Bystander (6 page)

His father was a walking absence, a faint duplicate, a watered-down version of his former self, without substance enough to cast a shadow.

There was no way Eric could tell Griffin Connelly that story. So he told bits and pieces and white lies. Eric wondered if Griffin sensed it, the whole truth, if somehow Griffin already
knew
, saw into Eric's secret heart and smiled.

AS SEPTEMBER GAVE WAY TO OCTOBER
,
ERIC BEGAN TO
feel more at home in his new surroundings. His classes weren't too bad, and his teachers were fine. Sure, science with Mrs. Wilcox was deadly—she talked and talked—but there was nothing unusual about that. Eric supposed there were boring teachers no matter where you lived. It couldn't all be PE and recess.

He sometimes hung with Mary during home base. They weren't big friends or anything, but Eric felt like it was the beginning of something, though he had no idea what. Maybe he just liked her looks, her unfussy
natural beauty. The weird kid, Hallenback, still stared darkly at Eric from time to time.
If looks could kill
, Eric thought. But for the most part, home base was about getting homework out of the way so that it didn't interfere with crucial television viewing.

If Eric had not yet been invited into Griffin Connelly's inner circle, he definitely had a seat at the lunch table. And for now, that's all Eric really desired. He was even beginning to like some of the other guys, Pat and Hakeem, in particular. Even Drew P. could be okay sometimes, when he ditched the tough-guy act and tried being himself.

Griffin was the group leader, the alpha dog. Depending upon his mood, he could be friendly and funny or dark and distant. Eric couldn't figure Griffin out. But even so, Eric found himself drawn to Griffin, the way a caveman might be attracted to fire.
The light, the heat, the danger.

Along the wall where the line forms for students to buy hot lunch, there was a big
GOT MILK
? poster, featuring an enormous photo of a pop singer's smiling face: big sweep of blond hair, flawless skin (thanks, no doubt, to Photoshop), and milky mustache above a
pearly white smile. Her head on the poster was gigantic, about three feet tall, or the height of a preschooler. Drew P. pulled a wad of gum from his mouth and stuck it on the singing starlet's left nostril. With a deft motion, he molded the gum into the shape of a drip. Drew P. stepped back and grinned, an artist satisfied with his creation.

“S'not bad, Droop,” Cody commented.

“Truly disgusting,” Eric agreed.

Just then Griffin brushed past the boys, head down and moving quickly, not turning to say hello, not even bothering to make fun of Cody's grease-stained jeans.

“What's up with Griff?” Eric asked.

“He's got a shiner,” Drew P. said in a low voice.

“A what?”

“A black eye.”

“He got into a fight?” Eric asked.

Drew P. checked to make sure that Griffin was seated at the table across the room. He whispered, “More like he got smacked around.”

“Who did it?”

Cody interrupted, “What are you, writing a blog?”

“Just curious,” Eric replied.

“Just curious,” Cody repeated in a mocking tone.

Eric glared at Cody. That kid could be so annoying. But at the same time, he could see that Cody was being protective of Griffin. He was as loyal as a Doberman. “Tell me what happened,” Eric said to Drew.

“You never met his dad, have you?”

Eric had not. He'd seen Griffin's father only once, about a week ago. He was sitting at the Connellys' kitchen table in a bathrobe, slump-shouldered, staring at a cereal box. Griffin didn't bother to introduce them, and Mr. Connelly never looked up.

“Retired city cop, not all that friendly,” Drew P. explained. “Has to be—what?—at least six-four, two hundred seventy-five pounds.”

“Scary dude,” Cody murmured.

They moved through the line. Eric threw a square slice of pizza on his tray. Cody stuffed a buttered roll inside his shirt.

“The main problem is he's a drinker,” Drew continued.

“Griff's father gave him that black eye?” Eric asked.

“Wow, Sherlock, you are a regular genius.” Cody whistled. He picked up his tray and cut in front of
Eric. “Don't say anything to him, keep it on the down low. Shut up and mind your business.”

