Guy Langman, Crime Scene Procrastinator (11 page)

“The sooner I’m out of here, the better,” he says. He gestures toward the mostly empty bus, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t just mean the bus. “For everyone.”

“And the sooner you can get into that family business,” I say, ignoring that final low-self-esteem comment and trying to encourage Hairston to be happy.

“The business of business,” he says, “does not interest me.”

What does interest him? I don’t ask. Do I want to know? Not really. “Hey, you should come back to Forensics! It’s pretty fun.” Why do I say that? Do I even think it?

“I do enjoy Forensics,” he says. “But I decided I did not wish to belong to any club which would have me as a member.”

“Groucho Marx!” I say. “One of my dad’s favorites.”

“Plus it cut into the time I reserve for my hobbies.”

“Okay, sure,” I say. “Stamp-collecting, stuff like that?”

“Something like that,” he says with an evil grin. Then he changes the subject. “Hey, sorry about your dad,” Hairston says. The bus swings to a stop outside of school. I am glad I don’t have to think too much about how to respond to that.

“Okay, see you later, dude!” I blurt. I make my way past the empty rows. “School-bus lady,” I say. “I’m onto you.”

“Have a great day,” she sings like it’s the final refrain of a great Broadway show tune.

“I’m onto you,” I say.

Being Anoop-less, my day is lonely. Here’s there, but he’s not there. It’s especially bad at lunch. Where is he? I look around. Just, you know, taking in the sights. Enjoying the institutional orange-colored walls and the view of the parking lot. Shut up, I’m not looking for Anoop. I don’t care where he is. I think about trying to find Hairston, of all people, just to have someone to shoot the breeze with, but even he is nowhere to be found. It’s a weird feeling, the sensation that everyone in the world is avoiding you. The cafeteria is filled with a thousand little dramas, fights and teasing and studying and obsessive panic over stuff that pretty clearly doesn’t mean anything. Everyone is fixing their hair all the time. For what? I feel deep with these kinds of thoughts as I sit alone eating my pesto and leeks (or whatever).

More deep thoughts: Maybe someday I’ll leave all the nonsense of life behind and go live on top of a mountain. What did Dad say about that, though? “People who try to escape life are really just trying to escape their own minds. Which is unfortunate because of how it’s strapped inside your head.” Something like that. True enough. Plus, mountains are really high up there. Not a big fan of climbing. And no matter where you are, you still have to look at your
tuchus
in the mirror every morning. I pass through the rest of the day having thoughts like this. Trying to focus on literature, failing. Trying to care about Social Studies, failing. Trying to pretend I’m a real person living a real life. Failing.

I do go to Forensics Squad after school. As soon as I enter the dungeon, the mood feels strange. No Anoop. I am wondering if Maureen will be cool toward me like she was when she offered a ride or totally weird to me like she was in the car. Was it her mom who made her act weird? Did people hear that I invited Penis-Head to come back? What if he shows up?

Maureen Fields walks in. She catches my eye. No, not like that. It’s her outfit. She has on black and gray camouflage-patterned pants and a black army-style jacket studded with bright silver points up and down the collar. It gives her the look of a soldier with rounds of bullets strapped to her chest. Her books are crammed into an army surplus backpack that has been turned nearly black with scrawlings from what must have been a whole case of black markers. The only part of her outfit with any touch of color is her hair—the bangs of which have been bleached and then died a shocking pink. You wouldn’t dress like that unless you wanted people to comment on it, right? One would think. One would be wrong.

“Hey, MF, nice look,” I say. She scowls. I can see her jaw muscles working. She is literally grinding her teeth at me. “I did not ask for your approval, Guy,” she says.

“Dude, I’m just saying I like it.”

“Don’t call me dude.”

“What the hell?” I ask. “What did I say?”

“I know you’re going to make fun of me, and I’m not in the mood to hear it. I could make fun of your outfit if I wanted to.”

I am wearing the standard GL ensemble, the most classic outfit the world has ever known: white T-shirt, jeans, and Chuck Taylor sneakers.

“I don’t want you to make fun of me, no. But I also feel
like pointing out that I’m dressed in a way that is beyond reproach.”

“Beyond reproach?”

“Beyond reproach.”

“Your shoes are untied.”

“Why tie them? They’re just going to have to be untied again anyway.”

