Bystander (12 page)

Still, despite recent events, Eric liked some of the guys at that table. They could be okay, if only they'd let themselves. Pat and Hakeem were really nice, and they hadn't been in the cemetery that day. Neither was Marshall. Drew, Will, and Sinjay were there, but Eric saw them as sailboats on the ocean. They just went whichever way the wind blew. They went to see a fight—because it was exciting, because it was something to do, because Griffin said it was going to be cool.

Eric saw Cody watching him from across the room. Cody sat in his usual place, across from Griff, who had his back to Eric. Something seemed different. Eric couldn't put his finger on it. Maybe it was just his imagination. Cody was sitting there, but it looked like his mind was somewhere else.

“Want company? Or is this your own private Idaho?” Mary asked.

Eric's arm swept across the empty table. “Sit anywhere you like.”

“Thanks,” Mary said, plopping down across from him. She unzipped a banana and broke off half in her hand.

“Why aren't you sitting at your regular table?”

“I'm not wanted,” Mary answered. She chomped on the banana. “That's okay, I don't want them, either.”

“This is over that thing with Chantel?”

Mary nodded. “I'm now considered a traitor.”

“I guess it's just us, then,” Eric said.

“You and me, brother,” Mary said, tapping her chest twice and flashing a peace sign. “It's like the Island of Misfit Toys over here. We could start a new country. I'll let you be in charge of Homeland Security.”

Eric felt the bruise on his cheek. “You might want to rethink that.”

“On second thought, I guess you're right. Are you going to eat that?” Mary reached for half of Eric's sandwich and bit into it.

“Help yourself,” Eric said.

“Just did, and it was delicious.”

“Hey, did I tell you? My mom finally caved. She bought me a cell phone.”

“Get out!”

“For real. It was one of the unexpected perks of getting beaten up. She thinks I'll be safer with a phone.”

“Sure, if you hit 'em over the head with it.”

Eric noticed a few people glancing over at them, heads turning, tongues wagging. “People are going to talk, you and me sitting together.”

“Let 'em,” Mary scoffed. “I'm so tired of what other people think.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I'm serious. I'm done worrying about what people like Alexis Brown think of me.”

“When did you get so smart?”

Mary shrugged. “I had to do a lot of dumb things first. After a while, I decided to try a different approach.”

“How's it working out for you so far?” Eric asked.

“The food's better,” Mary said, twisting open one of Eric's Oreos. She turned serious. “Do you know what Mr. Scofield told me? He said not to listen when people say bad things about me. He said, ‘You know, Miss O'Malley, it says more about who they are than it does about you.' ”

“Not bad,” Eric said.

“I thought so,” Mary agreed.

Mrs. Rosen, the lunch aide, stopped by the table.

“We're starting a new country,” Mary informed her. “Would you like to apply for asylum?”

“Actually, Eric,” Mrs. Rosen said, “I was wondering if you are still in the dog-walking business.”

Eric said that he was. At which point Mrs. Rosen went into great, gushing detail over her new puppy, little Annie, a King Charles spaniel. “Oh, she's just the cutest thing you've ever seen!” Mrs. Rosen exclaimed. “She's still a puppy. But full-grown, Annie will only weigh about fifteen pounds.”

Mrs. Rosen told Eric that she had to fly to Florida for a few days to visit a sick relative. “I need someone who I can really depend on,” Mrs. Rosen said. “I just can't bear putting Annie in one of those kennels.”

“I'd love to do it,” Eric said. “But I thought you usually hired Griffin for those jobs.”

Mrs. Rosen shook her head no. “I may be getting old, but I'm not blind yet. Let's leave it at that.”

Eric arranged to stop by her house before the weekend to pick up a spare set of keys.

When she left, Eric looked across the room to see Griffin Connelly turned all the way around in his chair,
scowling at him. Once they got outside, Eric found out why.

“What was that all about with Rosen?” Griffin asked Eric, who was shooting baskets.

“Why do you care?”

“You owe me,” Griffin said. “I almost got into big trouble because of you.”

“What?”

“You and your mommy ratted me out. I had to do some fast talking.”

