Crush (3 page)

The usual weekend crowd gathered at Bentley Books, wandering through the aisles of new releases and guzzling coffee in the café at the back. Near a cart of books that needed to be shelved in the Self Help section, Jonathan and David stood looking at a hottie in tight jeans bent over to retrieve a diet book from the bottom shelf.

“Explain this to me,” David said. “She weighs like five pounds, and she's going to buy a diet book?”

“Skeletal is still the rage.”

“Which book do you think she's going to take?”

“I don't know,” Jonathan said, closely eyeing the
denim hugging the girl's backside. She shifted her weight in a motion that went straight to Jonathan's head. “But I hope it takes her a long, long time to find it.”

David laughed and swatted Jonathan's shoulder. “Amen,” he said.

Whereas Jonathan was small of build and thin as a reed, David was a hefty kid with a buzz cut, a round face, wire-framed glasses, and pale blue eyes. They'd been friends for more than three years, and until David's parents had sent him off to Melling, they were nearly inseparable. After Jonathan was hired by Bentley Books, David applied for a position himself, though he certainly didn't need the money. David's dad created software for companies to streamline manufacturing protocols or something like that. David's college tuition was secured long before his birth.

“It's kind of hypnotic,” David said, cocking his head to the side as if the motion would give him a new perspective on the girl's backside. “It's like a perfect denim buoy, floating in the ocean, and I must reach out and grab it.” To emphasize his point, David extended his hands and clutched at the air like he was testing the firmness of two
water balloons. “It's a matter of life and death. It's a hormonal imperative.”

“Explain that to the ambulance driver while he's icing down your crotch, because she will knee you so hard you'll know what your children would taste like.”

“SAW,” David said with a laugh.
SAW
was David-speak for
sick and wrong
.

“We should get back to work,” Jonathan said, but made no move to change his position against the cart.

Even when the girl found the book she was looking for and stood up, he kept looking at her. She
was
thin. Probably too thin. But Jonathan had to admit she was the kind of girl he dreamed about. She had the same figure as Emma, and he liked that. Next to a girl like her, he wouldn't look quite as much like a stick figure.

“Come back,” David whispered when the girl disappeared behind a row of shelves. “Must…touch…your…”

“Gentlemen?” Both Jonathan and David turned, startled.

Stewart Houseman, the assistant manager, stood beside them. Stewart was a chubby man in
his forties with short graying hair and skin the color of cookie dough. The fat in his face weighed down his features, making him look perpetually tired. His eyes were clear though, sharp, and right now they looked amused.

“Hey, Stewart,” David said. “We were just taking a little break.”

“I know what you were doing,” Stewart said. “Just don't be so obvious in the future? We don't want a lawsuit.”

Jonathan's face felt red. He looked at his friend, and David was blushing too.

“And,” Stewart continued, “if I'm not mistaken, you're supposed to be in General Fiction, aren't you, Jonathan?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I was just helping David with the cart.”

“Well, he seems to be doing just fine, so why don't you head on over? I'm sure a lot of customers would like your input on which new ‘chick-lit' tome they should pick up for the beach.”

Yeah. Way funny
, Jonathan thought. Stewart was cool enough, for an assistant manager, but his little game of acting all intellectual got really old. Unfortunately, Stewart was the boss, so
Jonathan nodded his head.

“We'll get some liquid speed on break,” David said. “See ya.”

“Yeah. See ya.”

 

Jonathan was shelving a dozen copies of the new Stephen King paperback when he heard about Mr. Weaver. He was reading a descriptive paragraph on the back cover (even though he had a copy of the book sitting on the floor by his bed at home) when he heard a woman say:

“He taught English at my son's school.”

“Oh dear,” another woman replied. “The children will be so upset.”

“Not if he was anything like my English teacher was.”

“That's terrible,” the second woman said with a nervous laugh. “Do they know who did it?”

“No, they just found the body this morning.”

Jonathan eased closer to the shelves to listen. He could not see the women, but they were directly across from him in the next aisle. Their conversation was as clear as the Muzak on the store's speakers, though far more interesting.

“Xander called me from the police station. He
has the early shift, and he said Weaver was smothered.”

Mr
.
Weaver
, Jonathan thought, startled. He dropped the paperback but quickly snatched it out of the air before it hit the shelf.

“Smothered? Oh, that's so awful.”

“I know. The idea terrifies me. Not being able to breathe. Xander said it could have taken up to three minutes before he died. Now, can you just imagine that? Trying to breathe and struggling and knowing someone wants to kill you? Three minutes would seem like hours.”

“So awful,” the second woman repeated. “Who found him?”

“Well, that's the really weird part. His neighbors found him…because he was in their tree.”

“Their tree?”

“That's right. Whoever killed him hauled his body fifteen feet in the air and threw him over a branch and left him.”

The women walked away, still talking about the tragic event, leaving Jonathan stunned. He didn't know how to feel about this news. Sure, Weaver was an ass, but this was a totally screwed-up situation. Dead? Murdered? Smothered? Draped on a
tree branch like a bit of laundry left to dry? He felt bad for Mr. Weaver. He also felt really weird because he'd never known anyone who'd died before. Even Jonathan's grandparents were still alive, though he rarely got a chance to see them.

