Breaking Point (22 page)

And Meeks stared at me. Mom stopped talking, stopped pulling, and they both stared. And finally, Meeks said, “Charlie said neither of you had anything to do with it. He knew nothing about it.”

But I couldn't stop crying.

It was like I'd broken a gasket and I couldn't stop crying or talking or get fixed. I cried all afternoon and on and off the next week. And somewhere in the middle, I told the whole story. About Charlie and changing the grade in the computer, the Mailbox Club, the bagels. And the bomb. Meanwhile, the police were working.

First thing, they got a search warrant and took Charlie's computer. That was my fault. I'd told them we'd gotten the bomb instructions off the Internet.

The day they took it, Charlie came over our apartment. He must have taken a bus. At least, I didn't see his car in the parking lot or even Rosita's. But when I heard the knock on the door, I knew. Who else would be coming to see me?

Our apartment was empty. Mom was still working at Gate. She said it's hard to replace someone midterm, though she guessed they'd probably can her over Christmas. Of course, Meeks had asked that I not return. So I was home alone when Charlie stepped into our narrow front hall. I didn't worry about our door, white paint flaking to reveal beige underneath, the pitted cement in the breezeway or our molting doormat. I was through worrying about what people—Charlie, especially—thought.

Charlie stepped inside. Mom had bought our Christmas tree the morning Charlie and I planted the bomb. I'd refused to go with her. She'd brought it back by herself. It was $19.95 at Target, and she'd said it would look big in our tiny place. It didn't. The tree was dotted with tinsel and a few lights and awful things we'd made over the years from clothespins and balsa wood. I hadn't helped put it up. I was sorry about that now. Still, the pine scent decorated the room. Charlie sat, looking like he belonged there, blending in.

“They took my computer,” he said.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Maybe they won't find anything,” he said. “I mean, you cleaned it out, right—the temporary Internet files, the cookies?” He could have looked up, then, for reassurance. He didn't. He didn't need
my
reassurance.

And I didn't give it to him. “They'll find something,” I said. “You can't completely delete stuff. It's there if they look hard enough.”

He leaned back, putting his tennis shoes—always his tennis shoes—onto the stack of
Ladies' Home Journals
on our coffee table.
Couldn't you just look scared, Charlie? Be human for once?

He still didn't look at me. “Why'd you do it, Paul?”

“Do what, Charlie? Listen to you?”

“Come off it.” He stared at the horrible Christmas tree. “Why'd you tell? We were riding this out.”

I panicked
, I wanted to say. But I didn't. Even now, I couldn't admit that to him. “They'd have found out anyway,” I said instead.

“Glad you're so sure.” Still gazing at the tree.

Look at me, you bastard
. I wanted to grab his face, make him look. He'd used me and now, I knew it. “You're blaming me for this?”

He met my eyes finally. “See anyone else around?”

“Yeah, Charlie. I see you. I'd never have done this without you.”

I heard something then, a low chuckle from the back of his throat. “Without me,” he said. “Is that what you'll tell them, Paul? Is that what you tell yourself—I made you? Charlie Good took your innocent baby hands and made them plant the bomb?”

“You got me to do stuff I'd never have considered.” I stared at him, silhouetted in the sun filtered through the Gumbo Limbo trees and our blinds. He said nothing, so I added, “It's true.”

“You could have said no.”

I started at his words. The pine was stronger, choking me. And something else. The realization that he was right. I could have said no. I could have said no, but I hadn't. No matter what Charlie had done, I could always have said no.

Why hadn't I? Because I'd wanted to be cool for Charlie? No, not just that. Because I'd
wanted
to do it. In that way, I was no different than Charlie. The realization terrified me.

“David Blanco said no,” Charlie said. Then, he laughed at the incredulous look on my face. “Pretty sad, when the kid who offs himself has more inner strength than you. But then, you wanted to go along with me. You wanted so badly to be part of the cool group.”

“You asked David to do this?”

Charlie shrugged. “Needed someone with access to the building keys.”

“And that's why we were friends? Were we ever really friends?”

“Don't get self-righteous, Paul. Like I said, we all use one another. You used me, maybe more than I used you.” Then, his face softened. Good old Charlie. “No, it's not why. You know that. You were my best friend, Einstein. You were the best friend I ever had. The only person I'm closer to is my dad.”

I started at the word. “Your dad? You mean, Big Chuck?”

“The great man himself.”

“But I thought…” Suddenly, my whole stomach felt weak. “You said you were scared of him. That he wasn't really your dad, and you had to kill yourself to please him.”

“You believed that?” Charlie laughed. “I was screwing with you, Einstein. Maybe I should stop calling you that, because you aren't very smart, really. Of course Big Chuck's my real father.”

I stared at him, unable to respond. Then, I realized I didn't need to. He wouldn't have listened anyway. I stood, walked to the door, opened it, and waited for him to leave. He didn't argue, just slipped past me and pressed the button for the elevator.

But there was one thing more I needed to know before he left forever.

“Who killed the dog, Charlie?”

“St. John did.” Without blinking.

I stared. St. John. I guess I'd never know for sure who sent the note. Maybe even St. John himself.

“Did you … make him?”

“I just told you, Paul. I can't
make
anyone do anything.”

I nodded, and the elevator door shut.

I sank to the floor and sat there a long time just staring at the door where Charlie had gone. I wondered who I was. And who I'd become.

I'd been in juvenile detention a week. It felt like longer, though, because I was awake all the time. The nights were loud. The days were louder, banging, screaming, people shouting stuff at you. And sometimes, noises I didn't recognize. Those were the worst. The first night, the guy in the next bunk, a skinny kid called Hemp, told me he'd been raped when he first got there. “They look for a new piece of ass,” he said. I hoped he was messing with me, but I wasn't taking any chances. So, after that, I didn't sleep, ever. I watched my back. Finally, I was glad to be big.

