The Confession (7 page)

T
he weather was all wrong for Al's funeral. Sunny and beautiful, with a warm spring breeze carrying the scent of cherry blossoms.

My first funeral, I thought. It should be gloomy out, foggy with a cold drizzle of rain.

Mom didn't want me to go to the funeral. She was trying to protect me. I'm not sure from what.

I told her that Hillary, Sandy, and all my friends planned to be there. So there was no way I could stay home.

True, I kept having nightmares about Al.

Who wouldn't have nightmares after finding a friend strangled in an alley with a skate shoved down his throat?

But I didn't think that going to the funeral would add to my horror—or my nightmares. In a way, the
funeral might close this sad and frightening chapter of my life.

At least, that's what I hoped.

As I dressed for the church, pulling on my dark skirt and buttoning my black linen blouse, I had no idea that the horror was just beginning.

I rode with my parents to the church. Mom and Dad didn't know Al's family that well. But they felt they should attend the funeral since Al had been my friend.

No one said a word the whole way. Dad kept his eyes straight ahead on the road. I stared out the window, watching the blur of green from the new leaves on the trees. Thinking about what a beautiful day it was, and how strange it felt to be going to a funeral on such a sunny, cheery day.

The church stood on a low hill outside of town where Division Street meets the highway. A small, white church. A brass bell in the steeple glowed brightly, reflecting the sunlight.

Large pots of white lilies at the door made the air smell sweet as we stepped inside. Most of the long, dark-wood pews were already filled. I recognized a lot of kids from school and a few teachers.

Mom and Dad slid into seats near the back. I walked down the aisle to talk to Hillary and some other kids. They were clustered near the front, somber expressions on their faces, talking in low tones over the organ music.

Everyone was so dressed up. The boys looked stiff and awkward in their ties and dark blazers. It was all so unreal, like a scene in a movie.

That's what I remember about the funeral.

The boys so uncomfortable in ties and jackets. The soft, unnatural whispers, barely loud enough to be heard over the mournful, depressing organ music.

The smell of lilies. So sweet it became overpowering.

The cold, damp touch of Hillary's hand as she gripped my arm in greeting.

The long, dark coffin in front of us.

Al couldn't really be lying inside it—could he?

A tiny woman with tight curls of white hair, her head bowed, her lips moving, tears dripping onto the lap of her black dress.

Those are the things I remember.

And the whispered rumors.

Someone said that Al's mother was too overcome to attend the funeral. She had to be sedated and was in the hospital.

Someone said that Al's father had offered a reward to anyone who helped find the killer.

Someone said that the police knew who the killer was. That it was one of Al's friends from Waynesbridge. He had run off, and the police were searching for him.

Rumors. And the smell of the lilies. And the tiny woman letting her tears fall onto her lap.

I remember all that.

And the faces of my friends.

I had a seat in a side pew. I could see all of my friends, their faces pale and drawn and sad. While the minister talked, my eyes moved from one to another.

Sandy leaned forward in the pew, elbows on the bench in front of him, his face buried in his hands. I waited for him to sit back up. But he didn't.

Vincent's features were set and hard. I could see him clenching and unclenching his jaw. He stared straight ahead blankly, as if he were thinking himself somewhere else, somewhere far, far away.

Hillary's face was a blank. I couldn't read it at all. She sat erect, one hand toying with her long, black braid, tugging it, smoothing it. No expression.

Taylor cried softly into a wadded-up tissue. Her white-blond hair had been pinned up on her head. But it had come loose and fell over her face as she dabbed at her eyes.

These aren't the faces of murderers, I thought, watching them, studying them as the minister droned on in front of Al's coffin.

I know these kids.

These are my friends.

Not murderers. Not murderers. Not murderers.

♦ ♦ ♦

After the funeral, we all met at Sandy's house. Sandy's mom put out plates of sandwiches, which we gobbled up. We were starving!

We all chattered at the same time. We were all tense, I think. Eager to put the funeral behind us. It wasn't easy since we were still in our funeral clothes.

Vincent pulled off his tie and looped it around his forehead. He seemed a little more like himself. I
think he was relieved that his parents allowed him to come to Sandy's house. He'd been grounded for days!

He told us a story about his grandmother's funeral. According to Vincent, she had been a very proper person, very strict, very eager that everything should be done in the right way.

The priest gave a touching eulogy that had everyone in tears, Vincent told us. Then the coffin was opened so that everyone could file past and pay last respects.

But when they opened the coffin, the church filled with horrified gasps. Vincent's grandmother was not inside. Instead, everyone stared at an enormous, three-hundred-pound bald man with a bushy Santa Claus beard.

The wrong coffin had been delivered to the church.

The gasps turned to shocked giggles. Then the church echoed with laughter. “People roared,” Vincent told us gleefully. “They rolled in the aisles. Really. It was so perfect. My grandmother spent her whole life complaining that no one ever did anything the proper way—and she was
right!”

We all laughed. Everyone but Sandy. He seemed even more tense than usual. He stood by himself beside the mantel. He had picked up a small bronze bust of himself and was rolling it nervously between his hands.

Sandy's mom is a shrink, but she's also a really talented sculptor. The living room is filled with heads she did of Sandy and Sandy's older sister
Gretchen, who is away at college at Cornell. The likenesses are perfect.

