Chapter One

Chapter One

The ring of the school bell could be heard across Catalina, Kansas. 

Over the last half century, the small town had slowly been decaying from within. One by one, the shops were closing, leaving empty store windows on Main Street like blinded eyes on an old face. Even the local shirt factory had shut down, zapping the last life -- and the last well-paying jobs -- out of the town.

If you took a right on Main and walked 'til you got past Collins Diner (Today's Special: Chicken Fried Steak and Mashed Potatoes!) you'd hit the local football field for Catalina High. The Catalina Hawks had only won two games that season and hadn't won a championship since '89. It was a good school, though, filled with good kids whose parents had once probably gone there and been good kids too.

But it wasn't the school bell for Catalina High that had rung -- no, they got out at four -- it was the school bell for Catalina Middle, on the dot as always at three thirty.

Truth be told, Catalina Middle School was a shabby place. Suffering from low funds and an even lower student population, its uninspired architecture and graffitied brick were an eyesore to all Catalians. Every so often, the school board would get together and toss around the idea of tearing the whole place down and replacing it with a "brand new, fully-equipped institution for higher learning" -- or at least giving the current place a new coat of paint. But, inevitably, tax issues or some such guff would come up and get in the way and the plan would be saved for next year. 

And it had to be admitted that though the scuffed linoleum floors and dented lockers weren't the prettiest to look at, they certainly gave the place character. Really, nothing symbolized the whole adolescent experience better than "Bobby Jensen iz a P***y!!" written four times across the wall of the first floor boys' bathroom. 

But now the bathrooms were empty, the hallways were empty, and only a few classrooms were left with students for after-school tutoring. The bell had rung and school was out, and the crush of students was now spread out across the front lawn. They formed their cliques, waiting for their buses or their parents to come pick them up. Only a few walked home, one of whom was a small, unluckily scrawny boy named Jamie Hendrick. 

But Jamie hadn't started home just yet. He stood on the front steps of Catalina Middle, waiting. He surveyed the view in front of him, the laughing, talking students all squinting in the hot afternoon sun, carrying their books in their arms or shifting their heavy backpacks uneasily on their slumped shoulders. A pretty blond girl walked past Jamie, blissfully unaware he even existed. In the sunlight, her hair shone like gold.

He suddenly felt self-conscious standing there on the front steps, so blatantly in front of everyone. His overalls were patched and yellow sweat stains had permanently set underneath the armpits of the shirt he was wearing. A gush of self-hatred filled him. Stupid shirt, stupid shoes, stupid, lame life. F**k. Even inside his head the curse word seemed dangerous and forbidden, his conscience telling him in his mother's voice that he shouldn't use words like that.

There was a sudden tap on his shoulder and he turned around, his thoughts thankfully interrupted. Christina Marks stood there before him, clutching her textbooks and a couple more novels of "light reading," picked up from her last four hour visit to the library. 

Christina. Her name echoed through his head, too elegant for a grimy small town like this, full of Cheryls and Britneys and Luellens. He smiled at her, feeling nervous, which he knew was ridiculous since they had practically grown up together, been neighbors since before they could walk, had spent whole summers together splashing around in the back creek shouting insults at each other with goofy smiles on their faces.

Her glasses -- big coke bottle ones that were too heavy for her face -- glinted in the sun, momentarily blinding him. For a moment, he felt dazed, speechless, and it wasn't until she said "Hey," in that soft, steadying voice of hers that he could right himself and say hello back.

It was strange what had happened between them that year -- which was even stranger when Jamie thought about it because nothing really had happened between them. Just a shift in the atmosphere, he supposed. He remembered the very first day of that school year, the very first. Christina had walked into Mrs. Hardy's homeroom late, out of breath with flushed cheeks, clutching her crumpled printed schedule in her right hand. It took him a full five seconds to realize it was Christina because that whole time he'd been staring at her chest. Her b***s! Since when had she gotten those? It was as if the whole summer they'd just spent together he'd been completely blind to those two things popping out of her chest. When she came and sat down in the empty seat beside him he was so ashamed of himself he could barely make eye contact. Maybe it was just the shirt she was wearing, he reasoned.

But the whole off-putting, slightly unbalanced feeling had lasted through the school year, had even persisted after Christmas, after Lucas. In a way, he felt sick of it and simply wished everything would go back to normal. He wanted the old days back when he and Christina would stay after school and crack jokes about the 'roids Coach Jeter was on, share Cheetoes, and copy off of each other's homework. They did that stuff now, but it all seemed forced somehow, as if they were putting on a play and reciting lines. Even now, standing together in the hot summer sun, Jamie felt a space between them, as if Christina was keeping secrets from him and had a whole second life he was no longer privy to.

He wished a lot of things hadn't changed.

"You ready?" he asked her.

"Yes," she replied seriously.

Together they walked down the cracked stone steps, hearing Huey Liter's cracking voice in the distance singing "Jamie and Christina sitting in a tree, K -- I -- S -- S -- I -- N -- G…" Both of them heard the song and both of them ignored it, each deciding not to confront the problem just yet, a problem they subconsciously knew was much bigger than Huey Liter's immature behavior. 

