmen in high school. He was the first guy I ever made out with. I remember we were tangled up on the couch in his basement, listening to Air Supply sing ‘Making Love Out of Nothing at All.' I mean, how prophetic was that? Still, he was one of the most considerate, sweetest—”

“Lisa, I really like what you're doing with the start of this,” Luke interrupted. “But you're kind of turning the last sentence into a punch line. It's got to be both heartbreaking and funny at the same time. You know what I mean?”

He was in a pocket of people seated in the middle of the otherwise-deserted theater—about ten rows from the stage. The others, with scripts in hand, were in the seats on either side of him and behind him.

Luke was tall, sturdy, and offbeat handsome—with receding brown hair and sexy, sleepy eyes. He reminded her of Yves Montand or Liam Neeson. He had that same smoldering, continental look, which was kind of funny, since Luke grew up in Omaha and didn't even visit Europe until he was in his forties. He always dressed impeccably—even in casual clothes, like today's blue-striped shirt and jeans.

Andrea had told him that story about making out with her first boyfriend. Luke had asked if he could use it in his play, and she'd told him to go ahead. It was interesting to hear an actress revealing this intimate detail of her life.

A young man in the seat behind Luke whispered something to him, and he glanced over his shoulder. Then he spotted her, broke into a grin, and waved. He looked so happy to see her.

Andrea waved and smiled back at him. She wondered if this would be the last time she'd see that look from him—like she was the most important person in his world.

Would he hate her after today?

Luke motioned for her to join them.

Andrea shook her head and pointed toward the lobby. Then she ducked back out the door.

She retreated toward the lobby bar, which at the moment was just an empty counter—devoid of any alcohol or glassware. Leaning against the bar, she nervously rubbed her forehead. She kept wondering how she'd break it to him:
“Luke, I have something very difficult to tell you. I've been lying to you all this time . . .”

She still wasn't ready, damn it.

Her cell phone rang with the “Hello, Goodbye” refrain again.

She figured it was Luke, wondering what in God's name was wrong with her and why she wouldn't sit with him. Without checking the caller ID, she clicked on the phone. “Hello?”

“Aunt Dee?”

“Spence?” she replied, baffled. Why was he calling her in the middle of a school day?

“Is Luke watching this?” he asked, a little out of breath.

“I don't understand. Watching what? Honey, are you all right?”

“It's Damon,” Spencer said, an edge in his voice. “He—he sent out a link to a live-streaming webcast. Practically everyone in school got it. I'm watching him on there, and he says he's going to kill himself. I figured he must have sent a link to Luke, because he acts like he's talking to him on the webcast . . .”

“Are you serious?” she asked.

“Yeah, and so is Damon, I think,” Spencer replied. “I'm pretty sure he's going to do it. This isn't a joke. He's gotten hold of some explosives. He keeps saying he's going to blow himself up . . .”

“Has anyone called the police?”

“I'm not sure,” Spencer answered.

“Well, where is he?”

“That's just it. Damon isn't here at school. I don't know where he's doing this.”

Andrea was shaking her head. “Oh, God, I—I don't think Luke has any idea. Can—can you send this webcast link to him? Send it to me, too . . .”

“Okay, hold on,” Spencer said.

Andrea rushed back to the lobby door and flung it open.

All the performers had left the stage—except for the redheaded actress, who was now up there with Luke and the director. He must have switched off his cell phone after that last text to her.

Andrea heard her phone chime, and on the small screen she saw an email message:

“Luke!” she cried out. She clicked on it to connect to the webcast.

“Are you listening to me, Dad?”
Damon Shuler ranted. The pale, gangly teenager was just a tiny, slightly blurred image on the small screen of Andrea's smart phone. He paced in front of a black BMW, parked along some wooded road.
“I'm going to kill myself, and everyone will see it. Just think of all the people who have seen the plays you've written, Dad. And that still won't be as many people who will watch me die.”
Damon laughed manically.
“I'm going to have a bigger audience than you've ever had for all your plays combined!”

Andrea looked up toward the stage again. “Luke!” she screamed.

He stood and squinted toward the lobby door.

“Come here!” she cried. “Your phone, bring your cell phone . . .”

“What is it?” he called, frozen up there on the stage.

