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  Mary locked worried eyes with Eric. “But—”

  “I’m okay,” Eric said. “It’s a mistake.”

  Mary nodded, still unsure. She turned and left.

  Officer Goldsworthy met them outside the boys’ locker room. Eric was relieved that Mrs. Ryan and Mrs. Morris didn’t intend to go inside. The officer nodded a greeting, said softly, “Eric.” He was in uniform today, probably because he was called over from the precinct.

  By now, Eric felt more relaxed. “My locker is kind of gross,” he half apologized.

  If Officer Goldsworthy had a sense of humor, it was not currently on display. “Open it up, please.”

  The only possible weapon found inside Eric’s gym locker was an old pair of white socks. Eric could have killed someone by holding the socks under their nose. Death by foot sweat.

  For the final insult, Eric had to empty his pockets.

  When they emerged in the hallway, Officer Goldsworthy nodded at Principal Morris. “False alarm,” he said.

  She nodded, smiled briefly at Eric. “I’m sorry we had to put you through this,” she apologized. “But I hope you understand that a weapons report is serious business.”

  Eric understood, but he refused to acknowledge it. Instead, he stood expressionless, his teeth clenched together. “You aren’t going to tell me who said it, are you?”

  The adults exchanged glances. “No,” Principal Morris answered, “it’s confidential. Otherwise, students might be reluctant to make a report.”

  “So will anything happen to him? I had to go through all this, be treated like a criminal, just because somebody lied. It’s not right.” Eric worked to control his voice, but there was anger in it.

  A few students began trickling into the halls. Mrs. Ryan checked her watch. “Seventh period should be out in a minute.”

  “Okay, Eric, you’re free to go,” Mrs. Morris said. “Please understand. This isn’t a part of the job that I enjoy.”

  “Yeah, me, neither,” Eric grumbled, heading off down the hall. He still had English with Mr. Scofield. Then finally he could go home.

  A few kids from social studies—Pat Daly, in particular—were eager to ask about what had happened. Eric wasn’t in the mood, so he lied, made up something about a sick relative and kept it short. He barely listened during English. Who was behind it? he wondered. Griffin Connelly was the easy answer. But the report might not have come from him. That wasn’t Griffin’s style. He’d goad someone else into doing it. Eric thought of the Dare game, and of David Hallenback, and Cody, and his stolen bicycle. His body vibrated with anger, knees pumping, feet tapping. Why would Griffin, if it was Griffin, put Eric through that? Just to embarrass him?

  “Eric?” a voice spoke. Then louder: “Mr. Hayes?”

  “Wha—?”

  “Would you mind returning to this planet?” Mr. Scofield admonished. “Take out your book. Page one hundred and sixteen, please.”

  Eric glanced around the room. Everyone had their novels out. “Oh, sorry,” Eric mumbled. But even with the book opened to the right page, his thoughts journeyed elsewhere.

  28

  [confession]

  MARY CAUGHT UP WITH ERIC AS HE LEAPED DOWN THE FInal four steps. A long row of yellow school buses, like a line of enormous Twinkies, idled along the right side of the parking lot.

  “You’re taking the bus today?” Mary asked.

  “No bike. Too young to drive a car. You got any better ideas?”

  “We could walk,” Mary suggested. “I want to talk to you about something.”

  “All right,” Eric answered, quietly pleased with the new arrangement.

  They walked a few blocks in the midst of assorted clumps of students, until the throng eventually thinned to nothing, leaving the street empty for Eric and Mary. “This way,” Mary said, steering Eric to a little pocket park. It was only a small patch of grass and three stone benches, obscured by a row of tall bushes. But the place had a closed-in feeling, a little reprieve from the endless rows of tidy, aluminum-sided houses.

  “Cool, I never realized this was here.”

  “It’s where Griffin used to come to smoke cigarettes,” Mary admitted, making a face to show how totally gross she thought that was. “It was during his Marlboro Man phase.”

  Griffin, Eric thought. The name that would not go away. He hated to hear it associated with Mary. He knew they had been friends, once. Maybe even better than that. After all, that’s when he first saw Mary, that hot summer day on the basketball court. It was autumn now, the leaves had changed, and the nights were colder. Still, Eric refused to wear anything warmer than a long-sleeved shirt. Mary and Griffin. It made Eric think about things he preferred to ignore.

