The Boy Who Killed Grant Parker (18 page)

The diner really does have good pie.

As much as I wanted to leave the house, escape Dad and Doris, I was afraid to face the judgment of the townspeople. Though I no longer worried about pitchforks and burning crosses, I couldn't bring myself to walk into an environment where people would stare at me and talk about me behind their hands.

When I thought about it, I couldn't imagine life beyond my four bedroom walls now. Couldn't imagine a return to school or my job. Now I was like one of those kids who had to be raised in a sterile bubble. Maybe a tutor would come to the house and I would live out my days with no contact from the outside world.

Other than Chief Perry, Roger, and Delilah, no one else seemed to know or accept the turn of events that had led to Grant being comatose. Had I told Penny the truth, told her the real story, she might have spread the rumor through town about what had really happened.

The only people who knew the truth were not the ones who would gossip about it at church or the diner. I thought about reaching out to the media, had thought about calling the reporter who had come looking for a quote from me for his article. The article did mention me. Again, not by name, but there was a picture of the house. In black and white, the image of Dad's house looked almost sinister, the azaleas crouched along the foundation as if concealing some ugly truth. It reminded me of the photos you see of a serial killer's house after the FBI has removed all of the body parts from under the porch.

Part of me wanted to tell my side of the story, but there was something nagging there. I couldn't bring myself to admit my cowardice—to speak openly about Grant's mistreatment of me and the humiliation I had suffered at his hands.

The more I thought about the whole situation, the angrier I got. Grant was a fool. He had started the whole thing—set me up to be covered in cowshit, circulated the story about it to humiliate me at school, driven Penny away by treating her like crap, and taken every opportunity to make me look like a fool in the eyes of everyone. He led us to the showdown at Roger's garage, and then had thrown himself into the grease pit without any assistance from me. And now I was branded a troublemaker and an attempted murderer, while he rested comfortably on life support in the hospital, the whole town weeping crocodile tears for him.

I held on to that sense of indignation. As long as I was angry with Grant, there wasn't room to feel anything else. The anger banished embarrassment for myself and pity for him and gave me strength.

Ultimately it was the anger that fueled me when it came time to face the people at school again. Monday morning Dad forced my return to school by threatening to call the sheriff's office to have me escorted if I wouldn't go willingly.

I summoned the anger and indignation, used it as an internal pilot light, and decided I would return to Wakefield High School not as an attempted murderer, the way I had felt since the night of Grant's accident, but as a victim of circumstance. I would return as David who had slain the giant. The way Penny saw me.

If anybody thought I was really guilty of something, well …

 … fuck them.

*   *   *

The Camaro was road-ready now, and I drove it to school for the first time that Monday. As I passed Main Street, the road that would lead out of town, I hesitated at the stop sign. I could turn right, follow Main Street out of town toward the ribbon of highway that would deliver me to a hundred cities where I could be a nobody, instead of the boy who tried to kill Grant Parker.

It didn't take long for me to calculate how far the ten dollars in my pocket would get me. With the gas mileage of the Camaro I might make it as far as the next town. But I would still be in Tennessee. Still in hell.

My attitude of confidence and disinterest in the opinions of others slowly waned on the ride to school. As I pulled into the student parking lot, my heart began to thunder in my chest. By the time I cut the ignition, my hands were shaking and I had trouble catching my breath.

“Shit. Shit. Shit,” I said in a hoarse whisper as I put my forehead against the steering wheel and squeezed my eyes shut.

My body betrayed me again and I was motivated out of the car by the sudden and desperate need to go to the bathroom. The stress of the whole situation had been making my stomach ache, and everything I ate had the same effect—powerful cramping and the need to shit almost immediately after every meal.

So there I was, walking toward school, backpack over one shoulder, earbuds set at top volume, and asshole clamped tight for fear of crapping my pants—an act that would have been one hundred times more mortifying than killing one of my classmates.