“For God's sake, hurry!” she answered.

She watched him grab his phone. Then he bolted toward the steps at the side of the stage. He hurried up the aisle—toward her.

“I'm going to be more famous than you, Dad!”
Damon was saying on the webcast.

“What's going on?” Luke called to her as he came closer.

Staring at him, Andrea took a deep breath. Her hand shook as she held out her cell phone for him to see.

“It's Damon,” she whispered.

CHAPTER TWO

 

W
ith so many kids in the school cafeteria always focused on their mobile devices, Spencer couldn't tell just how many of them were watching Damon's live webcast.

Spencer Murray was always surprised whenever someone—like the cashier at the Safeway two days ago—pointed out to him that he was handsome. He never thought of himself that way. He did his best to blend in and avoid attention. That carried over into his wardrobe. Today he had on jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He sat in an orange plastic chair at one of the cafeteria's long, faux-wood-topped tables. He shared the table with five others—all losers like him. At one end were three pint-sized freshmen boys, who seemed oblivious to their own nerdiness as they excitedly talked over each other about some Xbox game. Across from him was a husky girl with short, curly brown hair. Her food tray held only some white bread slices and a bowl of lime Jell-O. She kept her head down as she ate, seemingly fascinated by some textbook. Spencer wondered if she was really reading it—or just using it as a prop so she didn't feel too conspicuous sitting alone.

Tanya McCallum sat directly on his left. She was wearing another one of her weird thrift shop outfits: a pair of beige “mom-type” stretch slacks and a red blouse with puffy, short sleeves. She had a plain, slightly chubby face. Pale green streaks highlighted her shoulder-length mousy brown hair. She kept it back from her face with a couple of cheap, blue plastic clips—the kind little girls might wear.

Spencer figured she dressed that way to be eccentric and gain attention. But it only seemed to invite trouble, which she got—in doses that almost matched the woes heaped on her best pal, Damon Shuler. The two of them hung out together. One of the cheerleaders, KC Cunningham, maintained that Tanya was Damon's “fag hag.” Spencer was pretty sure Damon wasn't gay. Of course, that didn't matter. The kids in school still called him “fag” and “freak.” Damon and Tanya always bore the brunt of abuse. Damon got hassled for his OCD tics. But Tanya almost seemed to set herself up for teasing.

Just a week ago, nearly everyone had already taken their seats in Mr. Dwoskin's world history class when Tanya shuffled in alone, wearing sort of a big girl's Marcia Brady–style jumper and clutching her books to her chest. It was the only class Spencer had with Damon and Tanya. Dwoskin wasn't there yet.

“Yo, Tanya!” Ron Jarvis bellowed from his seat, four rows back. “Tanya!”

She paused in front of the blackboard. Gawking at the handsome, dumbass jock, she gave a mock curtsy.

Seated near the back of the classroom, Spencer had to admire Tanya for that defiant response. But at the same time, he figured she was pushing her luck. Ron was one of Damon Shuler's constant tormentors. Spencer had also been targeted in the corridors by Ron his first week at school. He'd been shoved once and had had his books knocked out of his hands on another occasion. Spencer had done his best to avoid the guy. But there was Tanya in Mr. Dwoskin's class, smirking at Ron, for God's sake—just inviting him to pick on her.

Spencer figured she was either very brave or very stupid.

“Yo, Tanya, you're ugly!” Ron announced. He made a howling sound like a dog. “You're ugly as shit, Tanya!”

People started to snicker.

Tanya glared at Ron and said something—probably a very biting, sarcastic zinger. From some of the remarks she'd made in class, Spencer knew she had a quick, lethal wit. But he couldn't hear her because of the laughter. Plus Ron was shouting over her: “Tanya, you're ugly . . .
ugly
!”

A few others joined in. Some of them howled and barked.

Spencer watched her friend, Damon, on the other side of the room, sinking lower in his seat. Though Spencer always did his damnedest to blend in and not make trouble, he couldn't hold back. He had to say something. “Jesus, give it a rest!” he yelled. “What's the point?”

But no one seemed to hear him over all the taunting, jeering, and barking.

With her head down, Tanya started toward her desk. But she burst into tears before she could make it to her seat. Spencer thought everyone would let up now that she was crying, but they didn't. Tanya swiveled around and bolted for the door.