  Mary turned to him on the bench, her hands fidgeting on her lap. “Eric, I have to tell you something.”

  She seemed upset, intense. “What? Just say it, Mary.”

  “I knew about Cody.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Mary pressed on. “I knew what they were planning to do to you that day at the cemetery. I knew it. And I didn’t say anything.” The words flew out of her mouth in a fluttering rush, like doves escaping a coop, a feathery whoosh climbing to the sky.

  “I don’t—” Eric looked down, lifted his gaze back to Mary. There were real tears in her eyes. One fell down her cheek. He reached a hand toward her face.

  “Don’t,” she said. “Just listen, all right?”

  Eric nodded.

  “I was afraid and I . . . and I’m just . . . really, really sorry.”

  Eric didn’t know what to say. He felt betrayed, like he’d been punched in the stomach.

  “I knew it was wrong,” she said, sniffling. “I’d heard those guys talking. But I was too much of a . . . coward . . . to stand up to them. I could have warned you.”

  Eric leaned closer. “It’s okay, Mary,” he whispered.

  She sighed deeply, cleared her throat, shook the cobwebs out of her head. Mary smiled, shyly, at Eric. A different smile than he’d seen from her before. He felt it in his fingertips. “When I saw you on the ground, and that idiot, Hallenback, kicking you . . .” Her voice trailed off. “I made a promise to myself that I’d never, ever do anything like that again.”

  “You didn’t do anything. You didn’t punch me, you didn’t kick me. Those guys did it. Not you, Mary.”

  “No,” Mary shook her head. “You’re wrong, Eric. And that’s why I had to tell you. I’m sick of everything. I don’t want to be like them.”

  They sat together for a while longer, until it was time to go. Outside Mary’s house, when it was time to say good-bye, Eric reached out for her hand, just held it because he didn’t want to let go. She finally pulled away, said, “I’ll see ya, thanks.”

  He watched her walk across the lawn to her front door. Mary stopped, hands deep in her pockets, and called back to him, “You’re really sweet, you know that.”

  And she went into the house.

  Eric stood and watched the red door close between them. A gust of wind swept leaves across the lawn.

  Then: Oh my God, he remembered, Mrs. Rosen! I was supposed to pick up her keys! He set off down the street, running, his feet barely touching the pavement.

  29

  [threat]

  ERIC HAD NEVER CONSIDERED HIMSELF A SMALL-DOG person. He preferred dogs that went ruff-ruff, not yipyip. Eric liked dogs that he could wrestle—not trip over. But he had to admit: Little Annie, the purebred, brown-and-white King James spaniel, was pretty darn cute.

  Mrs. Rosen hovered around the dog like a worried helicopter, fretting and fussing. She showed Eric a two-page list of typed instructions, complete with emergency phone numbers. Eric promised that he’d do a good job, stuffed the spare keys in his pocket, and left.

  He didn’t get far before a familiar voice called after him. “Errr-ic!”

  It was Griffin Connelly, gliding toward him on a skateboard.

  “Hey, buddy. I was wondering when you’d show.”
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  “How’d you know I’d be here?”

  “That would be giving away my secrets, wouldn’t it?” Griffin answered evasively.

  Eric resisted the urge, compelling as it was, to punch Griffin in the face. Partly because he knew it couldn’t possibly end well, and there wouldn’t be much pleasure in having his butt handed to him by Griffin Connelly. Perhaps he also heard the echo of Mr. Floyd’s comments in the counselor’s office that day. Violence wasn’t the answer. Instead, Eric asked, “Did you steal my bike?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Griffin answered. He looked Eric in the eye when he said it. Never batted an eyelash. If he was lying—and Eric felt certain that he was—then Griffin did it with untroubled ease. Deep down, Griffin didn’t seem to care what Eric thought or felt. It was something he lacked, a hole in his core, some basic absence of human sympathy. Griffin didn’t feel much of anything. He was cold and hard, a brick. It was the quality, Eric realized, that made Griffin so scary—far worse than being mean or angry. His heart was flawed, wounded in some horrible way.