As I approached the main entrance, the needle scratched across the record and everything … everything … stopped. People stood in awe as they watched my approach in slack-jawed silence.

Welcome to hell.

 

28

If you've ever had the sense that someone is watching you, imagine that feeling multiplied by one million. Actually, imagine that feeling amplified to the millionth power, and you will get a sense of what I felt like that morning, my first day back at school after the maiming of Grant Parker.

On my way to homeroom I walked with my head down, eyes on the floor. I hesitated at the doorway to homeroom, took a deep breath, then dove in headfirst.

All conversation halted when I walked in, and the squeak of my shoes against the linoleum tile echoed like a siren through the room. Even Ms. Bartlett was still, her eyes tracking me as I passed through the room.

I took my seat in the third row, and every head in the room swiveled at the same time to turn and stare at me. It was impossible to keep my gaze focused on something neutral, like the top of my desk, with everyone watching me.

The final bell rang, and the loudspeaker in the room crackled as the office began morning announcements. I imagined the morning announcements would include a moment of silence or a prayer for Grant Parker, but there was no mention of Wakefield's fallen knight.

When the bell rang, dismissing us to first period, the spell was broken. The volume in the hallway was back to normal as people chatted at their lockers and hurried to class. And as when I had returned after my first altercation with Grant, people treated me like I was one of their own. Hell, people were downright friendly—said hello to me in the hallways, even greeting me by name.

At the very least I had expected anger and alienation from Grant's friends. But no one came after me, no one said anything rude or mean, and … no one really seemed to miss Grant Parker.

I passed Skip or Chet in the hallway, and he even gave me a friendly, “What's up, brah?” with a nod and a crack of his gum.

There was still a mountain of flowers and mementos piled around the home goalpost from the prayer vigil and memorial assembly at school. In a way, it was like Grant Parker was dead.

But he wasn't.

Grant had been like a god to the students at Wakefield. But not the sympathetic, compassionate God of the New Testament. He had been like the Old Testament God—a God of power and intimidation. He ignored the needs of the students at Wakefield while demanding their worship and sacrifice.

I expected to get called into Principal Sherman's office that morning, for him to give me some warning about not assaulting or murdering any of my other classmates. But the summons never came.

I did see Principal Sherman once between morning classes, as I passed through the lobby. But instead of a warning look or a frown, he merely turned his head, pretending as if he didn't see me, and busied himself with straightening a banner suspended from a hook on the brick wall.

At lunch I went quickly to the table I had shared with Don, Aaron, and Josh since the first day of school. The three of them were already there, Aaron and Don leaning toward each other over the tabletop in such earnest conversation that I knew they were talking about me.

Don and Aaron both sat back when they noticed my approach, their guilty expressions letting me know they really had been talking about me. At first they appeared scared, all three with eyes wide, as I took my place among them. I started to unpack my lunch without even saying hello, but after a minute they were all staring at me so intently I couldn't keep my cool.

“Stop staring at me,” I hissed as I cut my eyes to the tables around us to gauge if we were being watched.

“Holy. Shit.” A nervous smile played at the corners of Don's mouth as he said this.

“No shit,” Aaron said in agreement.

I ignored them. “Where the fuck have you been?” I asked Josh, noting this was his first return to our lunch table since Grant had started harassing me.

Josh still didn't speak, but he seemed more relaxed in his seat, his torso no longer hunched forward to protect his soft underbelly.

“It's safe now,” Don said, “with Grant gone.”

“Thanks to you,” Aaron added, and Don and Josh both nodded eagerly in agreement.

“
Not
thanks to me,” I said. “Grant came after me.…”

“I know,” Don said. “And you stood up to him. We never have to worry about Grant Parker again.”

“He's not dead,” I shot back defensively.

“He's in a coma,” Don said.

“Probably paralyzed for life,” Aaron added.