They'd picked me up after searching Charlie's computer. They'd found the Internet files encrypted in the hard drive. The next day, an officer was at my door, reading me my rights. Then, I was in detention. When Mom visited, she told me they'd picked Charlie up too, but I hadn't seen him. I didn't want to see him.

“Richmond!” A guard yelled my name when I was on line for breakfast.

He was short, so I looked down. It was a thin line with guards. Act too respectful, people bust your ass. I'd learned that from experience. But you didn't want them on your bad side, either. “Yeah?” I strived for the right tone.

He scowled. “Your lawyer's here.”

“I don't have a lawyer, sir.”

“You saying I'm seeing things?” he demanded, while, around me, guys imitated my
sir
.

“No, sir.” I followed him out.

He took me to a lounge. Orange plastic furniture with stained foam rubber sticking out everywhere. Mom was there with a man I didn't recognize. She embraced me. It was a gesture I'd have refused a week before. But now, I held my face stiff to keep from bawling,
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry
. She smelled clean, like the soap from our bathroom.

“Paul, this is Mr. Rossi,” Mom said. “He'll be representing you.”

“How can we afford this?”

“Your father paid,” Mom said. “He's quite upset about the scandal. It's in all the papers. But I hired the lawyer. I did everything myself.” She nodded, proud of herself. I gaped. How had she gotten it together enough to do this for me? The answer hit me hard: She loved me.

Mom had called Dad after my confession. He hadn't spoken to me, but I'd heard him yelling through the phone. Now, I pictured the headline:
LIEUTENANT COLONEL'S SON PLANTS BOMB
or whatever. I almost smiled. But I didn't. Mr. Rossi stared at me. I shuffled my feet, sticking my hand out as an afterthought.

“We'll need to work on your eye contact,” he said. And I heard the echo, Big Chuck, yelling at Charlie,
Eye contact!
“You don't look at people, they think you're guilty.”

“I am guilty,” I said.

“Want to stay here, then?” he asked.

Down the hall, someone was getting beat up. I smelled Mom's Camay soap again and swallowed. “No.”

“Then, I don't need to hear that.” He didn't sit on the plastic sofa, just perched on the arm. Didn't want to dirty his pants. I sat. The orange medical-scrub-type outfit I wore was nothing I planned to keep.

“But I confessed,” I said.

“We'll talk about that confession.”

I looked at Mom. To my surprise, she sat calm, not pulling her hairs at all. My stomach felt empty from the breakfast I'd missed. I couldn't have eaten. My throat was too full. I looked at Mom again. I managed, “Am I getting out of here? Can I go home?”

Mr. Rossi nodded. “For now, I think so. Later…” He shook his head. “I don't know. Like I said, we'll discuss your confession.”

“Tell him what happened.” Mom said.

“Your friend's story doesn't agree with yours,” Rossi said. I think he snorted when he said
friend
. “Says he first heard of the bomb the day it was found.”

“What would you expect him to say?” Mom asked. And I was glad she was talking, because I couldn't.

Rossi nodded. “Problem is, the police are believing him.”

I remembered what Charlie had said about the criminal profile. I fit it. Charlie didn't. Why would the golden child build a bomb? Yet he had. I'd just followed, stupidly followed.

I found my voice. “But his computer? The stuff was on his computer.”

“Your friend claims you used his computer while he practiced tennis with his father. He says you were at his house alone a whole afternoon that week.”

The bastard. He really had thought of everything. “Sure, I did homework on his computer. We were best friends. But that doesn't mean—”

“I'm not asking what it means. I'm telling you what Charlie said. He also claims he was home asleep the night you say you planted the bomb. His father agrees you never stayed over.”

I was speechless again, but not surprised. I'd always known Charlie could do what he wanted, even make lies true. I'd even admired him for it. Mom moved closer to me, her hand on my shoulder. I said, “I was in the main building when the bomb was set to go off. I was right there. I'd have been killed, and Charlie was safe in a portable across campus. How much sense does that make to the police?”

Rossi looked down. “Yes. The police questioned him on that point as well.”

“So?”

He rested his hand on the dirty sofa back, finding the words. “Charlie told them you were suicidal. He said a mutual friend had recently taken his life, and Charlie was trying to prevent your following suit. That he's sorry he didn't alert the school. But, of course, he never imagined you'd try to take others with you.”

I yanked a hair from my own scalp. It hurt good.

Still, Rossi got me out of juvenile. Charlie was at the arraignment. He wore the same orange uniform I did, but in it, he looked small. He looked appropriately somber, too. Poor little Charlie, haunted by events beyond his control. But once, when no one else saw, I looked at him. And he smiled.

Rossi nudged me. “Stand straight!” he hissed.

When I looked again, Charlie had turned away. Big Chuck reached to pat his shoulder.

But he was in the hallway after. With his parents, glad he'd get to go home. I was going home too, but with a special ankle bracelet, a device that went off if I left our apartment or even stepped onto the balcony. I'd heard comedians joke about those things. Now, I was the joke. When we passed in the hall, Charlie leaned to whisper to his mother. She shrugged, and Charlie said, “Paul?”

I turned.

“I want you to know, I forgive you,” Charlie said.

I didn't, couldn't speak.

Charlie looked at his mother, then made eye contact with me. “Sure. I mean, I don't know why you've chosen to victimize me, why you're saying these things.” Charlie managed a tortured half-smile. “I thought we were friends, best friends. That's why I tried to help you. But the Bible says to forgive, and I do. I want you to get the help you need, Paul. And I want you to know there's no hard feelings.”