Eric grabbed a loose basketball and tried hard to ignore Griffin.

Griffin blew the hair out of his eyes. “What did you tell them?”

“The truth,” Eric replied. “I said you never touched me.”

“Still, my PINS officer is going to have a cow.”

“Your . . . what?”

“PINS officer,” Griffin repeated. “Don't you know anything? PINS! ‘Person in need of supervision.' ”

“You got in trouble before, huh?”

Griffin dismissed the question with a wave. He
raked the hair from his face. “Rosen hired you, didn't she?”

Eric drained a long jumper. One of the guys, Pat, rebounded the ball and snapped a pass back to him. Courtesy shot. Eric put up another.
Swish
. Eric loved the sound of a ball shivering through a chain net. “Don't get too close,” he chided Griffin, “or you'll get burned. I'm on fire.”

“I'll find out one way or the other,” Griffin said, still harping on Rosen. “I already have a pretty good idea. She just got a new designer dog. Is she going on vacation? You might as well tell me. It'll save time.”

Mary turned up, taking a place at Eric's side. “Come on, Eric. Let's go. It smells around here.”

“What is he, your new boyfriend?” Griffin snapped.

Mary made a face. “You're an idiot, Griff. You know that?”

“Shut it,” Griffin answered.

“That's genius, Griff. You lay awake all night writing this stuff?”

Suddenly invisible, Eric watched the two glare at each other. There was definitely some history between them, bad blood. Eric spoke up. “Yeah, you got it right,
Griff. I'm taking care of Mrs. Rosen's dog. I guess she doesn't trust you anymore.” He paused. “Go figure.”

Griffin's face hardened. “I'll get you back.”

“You don't scare me,” Eric lied.

Griffin smiled wide, folded his hands together, and said in a soft voice, “We'll see about that.”

He turned and walked away.

Neither Mary, nor Eric, followed.

But they watched him go. Both wondering what he'd do next.

ERIC STARED AT THE RACK WHERE HE HAD PARKED HIS BI
cycle. His chain was still there, but it had been cut in half. His bike was gone.
Jesus H. Christ
. It was one of his father's expressions, and it entered Eric's mind of its own volition, like a seed that had been planted long ago and now suddenly sprang to flower. The father in his mind, he was always there, even when he lived one thousand miles away. Eric looked around, hoping against hope that it was only a prank. That he'd find his bike thrown under a bush or something.

No such luck.

“Is there a problem?”

Eric turned to Officer Goldsworthy, the resource officer, though all the kids referred to him as “the school cop.” He wore a shirt and tie, not a police uniform; technically, he was a police officer who sometimes worked at the school. It was kind of confusing.

“Well, yeah, actually, there is,” Eric admitted. He showed Officer Goldsworthy the cut chain.

“Do you have any idea who might have done this?”

“Yeah, I have a pretty good idea,” Eric replied.

The man watched Eric and waited. His silence came as an unspoken question:
Who?

“Griffin Connelly, most likely,” Eric stated.

“Did anyone see him do it?”

Eric shook his head, defeated. “I don't think so.”

“I've seen you two together. He's your friend, isn't he?”

Eric looked at Officer Goldsworthy. He was an imposing figure, solidly built. Eric could imagine him on a football field, terrorizing quarterbacks. Eric answered, “Used to be, maybe.”

“I guess he had you fooled.”

“I guess,” Eric echoed.

“Guys like that, they can fool people. Sooner or later, though, folks tend to catch on,” Officer Goldsworthy mused.

The officer put out his hand. “I don't think we've met. You're Eric Hayes, aren't you? I'm Bill Goldsworthy.”

“How do you know me?” Eric asked.

“I try to know everybody around here,” the man answered. “It's my job.”

“I've heard about you,” Eric admitted. “I'm friends with Mary O'Malley.”

The cop nodded, tight-lipped. “I've gotten to know Mary pretty well this year. She's a good girl. I think she's really trying to turn things around.”

