Bystander (15 page)

Eric smiled, not dissuaded. “I have to do this. He stole something from my brother, and something from me. I want it back.”

“It's just money, Eric. And a stupid CD—you can burn another one.”

“It's more than that, Mary,” Eric answered. “I
need
to do this.”

“And if you get caught?”

“I won't,” Eric promised. “Griffin will be gone all day. I called the house five minutes ago. No one's home. I'll be in and out. Besides, I've got you on lookout.”

“I'm going to ring the bell, just to be sure,” Mary said. And she did, marched right up there, and rang more than once. No one answered. Mary seemed disappointed.

“Griff once told me they always leave the back door open,” Eric said.

Mary nodded in agreement. She knew the same
thing. “Before you go in, check the garage. Make sure the car isn't parked in there.”

The house had a detatched garage behind the house, at the end of the driveway. Eric glanced toward it, distracted, and nodded.

“Wait! Give me your cell phone,” Mary said.

“Why?”

“Just do it,” Mary demanded, holding out her hand. She punched her phone number into Eric's cell, answered her phone, then hit the mute button. “Here.” She handed his cell back to him. “Now we're connected. It's a one-way intercom. If you have any problems in there, just give a shout. I'll hear you.”

“Okay, cool.”

“I saw it in a movie once,” Mary explained. “But everybody in it died anyway.”

“Nice,” Eric murmured. He jerked his head down the road. “And what about—”

“If anybody shows up, I'll be doing push-ups on the doorbell,” she promised.

Eric turned to leave.

“Eric, please. This doesn't prove anything,” Mary pleaded.

“Sorry.”

The back door opened soundlessly. Eric stepped into the house and waited, every muscle taut, like he was five years old again and caught in a game of Freeze Tag. The door had opened into the kitchen. Dishes were piled in the sink, the morning paper was on the table, open to the funny pages.

The coast was clear. Eric silently made it to the main hallway, then up the stairs. His body quivered, fingers trembled. He wanted this to be over as quickly as possible.

When he reached the top step, Eric heard it: one loud, thunderous snore. Then silence.

Eric pinned himself to the wall, like an exotic bug with a needle stuck through it. He didn't move, he didn't breathe. The snore came from a bedroom down the hallway. Eric peeked around the corner; the door was ajar. It must have been the master bedroom. Mr. Connelly was in there, sleeping off a night shift.

Another great, gasping snore shook Eric's insides. His stomach did cartwheels.
Idiot,
he cursed himself. In his haste, Eric had neglected to check the garage and now he was paying the price. But instead of leaving
immediately, just easing down the stairs and slipping out the front door, Eric waited, paralyzed.

The snoring was unvarying, on and off in regular intervals.

Eric hesitated at the top of the stairs, trying to make a decision. Directly opposite him, there was a bathroom. The snoring came from a room to the left. The other door was probably a linen closet, Eric figured. Griffin's door was five feet to Eric's right.
Screw it,
Eric decided, mustering his courage. This would only take a minute.

Once he stepped inside Griffin's room, Eric untied his sneakers and set them down on a dresser. He moved purposefully to the wooden box that Griffin had shown him on Eric's first visit to the house. “My souvenirs,” Griffin had called them. Eric realized what they were, little keepsakes, mementos of past triumphs. A pin lifted from the jacket of another student, a tooth knocked out in a fight, a small American flag taken from a dog's grave, various hood ornaments snapped off cars, small items from the cars he burglarized, a bunch of old coins, and more.

The guy was as sentimental as a punch in the face.

There was a fat wad of cash, rolled up in a rubber band. Eric unrolled the money, counted out twenty-seven dollars, replaced the wad—now a touch lighter—and returned the box to its exact spot on the shelf.

He glanced around the room.
Where's the CD?
Eric found a disordered stack by the bed stand, a random clutch of music. Eric wondered if they had all been stolen—a tough way to put together a good collection. He found the slim, homemade case to his father's CD. It was empty. Next to the iHome, there was a small CD player. Eric stealthily moved to it, pressed the open button. And there it was, the CD his father had made for Eric. Griffin must have been listening to it, even after he had made fun of Eric for it. What was it he said? “I have to tell you, buddy, very weak.”