  “I had my locker searched today,” Eric told him.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” Griffin taunted. “Is that your scary face, Eric? Am I supposed to get all nervous? You want to hit me, don’t you? Go ahead, you can pretend I’m your dad. I’ll give you one free shot.”

  “I don’t hate my father,” Eric said.

  “Sure you don’t,” Griffin answered.

  “I don’t,” Eric snapped. “And you’re too stupid to understand.”

  Eric loosened his shoulders, unclenched his hands, tried to shake the tension out of his body. He started walking. In two blocks, he’d be home. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “Oh, I think you’re wrong about that, Eric.” Griffin glided across Eric’s path. He stepped off, casually kicked the back end of the board, and up it popped into his hand. A cool trick. “So,” Griffin said. “I want to make you an offer.”

  “Not interested,” Eric said.

  Griffin smirked, like a card player holding a full house. He absently massaged his chest with his right hand. “How’d that locker thing go, anyway? They find anything?”

  Eric ignored him, kept walking.

  “I didn’t think so,” Griffin continued, “or else you’d be way screwed. I hear you can get thrown out of school if they catch you with drugs or a weapon. It would be a real shame, Eric. I’d hate to lose you.”

  “What did you do?” Eric said. “Get David to make the report for you.”

  “Hallenback is a puppy,” Griffin responded. “He’d jump off a bridge for me.”

  “He’ll figure it out someday,” Eric replied. “One of these days, you’re not going to have any friends left.”

  Griffin snorted in a show of indifference. But Eric’s words seemed to push him off balance. He responded by going on the attack. “You better be careful what you put into your locker, Eric. Next time, it could be a lot worse,” Griffin said. “Do these numbers mean anything to you, good buddy? Thirty, twelve, twenty-six.”

  It was Eric’s locker combination. A number that nobody but Eric was supposed to know. “How did you—?”

  “I’ve got friends, unlike you,” Griffin spat.

  Eric thought of that day when Hallenback met him at his locker. How Eric was in a hurry. He carelessly opened and shut his locker with David at his side. Could Hallenback have gotten the combination that way? Then passed it along to Griffin?

  “It would be easy for me to plant something in your locker. You know that, right?”

  “What is . . . wrong . . . with you?” Eric asked, his voice rising in frustration. “Why can’t you just leave people alone? Is your life so miserable that this is how you have to spend your time? You’re a waste, you know that, a total waste.”

  Griffin grinned through the insults. “Oh, Eric. You are hurting my feelings. The deal is, I want you to do one thing for me. One little thing. And then I promise it will stop. I’ll never bother you again.”

  Of course, Eric didn’t believe him. But Griffin had piqued his interest. “What do you want?”

  “A souvenir.”

  “What?”

  “From Rosen’s house,” Griffin said. “I’ve been in there. Her husband has this big coin collection. They’ll never miss it if you take a couple of old silver dollars.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You have the keys, it’ll be easy,” Griffin urged, selling it with a smile. “When you are in there, look around, and take something for me. Nothing wrong with that. Consider it a payment. What’s wrong? You don’t have the guts?”

  “Are you out of your—there’s no way I’m stealing for you!”

  “That was the wrong answer, Eric. But then again, you’ve always disappointed me. Ever since that day on the basketball court. Remember that foul shot? Air ball. You choked. Your father doesn’t want you—and who could blame him. You’re just a loser.” He stepped closer to Eric, skateboard in his hands. Griffin raised the board as if to club Eric with it . . . and Eric flinched, took a step back. Griffin laughed. “Dude, why so jumpy?”

  It was as if Griffin were playing him like a yo-yo, up and down, back and forth. Eric was tired of the game. “Get away from me,” he said, pushing Griffin aside.

  “You’re a smart guy, Eric,” Griffin called after him. “Figure it out. That house is loaded with stuff. Rosen’s got way more than she deserves. You’ll be like Robin Hood, Eric. Stealing from the rich . . . giving to Griffin Connelly! You come through for me, I’ll never hassle you again.”