The conversation returned to the missing bicycle. Eric needed to file a report. “I'll be stuck in juvenile court all morning. Stop by my office anytime after twelve tomorrow,” the officer said. “I can help you with the forms. In the meantime, I'll put a call in to the precinct, see if anything's turned up.”

“You think there's a chance?”

He shrugged. “It happens. But honestly? Not too often. Guys who take bikes usually strip them down,
file off the serial numbers, repaint them, sell them. It's tough. But,” he added, “this might not be that kind of theft.”

“What do you mean?”

“This isn't how organized thieves—the kind who run bike rings—usually operate,” Officer Goldsworthy said. “As far as I know, only one bike is missing. You told me that yours is a couple of years old, nothing special. And you already seem to have an idea who took it.”

Eric noticed a group of kids filter out of the main doors. They had probably stayed late for yearbook committee or some other activity designed to look good on their transcripts. Mostly girls, they sprawled on the main steps, nearly all of them on cell phones, waiting for their parents to pick them up. Eric knew they saw him, too, talking with the school cop.

Eric decided to get out of there.

“Well, I've got to get going.”

“Do you need a lift?”

“Nah, it's not that far. I can hoof it,” Eric answered. “But thanks.”

Officer Goldsworthy nodded, folding his arms
across a broad expanse of chest. “Listen, Eric,” he began. “A word to the wise. There's been some burglaries in the community. Nothing too big, minor breakins, things taken from parked cars. Small stuff.” He paused. “You don't happen to know anything about that, do you?”

“Why would I know?” Eric replied. “I'm the guy who just got his bicycle stolen.”

“Take it easy,” the officer said. “I'm just saying that we're going to catch whoever is doing this. We always do. Keep your eyes open, okay? Let me know if you hear anything.”

The two looked at each other, across a great silence. Eric thinking about Griffin Connelly, Officer Goldsworthy watching him think.

Eric pondered over Rudy's twenty-seven dollars, his father's CD, and that dark, wooden box of odd treasures up in Griffin's room. What did he say they were again?
His souvenirs
.

The faint stirrings of an idea swirled in Eric's mind.

A plan.

AFTER THINKING IT OVER ALL NIGHT
,
LYING IN BED STAR
ing at the ceiling, Eric awoke on Thursday morning with a clear decision in his mind. No way. It was too risky. He couldn't do it.

But something happened at school to change his mind.

The problem of Griffin Connelly wasn't going to disappear on its own. Not unless Eric did something about it. The stolen bicycle made that clear. In school, Eric felt as if he had a target painted on his back. He could tell from the way kids treated him, the watchful
distance they kept. A pressure was building, like air in an overinflated tire. Eric couldn't sit back and take it anymore. He had to act.

During social studies, Eric's second-to-last period of the day, Principal Morris came to the door. She asked for Eric to step into the hallway. Ominously, she told him to bring his books. Everyone turned to watch Eric leave. He was bewildered at first, but then he thought,
This must be about my bike
.

It wasn't. In the hallway, Mrs. Morris and Mrs. Ryan, the house leader, stood stone-faced. “Eric,” Mrs. Morris said, “I'm afraid we received some information today that we are required to follow up on. We need to take a look inside your locker.”

“My locker? I don't—”

“As you know, lockers are considered school property. We'd like you to come with us now.”

“Yeah, sure.”

No one spoke as they walked down the hall and down the stairs, echoing with the
click-tap
of Mrs. Ryan's shoes. Eric finally mustered the courage to ask, “What do you think I have in there?”

“A student came forward and reported that you had a knife,” Mrs. Morris said. “We take those claims very seriously.”

Eric was shocked. “A knife? I'd never bring—” He stopped walking. “Who said this about me?”

“Please,” the principal said, gesturing with her arm. “Let's just get through this.”

The hallway was deserted. Mrs. Ryan carefully searched his locker. She found an unholy mess, but no weapon. She pulled out Eric's backpack, handed it to Principal Morris, who zipped and unzipped every compartment.

Just then, Mary appeared from around the corner. “Eric? What's going on?”

“This is a private matter, Mary,” Mrs. Ryan said. Her voice was firm. “Please return to your classroom.”