“Shut your mouth,” I said with too much force. Aaron winced, his body retreating from mine instinctively, and it startled me. He really was scared. Was convinced I had faced Grant one-on-one and bested him.

I let my anger cool before speaking again. “All I'm saying is, he's not dead. He could still come out of the coma. Be okay.”

Don and Aaron exchanged a look full of meaning, and they quietly chewed their food while they considered my reaction.

“If”—Don caught my look and quickly edited himself—“
when
Grant comes out of his coma, I don't think he'll be bothering you anymore.”

Because he'll be a vegetable.

I was learning to hate the voice inside of me. It was always there, providing editorials that stole my calm.

“Look,” Don said, “everyone knows it was self-defense. Grant was a bully. He came after you at Roger's garage. It's not like anyone thinks you're a murderer or something.”

“Right,” I said. “Because Grant
isn't
dead. It was just a stupid accident.”

“Of course,” Don said, his tone placating, soothing.

“I don't want to talk about it.”

I was so intent on my conversation with them that I didn't notice as Penny approached our table.

“Luke,” she said, her tone questioning as she looked at Don, Aaron, and Josh, then back to me with bewilderment. “What are you doing?”

My body reacted to Penny's proximity with alarm bells in my stomach and groin. I was instantly transported back to last Wednesday night in my bedroom.

“I'm … eating,” I said, my voice rising with a question.

She laughed, almost nervously, and looked quickly over both shoulders, as if to make sure no one was within earshot.

“Here?” she asked, her tone questioning but at the same time clearly disapproving.

“Hello, Penny,” Don said, obvious pride in his voice as he greeted her boldly.

“Oh … uh, hi … Don.” The veneer of politeness was there, but she seemed unsure how to react to one of the lowly LARPers addressing her directly.

“Did you want to sit?” Don asked as he grabbed his lunch and slid down eighteen inches to make room for her on the end of the bench.

Penny looked stricken and her eyes turned to me, pleading. Then she composed herself and straightened her shoulders, her delicate collarbones shifting under her shirtfront. “I was just coming to get Luke.” She said this with a meaningful widening of her eyes and a small jerk of her head, summoning me toward her. “Aren't you going to sit with me, Luke?” she asked.

“I … yes. Sure,” I said as I rose partway from my seat, watching her face for approval.

I untangled myself from the bench and awkwardly gathered my sandwich and bag of chips.

Her face smoothed with relief, and she turned her body away from the table as I took up my place by her side. “See you guys later,” Penny said cheerily.

As we walked away from the table, I realized where we were headed, straight for the table next to the window, the table usually reserved for Grant and his disciples.

 

29

I was welcomed like a long-lost brother at the table where Grant once held court. There was only a moment of uncomfortable quiet as everyone adjusted to the new social order. Grant was gone—at least temporarily—and they seemed to want me to take his place among them. These people were all Grant's friends, had known him since birth. These were the same people who had laughed at my expense during the cow-tipping incident. They were my sworn enemies, my tormentors.

They reminded me of a pride of lions. The king of the pride loses his seat of honor when a younger lion beats him in combat, and the old lion is killed or slinks away to lick his wounds in solitude. The pride then naturally coalesces around their new leader as he takes the alpha female as his mate.

As much as I wanted to be angry or dislike them for their former treatment of me, they quickly drew me in with their small talk. When someone dropped an inside joke, one of them would offer me an aside, lean in to quickly explain the foundation of the joke so I could be in on it. They were bright and witty and fun with their banter. And all of them were impossibly good-looking.

The girls all had names like Blanche or Josephine or Annette, old-fashioned names that had once belonged to their great-grandmothers, and they nibbled carefully portioned meals with restricted calories. Skip and Chet were there, though I was still unsure which was Skip and which Chet. I tried to focus, pay attention to the conversation to determine which was which when the others addressed them, but the conversation was so fluid and their reactions to the mention of their names so ambiguous that I never did manage to place a face with a name.