Down the sidewalk they went on a familiar path, down Elm, down Mercy, and finally down Ectoria. The willows were withering in the blistering May heat and tiny beads of sweat wetted Jamie's temple. Summer was so close now he could almost smell the chlorine and taste the Ben and Jerry's. The school days were long and endless, everybody ready for the year to be over. He was slowly bombing his classes one by one, making a D for Christina's every A. He didn't want to repeat the grade, but -- man -- studying was hard.

Ectoria was a picturesque street. Lifted from a Norman Rockwell painting, it was part of historic Catalina, the mid 19th century houses grand and elegant, some even gated by intimidating iron fences. Mrs. Halloway's poodle, Mitzy Dahling, barked from her backyard, Christina repeating the mantra "Mitzy, Mitzy, come and get me!" over and over again tauntingly. They walked past the houses with their brutally cut lawns and thirsty potted plants, until at last they arrived at their destination: the Catalina cemetery. 

Ironically, Jamie considered the cemetery the most beautiful place in town. In the late afternoon, the crumbling headstones and sightless marble angels made for a sculpture garden full of crab grass, junk elms, and dandelions. Jamie and Christina walked through the rows of the dead, saying hello to familiar names -- Christina's mom, Mr. Beckett, the kindly old school principal -- in loving voices. Sometimes Christina would remove a fallen branch from a headstone or brush off some of the more dirty stones with the tail of her shirt. Though she had long ago decided to become an atheist, she had an almost reverential respect for the dead. "They stick with you forever," she had once told him. "It's powerful."

At the time, Jamie hadn't known what she'd meant, but that had been before Lucas' death. Now, afterwards, he knew exactly what she had been trying to say. Though Lucas was gone, he was with Jamie, with his mother and father, with the entire town every single day. And now to Jamie, standing in the cemetery, feet away from a headstone reading "Lucas John Hendrick," Christina's words had never seemed more true. Lucas had stuck with him alright, and he wasn't letting go.

The dates on the stone read "March 11, 2002 -- December 17, 2008." December 17th: that was a day he'd never forget. It was, literally, the worst day of his life. And it had started out so well… It was close to Christmas, his favorite time of year, and a thick blanket of snow had covered the ground with a chance of there being more to come. The annual Catalina Christmas Pageant was being held that night, kids from Catalina Elementary, Middle and High School banding together in Catalina Middle's auditorium for one big final performance before the Christmas break. 

Lucas was so excited that night; he was playing the role of "Sweet Potatoes" in the Christmas Feast vignette, and was dressed in a bright orange papier mache costume with matching orange baseball cap. Christina was playing her flute for the school band and Jamie, who had thankfully managed to be sick on casting day, had landed the job of managing the stage curtains.

The post-performance memories came in a haze. Refreshments in the cafeteria -- egg nog and store-bought cookies -- losing Christina, losing his parents, losing Lucas in the jubilant, chattering rush of people. And then, finally, at the end of the night, Lucas not being there. Not being there.

Even now those three little words caused his throat to swell up, the image of Lucas' headstone blurring with tears. In the end, he was glad they found his rotting, half-decomposed body in the woods because the not-knowing was tortuous. Each stage seemed worse than the last -- the initial panic, the crying, the pathetically hopeful apprehension for the days and days afterward that maybe somehow he was alright, he'd show up again smiling and happy, just Lucas being his usual devious little self. 

Watching his parents through it all was almost more than he could bear. His mother, especially. The look on her face when Sheriff Marshall had told her Lucas had been beaten to death -- well, Jamie still had nightmares about that look. 

And the Lord said unto Satan, Whence comest thou? Then Satan answered the Lord, and said, From going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it.

The sight of his mother in hysterics had cemented Jamie's belief in God. Right then, right there, looking up at the talking Sheriff, but not seeing or hearing, Jamie knew -- just knew -- there had to be a higher power up there. There just had to be. The idea otherwise was impossible to accept. God Almighty, in his infinite wisdom and incomprehensible power, would strike down those brash evildoers who dare walk His earth. No more boring sermons or scratchy Sunday dress shirts, Jamie's religion became one of vengeance and retribution. 

And filled with these thoughts, the beautiful day around Jamie seemed even hotter, as if the climate had suddenly taken to mirroring his mood. A mockingbird, a car in the street, the pounding of the blood in his ears, were all magnified and ultimately eclipsed by the sound of Lucas' mischievous laugh echoing through his memory.

But then cool fingers laced through his and Jamie looked down with a start. Christina hadn't been trying to hold his hand, but had instead been pressing something into it. A dandelion, he saw.

"Make a secret wish," she said with a smile. She closed her eyes for a moment, made her wish, and then blew the head of her own dandelion gently away. He stared at her, fascinated, her eyes jarringly huge behind her glasses. In the dry air, the wispy white tendrils of the weed didn't go far, but the effect was still poetic. 

So Jamie closed his eyes and made his secret wish.

Reviews

[M.A. Van Dyke]

This is really very good! If you mean to call this boring in that nothing blows up or no one has to jump out of a plane to save a baby with a bomb strapped to it, then yes, this is boring... But I think I prefer your style in many ways. This is well written, engaging and suspenseful. Looking forward to reading more.