  Eric picked up his pace. He wanted to clamp his hands over his ears and run. Just run away. But he couldn’t give Griffin that satisfaction.

  “You’re a smart guy,” Griffin repeated. “Thirty, twelve, twenty-six. Do you really want it to go down that way?”

  Eric kept walking, trying hard not to listen. He could get a new locker tomorrow. Yet Eric knew that Griffin would always be able to find a way to open it. Even after Eric shut the front door, Griffin’s laughter still echoed in his ears.

  It had to stop.

  Eric was a smart guy. Griffin said so himself. One way or the other, he’d figure it out.

  30

  [repairs]

  ON SATURDAY, MRS. HAYES SHOOK ERIC AWAKE. “TEN o’clock,” she clucked. “You can’t sleep the day away.”

  She served French toast for breakfast, made with challah bread, Eric’s favorite. He accepted it with a bleary-eyed grunt. He didn’t feel like talking; instead, his dark thoughts dwelled on Griffin Connelly.

  Mrs. Hayes sat down at the family computer. Eric watched her unhappily. “Why can’t I use instant message?” he complained.

  “Eric, we’ve been through this.”

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  “I trust you,” his mother replied. “It’s the Internet I don’t trust. Turn sixteen and we’ll talk about it.”

  She was right about one thing: They had been through this before. So Eric sat, stewing in silence. Which reminded him: “Where’s Rudy?”

  “He got invited to the Guillens’. It’s the twins’ birthday. They’re driving out to the Hayden Planetarium, then going out for pizza afterward. He’ll be gone most of the day.”

  Eric shoveled more French toast into his mouth.

  “I was thinking we could go to the beach,” Mrs. Hayes announced, rising to pour herself another cup of coffee. “Just you and me. We never get to spend time together anymore.”

  Eric glanced out the window. The day was overcast, windy, probably no warmer than fifty-five degrees. The thought of spending a day at the beach with his mother left Eric unenthused. “It doesn’t look like beach weather to me.”

  “Oh, these are my favorite type of beach days,” she said. “It’s empty and peaceful. We’ll have the place to ourselves. Come on, snap to it! Finish those strawberries, get dressed, and let’s get a move on.”

  “Mom.”

  “Please, Eric,”
she said. “Enough with the grunts and brooding silences. Come on, let’s go. Liven up! It’ll be fun.”

  She was bound and determined to enjoy some “quality time” with her eldest son; Eric had no choice but to go along for the ride.

  “Should we take our bikes?” she wondered.

  The bike. Eric hadn’t found the right time to tell her yet. “I have a flat tire,” he said, making his best effort to appear downtrodden.

  His mother snapped up the car keys. “That’s fine—we’ll get our exercise on the boardwalk.”

  They cruised along Wantagh Highway to Jones Beach, a long strip of gray-white sand beach that was divided into different “fields.” Eric’s mother parked at Field Four in one of the biggest, emptiest parking lots Eric had ever seen. There were only about a hundred cars there, but the place looked otherwise deserted. Eric glanced skyward; dark cumulus clouds loomed overhead, laden with rain. His mother led the way, a definite bounce in her step. “Growing up, this is where I often came to get away from everything,” she confided to Eric. At their first glimpse of the ocean, she stopped and inhaled the salt air.

  They stopped at a concession stand, Eric grabbing a Coke, his mother some fries. “Boy, this brings back memories,” she gushed. “In high school, I worked all around here during the summers, mostly at West End Two and Field Six. You could get a job here in a couple of years, Eric. They are always looking to hire kids in the summer.”

  “Does it pay well?”

  “Horrible! But it’s so much fun. Those were great times.”

  They returned to the boardwalk, turned right, and headed west.

  “Overcast and gloomy,” his mother observed, sunshine in her voice. “It reminds me of Ireland. That’s where your father and I honeymooned, you know. Dingle Bay. The Ring of Kerry. We even visited Yeats’s grave in Sligo. I’d love to take you and Rudy there someday.”

  Eric wondered if she’d brought up the honeymoon on purpose. Now there it was, floating like a carnival balloon. The thought of his father. Eric asked her about it. What had happened, why his father never got better, why he didn’t care anymore.