She must have heard the wave of laughter crescendo before the door shut behind her.

Spencer glanced at Damon, who kept his eyes on his desk and nervously tapped his foot. Damon had it a lot worse than her.

Spencer had a unique insight into Luke's son. When he and his aunt had spent that first night at Luke's place, he'd slept in the guest room Damon used for his alternate-weekend visits. Spencer stripped the bed the next morning, figuring he'd change the sheets for Damon. Under the mattress he found Damon's journal. He would have left it alone and unread. But it turned out they didn't go back to the Ballard apartment that day. They stayed, and curiosity got the best of him. So Spencer read snippets—enough to know that Damon didn't want to leave the journal in the house with his mother, because he was afraid she periodically searched his room. God only knew what he thought she was looking for. Apparently, he didn't have a high opinion of the women in his life, because he wrote that Tanya was “overbearing” and “frumpy.” And yet Damon and she were together practically all the time. Spencer didn't quite understand that.

But he certainly understood Damon's reluctance to tangle with Ron Jarvis—and his pal, Reed Logan, who was just as bad. They were relentlessly cruel to him. Spencer cringed as he read a blow-by-blow account of how the two of them once locked Damon in a cramped storage space in the school's auditorium and left him there for three hours. “I could hardly move,” Damon had written. “I couldn't breathe. It was so dark in there. I thought I was going to die in there . . .”

There was another incident—earlier this year—when the two of them attacked and stripped Damon naked in the restroom. Apparently, KC Cunningham mercilessly made fun of him on Twitter and Facebook.

For good reason, Spencer didn't have any social media accounts, so he never actually saw KC's venomous posts. But Damon described in his journal how humiliating they were.

Spencer was no fan of Damon's, but he didn't think anyone deserved such treatment. Maybe it was because he'd been protective of his journal—among other things—that Damon had made him sleep in Luke's study the first weekend they'd spent together in the town house. That Sunday night after Damon had gone back to his mother's, Spencer had noticed—big surprise—the journal was gone.

He wondered if Tanya had a clue how much and how often her best friend criticized her in his diary. Yet every lunch period, they usually snuck away to eat someplace in private.

Spencer couldn't figure her out. Damon didn't want a damn thing to do with him, and yet for the last two weeks or so, Tanya wouldn't leave him alone.

Spencer found her part flirty and part friendly—and a bit obnoxious. He couldn't trust her. He was cordial toward Tanya, but kept his distance—which wasn't always easy.

She'd sat—uninvited—at this same table with him two weeks ago when Damon had stayed home sick. She'd planted herself in the chair next to Spencer and started asking questions about his aunt and his former school in Virginia. Spencer managed to be vague and elusive in his responses. He switched the subject to the play she'd been rehearsing. On that topic, Tanya wouldn't shut up. She went on and on, criticizing her costars, their names tripping off her tongue as if Spencer was supposed to know who they were. She talked endlessly about someone named Randy. It was brain-numbing, because Spencer couldn't figure out if Randy was a boy or a girl. Was Randy in their class—or was it the name of a character in the stupid play?

He wondered how the hell Damon put up with her.

This morning, he hadn't seen Damon in world history. Spencer figured what with her best friend home sick today Tanya would be inflicting herself on him during lunch hour again.

Taking a cue from Ms. Jell-O & White Bread, Spencer had brought along a copy of
Jude the Obscure
to read during lunch—in case Tanya sat next to him once more. “I really need to have this finished by sixth period,” he imagined telling Tanya, as an excuse for why he couldn't talk to her.

That had been fifteen minutes ago.

Spencer had read only a few pages of
Jude
and gotten halfway through his plate of mac and cheese when he'd spotted Tanya barreling toward him, weaving around the crowded tables with her cell phone raised in her hand.

“Oh, my God!” she'd cried—for half the cafeteria to hear.

Plopping down in the chair beside him, she'd grabbed hold of his arm. “Have you seen this? Does Damon's dad know about this?”

Baffled, Spencer had stared at her.

Even after Tanya had explained everything to him, Spencer still couldn't believe it.

Apparently, Damon had gotten hold of a student list and emailed the entire junior and senior classes a link to a live webcast. Spencer realized he must have missed the email—he didn't have an alert for them on his phone. He rarely received emails—except spam.