“That’s like saying ‘Why breathe in? You have to breathe out eventually.’ ”

“Exactly.”

“So why live at all? Why even bother existing if you’re just going to coast through, doing as little as possible? Why be just another sheep to the slaughter, another cog in the wheel, another boring asshole in jeans and a T-shirt?”

“I may be an asshole, but I am not boring.”

“I don’t know why I even bother talking to you, ever. Consider this our last chat.” She takes out a pen and starts writing.

The idea of Maureen not talking to me bothers me a little bit for a reason I can’t place. I decide to reach out a little.

“Hey, I’m sorry. Listen. Can I tell you a secret?”

She keeps her arms folded and her eyes narrowed, but I see a hint of a smile at the edges of her mouth. No one can resist a secret.

“You better not be messing with me,” she says.

“Totally serious,” I say. She uncrosses her arms. I continue. “I know they are pretty ridiculous, but damn, I sort of want to start wearing ascots.”

“What?”

“Ascots. Like scarves. My dad used to wear one.”

Her mouth opens widely and her eyes light up. She is like a whole new Maureen all of a sudden.

“What did I say?”

“I love ascots!” she says.

“Are you breaking my balls? I know ascots are pretty dumb, but—”

“No, I mean, yes, but that’s why they’re awesome. I really think you should start wearing an ascot.”

“Maybe I will, someday,” I say. “Someday I will.”

I have a hard time picturing myself making good on the promise, but the thought makes me smile. Is there any reason you can’t show up at high school wearing an ascot? Not really.

Now it’s Forensics Time, MFs! Mr. Zant scheduled an extra session this week for a “very special” lesson. I can barely contain my excitement. Mr. Zant walks in with a laptop under his arm. “Can anyone guess what we’ll be doing today?” he asks the group. What’s left of us, anyway. So weird that I outlasted Anoop.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say we’re doing some computer forensics,” TK says. “Call me crazy.”

“You
are
crazy,” Mr. Zant says. Then he does that thing where he cocks his head sideways and freezes his mouth into an eerie smile. He holds it for seriously a minute or longer, which might not seem that long, but is pretty insane to see in person. Then he shakes it off and resumes talking. “You are close, T-to-the-K,” he says. “But in fact today’s forensics lesson is specifically on fractography.”

Maureen looks really pleased. Big fractography fan over here, I guess. While Zant talks—okay, it’s sort of cool that fractography
is “the way things break”—I think about Maureen and how she seems like she hates me, but then maybe not? Why does she know about fractography? Does she read books on forensics for fun? And should I really start wearing an ascot? And then, yeah, I go back to thinking about Raquel and Anoop. Should I just be happy for them? It’s so weird. Looking at the two of them, you’d imagine that she probably wouldn’t let him sniff her bra if he was the last guy on earth. Wait: Why would he even want to sniff her bra? Do I want to? Kinda. And why does the thought give me a boner? And why does Mr. Zant call on me right as I am sprouting a healthy wood?

“Could you repeat the question, Mr. Z?” I ask. My voice is about four octaves too high on the word “you,” and the word “question” comes out like “quest-ee-own” for some reason. I’m so pathetic.

“Just asking if you’d like to come up to get a better look at the screen like the rest of us,” he says. I hadn’t noticed that everyone else had gotten out of their seats and was gathered around Mr. Z’s laptop. He is showing close-up images of two broken bottles. He is explaining how you can tell that one was broken by severe force, while the other was dropped to the ground. All that just from some broken glass. It caught a murderer too. I kinda
do
want to see it. If I weren’t having this, um, situation. In my pants.

“I’m just going to stay here, if that’s cool,” I say, trying to sound, well, cool. Probably failing.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“Yeah, sounds fascinating,” I say. “But I’m just gonna chill back here for a bit.”

“Are you sure?” he asks. “Really sure?”

“Yes!” I yell.

Now I’m just going to go ahead and put this out there as a general public-service announcement if any teachers happen to be reading this. If a guy (or Guy) in your high school class is acting weird about standing up for some reason, and is making excuses for not coming to the board or coming over to see your laptop or whatever, the reason is clear. He has a boner. Please do not make him get up. It’s cruel. Thank you. This has been a public-service announcement brought to you by Guy Langman, Inc.