Eric sat down diagonally across from Griffin and tried not to look. It was impossible. Griffin's eye looked worse from up close, swollen with ugly shades of blue and purple. Griffin kept his head down, hair dangling over his eyes, and ate in silence. After a few minutes, Griffin glanced up and caught Eric staring at him. He locked eyes with Eric, daring him to look away.

Then the strangest thing happened. Almost in slow motion, Griffin pushed his hair back and turned his head to give Eric a better look, the way a model might pose for a photographer. Griffin's long, slender fingers went to his eye, tips lightly touching the tender, bruised skin, a blind boy reading Braille.
What did it say? What story did it tell?

Griffin did not show any expression. There was no emotion there. His face was battered and blank. His eyes, cold.

Eric shivered, and looked away.

GRIFFIN
'
S MOOD DARKENED OVER THE COURSE OF LUNCH
, and he stalked outside for recess, hands buried in his pockets.

“Hey, guys. Hi, Griff!”

The voice—too loud, too high-pitched—could mean only one person, David Hallenback. The kid who could not, or would not, take a hint.

Hallenback often appeared on the fringes of the group, like a mosquito hovering around a campfire, close but careful not to get burned. He was the butt of jokes, the fool, the kid with the
KICK ME
sign taped to
his back. No one seemed to like him, but by virtue of pure persistence, Hallenback was tolerated. His presence offered a form of entertainment value, comic relief from the routine of endless school days. He was the fly that got swatted, the spider without legs, and in that sense the boys didn't really mind Hallenback's uninvited appearances.

Usually.

“Not today, Hallenback,” Cody said. “Go away.”

Unfazed, Hallenback peered at Griffin. “What happened to your eye, Griff? Huh?”

“Hallenback, Jesus Christ,” Cody hissed. “Go. Away.”

This type of scene had lately become a frequent occurrence. It was as if David Hallenback suffered from amnesia. No matter what happened, he kept coming back for more, desperate for acceptance. The truth was he had nowhere else to go. So no matter how hard he got shoved away, Hallenback always seemed to dust himself off and bounce back. It was a disastrous strategy for making friends. The tension was increasing, but Hallenback couldn't—or wouldn't—grasp it.

It started the way it usually did. The boys made a
few one-liners at Hallenback's expense. Some name-calling. Nasty stuff. Hallenback just sort of nodded and chortled, absorbing the insults, his soft belly quavering under his shirt.

“I didn't see you on the bus today, Hallenback,” Cody said. “Oh, that's right. Your mommy picks you up these days, doesn't she? Isn't that special.”

“Not always,” Hallenback answered. “I walk sometimes.”

“We miss you on the bus, Hallenback,” Drew P. complained. “We don't have anywhere to shoot our spitballs. We're getting rusty.”

The boys glanced to Griffin for approval. It was as if, Eric realized, this was all a performance for Griffin's benefit. He was the ultimate audience—every move, every word intended for his eyes and ears.

The group was gathered in a vibrant, pulsing, huddled mass. From where they stood, several noon aides had a good view of them.

Hallenback gamely laughed along as the name-calling continued. He smiled as if he were in on the joke. But slowly you could see his eyes narrow and the
corners of his mouth turn down. He was rattled, and they could see it.

Just walk away, Hallenback,
Eric thought.

But Hallenback stood there, still looking to Griffin for help, for some sign of assistance. He had no idea how to tell them to quit it. Finally, in a high-pitched, sing-songy voice, Hallenback crowed: “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.”

Yes, he actually said it.

And no, it didn't help.

Cody laughed. “Maybe I should get some sticks and stones, huh, what do you think, Hallenback? That a good idea? Should I pick up a rock?”

“Get lost, Hallenback,” Drew P. urged. He roughly spun Hallenback around, gave him a push. “We don't want you here.”

“Hey, leave him alone!”

They turned to stare at Griffin, who had said it. He raised his chin, gestured toward the building. Two noon aides stood together, their eyes upon them.

“Come on, David,” Griffin called to Hallenback. “Let's take a walk over to the big tree.”

Hallenback hesitated. He looked back to the building. The tree was in the opposite direction, out of the line of sight. “I don't know—”

“You want to hang out, don't you?” Griffin asked. He smiled, put an arm around Hallenback's shoulder. “We're all going to hang out by the tree. You are welcome to come . . . or not. It's up to you.”