On the tiny screen of Tanya's phone, he watched the bizarre broadcast. Damon claimed he was going to kill himself. He said he'd gotten his hands on some dynamite.

All of it seemed so surreal. Spencer couldn't be sure whether or not he was on the level. Checking his phone, he found Damon's email in his inbox. He called his aunt. He probably didn't make any sense trying to tell her what was happening. But as soon as he hung up, Spencer emailed the webcast link to her and Luke. Then he started watching the webcast on his own phone.

His aunt had said Luke didn't have any idea what was going on. Ironically, so far, most of Damon's ranting was aimed at his dad.

“You and my mother are responsible—
culpable—
for all this,” Damon decreed, staring at the camera. Spencer could almost get used to Damon's OCD tics, but he had a strange way of talking, too. He'd come up with weird words most kids didn't use—words like “culpable.” It was another thing that made him different.

On the webcast, Damon was outside, standing near a black BMW parked on what looked like a remote, wooded, dead-end road. Usually, Damon was a pretty fastidious dresser, but now he was wearing jeans and a gray sweatshirt that drooped on his skinny frame. He had a manic, frayed look—like someone who had pulled an all-nighter and then downed too many Red Bulls to stay awake. He had dark circles under his eyes and kept twitching as he spoke into the camera. Spencer imagined the camera or smart phone in Record mode, propped on a tree stump or a fence post.

“You knew what was going on, Dad,” Damon hissed, his eyes narrowing. “And you didn't do a damn thing to stop it—except for a few conferences with Principal Dunmore.” He let out a bitter, ironic laugh. “Yeah, Dunmore, talk about useless. Done-Nothing! That fucker, he knew they were making my life shit. Yet he sat back and allowed them to keep on—
brutalizing
me . . .”

Tanya stared at the phone in her trembling hand. “I can't understand why he didn't talk to me first,” she murmured. “If he's serious about this, he should have told me.”

On the webcast, Damon stepped closer to the camera. “I hope you get fired after this, Dunmore. Let the record show I came to you for help again and again, but you didn't lift a finger to stop any of the bullying. You shouldn't be running a school, Dunmore. You couldn't run a lemonade stand, you worthless piece of shit . . .”

Spencer heard an eruption of laughter at a nearby lunch table. He glanced up and noticed Reed Logan, Ron Jarvis, and several others from the cool clique at
their
table. Reed was particularly obnoxious. He was kind of wimpy, but made up for it with his big, loud mouth. He always wore—even during classes—a Dodgers baseball cap, because he was originally from Los Angeles or something. And talk about innovative, he wore it
backward
. The guy really was a tool. He didn't excel in any sports, but for some insane reason the “cool” crowd seemed to like him.

Practically all of them were on their mobile devices. From the timing of their laughter, Spencer was pretty certain they were reacting to Damon's tirade against the principal.

It was quiet at the other tables—except for some hushed murmuring. The word must have gotten around about the webcast, because nearly everyone was glued to their phones. The only people who seemed to think it was funny were the ones sitting at the “cool” table. Spencer couldn't fathom how Damon's persecutors—the very people who had driven him to this pitiful, public spectacle—could find his diatribe so amusing. Maybe they just didn't believe he'd go through with the suicide.

Yet Spencer knew from his own experience that people could be capable of anything when pushed too far.

Everyone at that table must have bullied or teased Damon at one time or another. The only student who didn't seem to find the situation funny was Ron Jarvis's cheerleader girlfriend, Bonnie Middleton. Pretty, with long, straight chestnut hair, she stood on her tiptoes and glanced over Ron's shoulder at the cell phone in his hand.

“Five bucks says the freak will chicken out,” Reed Logan loudly proclaimed. Everyone at the table laughed—except for Bonnie. She scowled at the others, shook her head, and muttered something.

“Oh, get over yourself!” Reed bellowed at her while adjusting his baseball cap.

Spencer glanced back down at his phone screen.

“I hold my parents and
Principal Done-Nothing
responsible for a lot of this,” Damon was saying. “But let's be honest here. A number of assholes at school are really to blame, and you know who you are—Reed Logan, Ron Jarvis . . .”