“Suit yourself,” he says. I say nothing more, choosing to quit while I am behind. Brilliant! It is actually kind of interesting, the whole fractography thing, from what I can tell safely in the boner zone in the back.

“It’s kinda poetic, the whole idea,” Maureen says. “The way things break. Everything breaks, it’s just a matter of how.”

“Poetic. I never thought of it that way,” Zant says.

Raquel rolls her eyes. She thinks she can be above everything just by being beautiful. It’s sort of annoying, really. Anoop can freaking have her.

Mr. Zant says, “We’re going to sort of take it easy for a while—Guy, I know this will be a challenge for you.” I manage a weak smile while everyone laughs. “Don’t forget to mark your calendars for our big final project. Hopefully the weather will be good and we’ll do the simulated scene in the field. I’ll plant the evidence. You’ll solve the crime.”

“Oh, I’ll solve it,” I say. “I’ll solve it indeed.” Why do I say that? No idea.

But before diving into that crime, I have some of my own research to do.

I take the “activity bus” home, which is even more sparsely populated than the morning bus. It’s just me and the creepy bus driver on the creepy short bus. I’m starting to seriously think about studying for that driver’s license. On the ride, I have basically one thought: How to find Jacques Langman? I feel proud of myself for landing the name, but I don’t know what to do with it. Would Mom be helpful? It’s not like I asked. She doesn’t even know I got as far as finding the name. And okay, I’m having two thoughts: How can I find Jacques Langman, and
should
I find Jacques Langman? Is there a reason he was kept secret from me? Probably. But wouldn’t it be nice to talk to my own freaking brother? Could anyone else on earth know what the loss of Fran is like? Maybe it would help. Closure. That’s a Dr. Waters word.

The bus drops me off, and I wander up the long, winding driveway. The trees are looking overgrown. A rainspout blew off the house in a storm a few weeks ago and is still sitting in the grass. Is that something I’m supposed to take care of now? Are we going to move? It’s crazy how these little things make me think of Dad.

When I get to the door, I see another little bit of life that hasn’t been taken care of—a phone book was delivered and never brought in. The phone book seems like such a useless thing in today’s world. Who uses a phone book these days? It can sit out there, rotting forever, for all I care. But then, hey, I have a thought. What if Jacques Langman lives nearby? Would his number be listed in there? Could it be that easy?

I lift the book out of the bag. It’s a little wet, but I can still read it okay. I flip through and find the “L’s.” And oh man, the only Langman in the phone book is Francis. Pretty weird, seeing
it there. The name and number of a dead man. You never think about stuff like that. Should we notify someone? I flip through the pages, wondering, How many dead people are in the phone book? Weird thought. I scan the names. Every one of them will die someday. This giant, hefty book. Corpses all, one day. Nice. Obsessive thoughts of death are a major sign of depression, says Dr. Waters. Maybe obsessive thoughts of death are just a sign that you’re paying attention to life.

I scan the pages, not looking for anything in particular. Then I see someone whose last name is “Boner” and I laugh out loud. Frank Boner. There are actually a whole clan of them. Steve Boner, Jill Boner. A whole crew of Boners. Family reunions must be a trip. What do you call a group of Boners? Is there a word for it? A flock of Boners? Sounds right. I had a flock of boners in Forensics today.

I flip through the book a bit more and another thought crosses my mind. Hairston Danforth. Maybe I could look up Penis-Head and see if he could help me locate Jacques. If it’s true that he’s got hacker skills, maybe he knows where to find stuff like that. He could snoop around somehow and figure things out. I’m a good snoop myself, and I have the number within seconds. Okay, it’s right there in black and white, hardly a secret. His father’s name is also Hairston, of course, so under
DANFORTH, HAIRSTON
, a number is listed. I unlock the door of Langman Manor and head into the house. I find myself pressing the numbers on the alarm, but there’s no reason to disarm it. Mom never remembers to set it, and neither do I. But I still find myself disarming it, as if Dad were still here. I find it easy to see why people believe in ghosts.

I toss the phone book onto the granite countertop, pick up
the phone, and dial the number for the Danforth residence. Sure enough, Penis-Head picks up.

“Hey, Hairston,” I say. “Frank Boner here.” I don’t know why I say it. He says nothing. It sounds like he’s about to hang up. I don’t want to lose my chance, so I quickly yell, “J/K! It’s Guy Langman from school. How’s it going?”