Why is he like that?
Eric could never understand.

He was almost out the door, almost home free, when he had one last thought. Eric found a scrap of paper and a pen by the desk. He glanced out the window. There was no one around; Mary had wisely moved a few yards down the block, out of sight. He scribbled a few words on a piece of paper—“NOW
WE'RE EVEN”—and tucked it into the wooden box on the shelf.

Eric moved to the door, his hand squeezing the knob. Eric tilted his head, listening. Something had changed. It wasn't that he heard a sound, it was what he
didn't
hear: snoring.

He put his ear to the door, straining for any sound.

He should have snored by now,
Eric thought.

Then—
whooosh!
—the toilet flushed.

Mr. Connelly, two hundred seventy-five pounds of fat, mean ex-linebacker, had been sitting on his throne about fifteen feet away.

Eric made himself small behind the door.

Maybe he breathed, he couldn't be sure. Every muscle in his being, every nerve fiber, every cell, was focused on listening. He heard muffled sounds, water running, the clank of something against the wall, feet (slippers?) shuffling on the tile, the bathroom door opening.
Thump, thump, thump
.

The giant was not only awake. He was—
fee fi foe fum
—headed downstairs.

ERIC
'
S FIRST THOUGHT WAS GRIFFIN
'
S WINDOW. HE COULD
climb onto the narrow portion of roof, figure out a spot to jump down without breaking his ankles, then hobble away. Eric wasn't crazy about that option. There had to be a better way.

The front door was at the bottom of the stairs. Eric's mind seized on that door, the gateway to his freedom. He could probably run down the stairs, noisy as anything, fling that door open, and go, man, go. Mr. Connelly wouldn't have time to react.

Eric crept out of the room. He listened from the
top of the stairs. Silence. Wait, no. The sound of a television—some sitcom show with phony patter and canned laughter. In his stocking feet, Eric took one step, then another. Fortunately, the top half of the stairs was obscured by a wall. But the wall gave way to an open banister about midway; heading down, Eric would be totally exposed.

He heard the shuffle of footsteps, the sound of a refrigerator opening, a glass set down on a table. Eric could picture huge Mr. Connelly, sitting at the kitchen table, elbows splayed, still in his tattered bathrobe.

A mental map of the house formed inside Eric's head. From the midpoint of the stairs, there was a clear view into the kitchen. That was the danger area. But it only lasted for about four steps. He took a deep breath. He decided that the best plan was to swiftly and silently walk down the stairs, don't hesitate, don't look around, don't so much as glance into the kitchen. Chances were, Mr. Connelly wouldn't even see him. The guy's face was probably buried in a bowl of Raisin Bran.

His heart thumped loudly, like a John Bonham drum solo thundering inside his chest. He began his
descent. Eric made it to the bottom of the stairs when the father called, “Griff? When did you—?”

A jolt of adrenaline shot through Eric's body. He hit the door running, pulled open the inside door, pushed the outside screen door—
bang, clang
—but it didn't open. Panic set it. He heard the chair scrape across the linoleum floor, the brute heft of a man laboring to stand.

Locked, locked! There must be a switch, a thingy, a something to push or slide or . . .

There!
The door swung open. Eric jumped the front porch steps and flew—absolutely flew—down the street. He turned left down one street, cut through a couple of yards, then turned down another street, then another, never looking back, just running hard, not caring who saw what, just putting as much distance between himself and the Connellys' as possible.

He found himself back at the little pocket park, the place where Mary had brought him. Eric collapsed on the bench, heaving to catch his breath, heart racing, mind a blur. He peered through the dense thicket of bushes, flipped open his cell, and punched numbers. Mary surely had seen him fleeing the house as if his
hair were on fire. Hopefully she turned her phone off, breaking the connection, before turning it on again.

“Eric?”

“Mary!”

“You okay? What happened?”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Did he come after me?”

“No. He stood at the front door for a minute, looking baffled. Then he scratched his butt and went back inside.”