And at that, Griffin started walking to the tree. He didn't once look back to see if anybody else was coming. Because he already knew. They'd all follow. Cody, Will, Drew, Eric. Every single one of them.

Even Hallenback.

“The name of this game,” Griffin announced once they arrived at the big oak, “is called Pretzel. Have you ever played it, David?”

Hallenback brought a hand to the back of his neck and rubbed it. He appeared doubtful. He shook his head once, no.

“There's nothing wrong with that,” Griffin answered. He was upbeat now, energized, happy. “It's like wrestling. Here, let me show you.”

The rest of the boys gathered in a sort of ring,
forming a barricade that sealed Hallenback off from the school building. The noon aides wouldn't be able to see much.

In a swift motion, Griffin gripped Hallenback's wrist and yanked hard. Hallenback fumbled into Griffin, who shouldered him in the chest.
Wham.
The blow stunned him. Hallenback's head snapped back.

Griffin stepped with his left leg and planted it behind the slow-moving Hallenback. With a compact shove, Griffin pushed Hallenback to the ground, where he landed hard on his upper back.

“Hey, get up, man!” Griffin chuckled, hauling the bewildered boy up by his shirt. Griffin roughly slapped the dirt off Hallenback. All smiles and laughter.

“Good times,” Cody murmured, licking his lips. “Good times.”

Now Griffin applied pressure on Hallenback's wrist, twisting it, bending the arm around his back.

“So,” Griffin said, lecturing to the group. “Can anyone in class please tell me why this game is called Pretzel?”

Cody's hand shot into the air. “I know! I know!”

Hallenback was on his tiptoes now, an anxious look swimming in his eyes. The back of his shirt was dirt-stained. He groaned softly. “I—uh—”

“Did you say something, David?” Griffin asked. With another move, he had the boy in a new painful entanglement. “This is called the chicken wing. Isn't that a funny name, David?”

“Ow, that hurts—”

“What? Are you talking to me?”

“My arm—you're hurting me.”

Eric could hear the new urgency in Hallenback's voice. And something else in it, too: a growing terror. Yet Eric did not move, did not raise a hand to help.

“Griff!” a voice suddenly warned. “Diaz is coming.”

In an instant, Griffin pushed Hallenback into the group, turned, and locked arms with Drew P. in an animated wrestling match. The rest of the boys laughed and let out whoops of encouragement, cheering the spectacle of their phony match.

“What's going on here?” asked Mrs. Diaz.

“The Ultimate Fighting Championships!” Cody
replied. “It was on TV last night. Hallenback”—he paused, corrected himself—“I mean, David and some of the guys were showing us.”

“You know the playground rules,” Mrs. Diaz stated. She wasn't buying a word of it and could scarcely conceal her distaste for Cody.

“We're sorry, Mrs. Diaz,” Griffin said, stepping forward. “We were fooling around and maybe got too rough.”

“Boys will be boys,” Drew P. clucked.

The noon aide nodded doubtfully. She scanned the group. “David?” she asked. “Are you all right?”

All eyes turned to David Hallenback. He held his right elbow in his left hand, cradled close to his body. The boy looked like a wounded, moist baby bird. “Just playing,” he said, looking at the grass, “goofing around.” Tears welled in his eyes; he bravely tried to blink them away.

The recess bell sounded, three times.

“Oh man, I can't be late for Mr. Foy—he's giving a test today,” Will said. The gang of boys headed back to the building.

Eric found himself walking beside Griffin.

“Look back,” Griffin whispered. “What do you see?”

Eric glanced back at the great old oak. Mrs. Diaz was talking with David, heads close together. She touched his arm; he pulled it away.

Eric shook his head. “That was kind of rough, don't you think?”

“Hallenback's fine,” Griffin snapped. “Besides, he won't say much. He knows better than that.”

Eric measured his words carefully. “It just seemed . . . unnecessary.”

“Really? Is that what you think, Eric?” Griffin said, his voice drenched with sarcasm. “Because I didn't do anything wrong. What about you? Ever wonder:
What did I do?
Because all I remember is you standing there with a big smile on your face.”