Jonathan put the book on the shelf and turned to go find David so he could share the news, but saw Stewart at the end of the aisle. The assistant manager had his arms crossed, nodding his head, chatting with a customer. Stewart threw a glance in Jonathan's direction, letting him know that he was watching and would only take so much dis' before getting all Trump on Jonathan's ass.

Telling David would have to wait until their break. Thirty minutes. It seemed like way too long to hold this information in.

Three minutes would seem like hours
.

Jonathan picked up another handful of books and began placing them on the shelf.

 

“You hated the guy, though. Right?” David asked, clutching his double espresso in his pudgy hand.

“He was crappy to me, but I didn't want him dead.”

“Or did you?” David asked, leaning across the
table. His eyes gleamed the way they always did when he was joking around. “I bet you snapped like a glow stick and got all R. Kelly. You decided it was time to teach the word jockey a lesson, so you snuck over to his house and…PAC!”

“PAC?”

“Popped a cap,” David said, lifting his cup for another sip.

Jonathan laughed, despite finding the whole subject unnerving. “They said he was smothered. Besides, how could I get his body fifteen feet into a tree? He weighed like a thousand pounds.”

“Don't mock the girth,” David said, patting his belly. “Whoever did it probably hauled him up there with some rope.”

“But why do it?” Jonathan wanted to know. “I mean, it's just creep-show stupid.”

“Maybe they wanted to play piñata.”

“Come on,” Jonathan said.

“What? I don't know who'd off him, but my guess is the cops'll have caught the guy before the evening news. I mean, someone had to see something.”

“I guess.”

Mr. Weaver's death hung over him like a light,
scratchy sheet. He even felt guilty for imagining the guy popping like a balloon, which was stupid, he knew. But he couldn't help feeling it.

He wanted to talk about something else, so he reached across the table and lifted the book David had brought with him on break. Turned out this distraction was little better than what it was meant to distract. The cover was black with red lettering.

History of the Occult
, the title read.

“You've got to be kidding.”

“It's for a class,” David said. “I've got a paper due next week.”

“I thought Melling only let you study hard-core brain data.”

“Indeed,” David said. “My thesis is about how magic was the first science and the first religion. Well, more about being the first science because Melling High fears God talk. But it's like they used magic for medicine, right? So my theory is they approached this from a pseudo-scientific perspective. Trying potions, changing ingredients until they found something that sort of worked. But most early cultures thought sickness had a spiritual cause, right? Possession? Curses? So they
added chants and rituals to ward off the evil.”

“Move over, Merck pharmaceuticals.”

“Don't be laughin' at the mojo,” David said. “Some of the stuff I've read is pretty serious. It'll be a cool paper.”

“No doubt.” Jonathan didn't want to talk about magic any more than he wanted to talk about Mr. Weaver's death. He sat quietly. Drank his coffee.

“Oh,” David said, straightening up in his chair, “I think we have a solid eight at one o'clock.”

Jonathan turned in his chair and looked across the café to where David indicated. Kirsty Sabine, from his English class, stepped onto the mezzanine where the coffee shop was located. She looked around, cautiously like she expected someone to throw something at her. After scanning the room, she ducked her head and walked to the counter.

“She goes to my school,” Jonathan said. “You think she's an eight?”

“What? You don't?”

“Maybe a five.”

“No, your mother is a five.
She's
an eight. Besides, what do you care? You already have a fictional relationship with a certain Miss Emma.”

“Thanks,” Jonathan said, embarrassed. “I thought we weren't going to bring that up again.”

“Hey, I'm just saying you can't hog all the hotness. The rest of us need imaginary girlfriends too. What's her name?”

“Kirsty.”

“Niiice,” David said. “Spill. Does she like her men ample or what?”

Jonathan laughed. “Yeah, man. She transferred in at the beginning of the year, and the first thing she said was ‘Where are all the chunky guys?'”

“You're just jealous. You know women like a guy with something they can hold on to. They find a little bulk comforting.”

“And what twisted talk show told you that?”

“The one in my head,” David said. “So, does she have a boyfriend or what?”

“I don't think so. She's always alone at school.”
Kind of like me
, Jonathan thought. He looked toward the counter and saw Kirsty paying for her coffee. He tried to see her the way David did, as an eight, but it just wasn't there. Like all girls, he compared her to Emma O'Neil, and to his mind, Kirsty just didn't come close. Maybe no girl could.

“She's making my pants tight,” David said.

“Thanks for sharing,” Jonathan said. “Why don't you go over there and tell her? I'm sure she'd be thrilled to hear it.”

“No. I have to play it cool.”

“As in…watching her until she leaves and never seeing her again?”

“Yes,” David said. “Exactly. It's foolproof.”

Jonathan couldn't argue against the point. That was basically his tack with Emma. Just sit and watch and dream.

Kirsty carried her coffee to a small table in the back, where Jonathan could see her over David's shoulder. She sat down and immediately opened a book. She lowered her head to read, and her hair fell forward like a curtain to hide her face.

“What's she doing?” David asked. “She's scoping me, right? Looking at the Hulk of Love?”