Eric laughed, giddy and relieved.

That's when he finally noticed his stocking feet.
My sneakers!
Eric had left them in Griffin's room.

AVOIDING GRIFFIN CONNELLY WAS EASY ENOUGH FOR THE
first half of the school day. Eric knew his habits, where his classes were, the pathways he traveled. But there would be no steering clear of him in the cafeteria. Eric vowed to himself that he wouldn't run. Whatever happened, happened. It wasn't much of a philosophy, but it was all Eric had. He was going to stand tall and stare Trouble in the eye. And if it smacked him in the mouth, well, Eric would figure out that part later.

He didn't see Griffin coming. Eric was already
seated across from Mary, trying to keep her from grabbing his dessert. Then Mary looked up and her eyes widened. Eric turned just as Griffin passed beside him, his elbow brushing the back of Eric's head ever so gently, like a whispered message. He kept walking, never looked back, didn't say a word. He didn't have to. His feet said it all.

Griffin Connelly was wearing Eric's sneakers.

Eric had to give Griffin credit: He had style.
Nice kicks,
Eric thought, figuring he'd probably never see those sneakers again—on his own feet, at least.

Griffin plopped down at his regular table, his back to Eric and Mary. Somehow they were dead even.

Cody sat with Griffin, like always. He was in the middle of telling a story, gesturing wildly with his hands, then smashing them together. Most likely reen-acting some kind of NASCAR crash-up. Sinjay and Drew laughed; Griffin reached for a buttered roll on Marshall's lunch tray. Life went on. Down at the end of the table, Hakeem and Pat huddled together, talking quietly, somewhat apart. There was an empty chair, and it puzzled Eric for a moment. Then he realized whose it was: Hallenback's.

“Stop looking over there, will ya?” Mary complained.

“Sorry.”

Two more girls had joined their table, Chantel and Sophie. When they sat down, Mary winked at Eric, silently mouthed the words, “Told you so.” It had been her contention that their table would soon be filled with Misfit Toys—jack-in-the-boxes named Bruce, trucks with square wheels, boys who were too frail and skinny, girls whose looks didn't make the cut.

“Want to hang out after school today?” Eric asked.

“Sure,” Mary said. “We have that science test tomorrow. I'm thinking about actually studying.”

“You? Studying? I'll alert the media,” Eric joked. Then he ventured, “We could go to the library and study together.”

It was a deal.

Glancing around, Eric spied David Hallenback sitting alone in the far corner of the room. “Be right back,” he told Mary.

David could see Eric coming from across the room. In response, he kept his head down, hunkered low over his lunch.
Trying to disappear,
Eric guessed.

“Hey,” Eric greeted David.

The curly-haired boy looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face ashen. Not much had changed since that first time Eric saw David, behind the middle school, shambling across the field. He was forever haunted and afraid.
Ketchup boy
.

“You okay?”

Hallenback looked up at Eric, and there was vacancy in his eyes. Not the old hatred. No spark of bitterness. Just defeat. He had been used and abused and now, obviously, once again banished from the table.

Eric tilted his head toward Mary. “There's room with us, if you want.”

Hallenback glanced at the table, frowned, shook his head.

Eric shrugged. “You ever change your mind . . .”

Something caught his eye, a pin on Hallenback's shirt. “Hey, what's that pin? I never saw you wear it before.”

David glanced down at the pin. It was in the shape of a baseball stadium. He shot a quick glance at Griffin, looked up at Eric. “I lent it to somebody. He finally gave it back this morning. It's from the stadium where
the Mets play,” David said, again looking down at the pin. “I got it on opening day.”

“Sweet,” Eric said. “Growing up in Ohio, I guess I became a Reds fan. I'm probably the only one in the whole school.”

Hallenback considered that for a moment. “Now that you live here, you should switch to the Mets,” he advised.

“I'll think about it,” Eric said. “But it's hard to change loyalties, you know what I mean?”

Hallenback made a face that Eric couldn't quite read.
Whatever
. Eric didn't need to become friends with David Hallenback. He just needed, he realized, to be okay with himself.