“She's reading.”

“She's way into me,” David said, obviously joking. “Hey, we have a new entry into the Dictionary of David.
She's way into me
: SWIM.” He laughed. “Yeah, and she's swimmin' with the sharks now, boy.”

“Whales maybe.”

“Unkind,” David said. “Harsh and unkind.”

“So, what's up for tonight?” Jonathan asked. He was tired of talking about Kirsty Sabine.

“The usual, I guess,” David said, draining the last drops of coffee from his cup. “Rent a couple of DVDs, maybe play some PS3.”

“Are your parents home?”

“Are my parents
ever
home?”

Monday afternoon Jonathan walked into English class and felt an uncomfortable tug in his chest. A substitute teacher stood at the front of the room, drawing on the blackboard. She was a fine-looking woman, wearing black slacks and a red blouse. But seeing her just made him think about Mr. Weaver. He'd watched the news over the weekend and saw the reports of Mr. Weaver's death, but it didn't seem quite real. Not until now, not until he saw the man's replacement scratching out couplets with colored chalk. He felt awful.

Emma O'Neil was sitting in her chair when Jonathan entered the room. He passed by her, hoping she'd say hi, but her head was down. He could
see a sheen of tears on her cheeks. She was mourning for Mr. Weaver, and it made Jonathan feel worse. He crossed the room to his desk near the back, sat down, and rested his chin on his hand.

In his thoughts he didn't go to his chair. No. In his mind, where he could muster bravery, he stopped at Emma's desk and knelt down beside her, put his arm around her shoulders. “It's okay,” he said. “Mr. Weaver is in a better place.” This made Emma cry, purging the rest of her sadness as she pushed in close to take comfort from Jonathan's embrace. He felt the spiky locks of her hair on his cheek, smelled her perfume, which he imagined smelled like flowers. “I'm here if you need to talk,” his brave mind-self whispered.

The daydream warmed him. He wished he could be the person he imagined. Emma looked so miserable, and he wanted to do anything he could to make it stop. She shouldn't be unhappy.

Once the other kids arrived and took their seats, the substitute, Mrs. Taylor, said, “I'm sure you're all very upset about Mr. Weaver's passing, but we'll try to honor his memory by continuing his work.”

That's all she said about his dead teacher. It didn't really seem like enough, though Jonathan couldn't say he wanted to hear any more. Checking on Emma, he saw that she was barely keeping it together, and perhaps the less said about Mr. Weaver, the better.

To add to his unease, Kirsty Sabine looked at him during class. Not once. Not twice. But three times Jonathan glanced toward the window and caught the girl looking his way. She was slightly turned in her chair, peering from the corner of her eye. The moment Jonathan noticed her, she looked down or toward the window. Her attention made him uncomfortable, but it wasn't a bad kind of uncomfortable exactly. He may not have thought she was an eight like David did, but a girl was looking at him, and she wasn't pointing or laughing. She was just checking him out.

SWIM
, Jonathan thought.
Now she's swimmin' with the guppies, boy
.

After class Jonathan stood in the hall by the door, checking up and down the hallway for the Roid Patrol before he attempted to drop off books at his locker. He watched Emma emerge from the class and wander, head down, away from him. His
heart ached with each step she took. Classmates filed past him, chatting excitedly about Mr. Weaver or their weekends or both. Finding the coast was clear—no Toby or Cade or Ox in sight—he entered the stream of students moving along the halls. He made it to his locker with no bone-jangling collision and shoved his English text inside. Retrieving his geometry book, he felt an odd tingle rise up on the back of his neck, as if someone were dancing their fingers very near the skin there.

Jonathan closed his locker and was surprised to see Kirsty Sabine. She stood ten lockers down, pushed tight against them as the river of students passed. She looked right at him and, this time, didn't turn away when he noticed.

Instead, she smiled. She lifted her hand in a shy wave.

He nodded his head and quickly looked at the floor, then at his shoes. When he looked up, he turned his head, pretending to watch the herd of students, searching for Kirsty in the corner of his eye.

But she was already gone.

Jonathan scanned the wall where Kirsty had stood but didn't see her. He didn't even catch a
glimpse of her in the crowd.

Then Toby Skabich came up from behind and rammed Jonathan with his shoulder. Jonathan lifted off the ground and hit the wall of lockers.

The audience of padlocks applauded.

 

“Are the Roid Patrol still doing that?” David asked. “I thought they stopped.”

“They never stopped,” Jonathan replied. He adjusted the phone against his ear. “I just stopped talking about it.”

“Well, if it's any consolation, Toby and his boys are going to grow up to be used-car salesmen. Their greatest achievement will likely be beating a series of date-rape charges.”

“I'm really getting tired of it.”

“I thought your school had a zero-tolerance policy.”

“What my school has is a winning football team, the first in like a thousand years. No one is going to do a thing unless there's actual bloodshed. Besides, if I narc them out, they'll just hit me harder.”

“I say grab a gun and PAC.”

“Knock it off, David. Those guys are graduating
this year. As long as I can make it to June without a concussion, I'll be fine.”

“Well,” David said. “Someone should do something.”