I watched Sandy move the bronze head from hand to hand. He barely listened to Vincent's story. I was surprised that he wasn't paying any attention at all to Taylor.

Taylor and Hillary were talking quietly on the couch. Taylor had pinned her hair back up. Even from across the room, I could see that her eyes were red-rimmed from crying.

“Are you still grounded?” I asked Vincent. “Or did your parents spring you?”

I don't think he heard me. He had his eyes on Taylor. And then he stepped away from me, walking rapidly, and made his way to the kitchen. “Anyone want a Coke or anything?” he called.

I followed him into the kitchen. He had the refrigerator door open and was bending inside. “Are you okay?” I asked.

He pulled out a can of Mountain Dew and stood up. He shrugged. “I guess. It's all pretty weird, isn't it?”

“Yeah. Weird,” I agreed.

He popped the top on the can. “Are you okay, Julie? Do you have nightmares or anything? I mean, you're the one who found him there. It must have been … ”

“I keep picturing it all the time,” I confessed. “My parents say it will take a while. They think—”

I stopped when I heard Sandy calling us from the living room. Vincent took a long drink from the
soda can. Then we turned and made our way back to the living room to see why Sandy was calling.

“In here,” he said. He ushered us into the den. I tried to read his expression. He avoided my gaze. “In here, everyone.” His voice sounded tense, hoarse.

“What's this about?” Taylor demanded.

He muttered something, keeping his eyes on the floor. I couldn't hear him. I don't think Taylor did either.

We all perched around the small, cork-paneled den. Sandy carefully closed the door behind him. “I—I want to tell you something,” he said softly. He still held the small, bronze bust of himself between his hands.

“Are you
selling
that thing?” Vincent joked. “Or do you just love yourself?”

Taylor laughed. Hillary and I exchanged glances.

What was Sandy's problem? I wondered. What kind of big announcement did he want to make?

Sandy coughed and cleared his throat. He set the bronze head down on a bookshelf. “I'm only telling you guys this because you're my friends and I trust you,” he said, speaking rapidly, his eyes on the window behind my head.

I saw Vincent open his mouth, probably to crack another joke. I shook my head and signaled “no” with my eyes. Vincent dropped back against his chair.

“I want to tell you this, and I don't want to tell you,” Sandy said mysteriously. “But I feel that …
I feel that … ” His voice trembled. He took a deep breath. “I feel that I have to tell you.”

“Sandy—what
is
it?” Taylor cried, jumping to her feet.

“Well … ” Sandy cleared his throat again. “I—I have a confession to make. You see, I'm the one. I'm the one who killed Al.”

Chapter

12

“T
hat's not funny!” I shrieked.

Taylor gasped and drew her hand to her mouth.

Behind her glasses, Hillary narrowed her eyes at Sandy but didn't react.

“You're joking—right?” Vincent demanded, setting down the soda can and climbing to his feet. “What a
sick
joke, man.”

Sandy let out a hoarse cry. “It's not a joke, Vincent. I'm not joking. I'm telling you all the truth.”

“Noooo!” Taylor shrieked, her eyes wild.

“I did it,” Sandy insisted. “I killed Al. You're my friends. I want you to know the truth. I know you will keep my secret.”

“Whoa—!” Vincent murmured.

Cold shivers ran down my back. One after the
other. I stared at Sandy. I heard his words. But I didn't believe them.

I didn't
want
to believe them.

“It's not true! It's not true!” Taylor wailed.

She hurtled across the den and threw her arms around Sandy, sobbing. “It's not true! I know it isn't! I know!”

Sandy grabbed her arms and gently pushed her away. “I'm sorry, Taylor. I'm really sorry. But I did it. I'm telling the truth.”

Shaking her head, Hillary stood up. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, walked to the window, and stared out into the afternoon sunlight.

Vincent gaped open-mouthed at Sandy.

I struggled to stop the shivers that shook my body. Finally, I found my voice. “But … why?” I choked out. “Why, Sandy? What made you do it?”

The room grew quiet. I could hear only Taylor's soft sobs and the rapid pounding of my heart.

“He was ruining our lives,” Sandy replied in a low voice just above a whisper. “He was ruining all of our lives. It was getting worse and worse. I—I did it for all of us.”

“But, Sandy—” I started.

“We all wanted Al to die, right?” Sandy broke in shrilly. “We all hated him—right? We all hated the way he bullied us, the way he pushed us around, the way he forced us to … to … ” His voice cracked.

“It's not true!” Taylor wailed again. “It's not true! Not true!”

“I'm sorry,” Sandy told her softly. “I'm sorry
you're so upset. But I'm
not
sorry I did what I did. I'm not sorry I killed him.”

I glanced up in time to see Hillary spin around from the window. She still had her arms tucked tightly over her chest. To my surprise, her expression was angry.

“Sandy, you shouldn't have told us,” Hillary snapped.

Sandy's eyes grew wide. He gaped at Hillary, obviously confused. “Huh? I thought—”

“You shouldn't have confessed to us,” Hillary insisted. “Now you've made us all part of it. That isn't fair.”

“But—but … you're my
friends!”
Sandy stammered, taking a few steps toward Hillary, his arms outstretched.

Hillary stepped back until she bumped against the windowsill. Her eyes were lost for a moment behind a curtain of light reflected in her glasses. She moved, and her angry glare came into view.

“It isn't right,” she told Sandy through gritted teeth. “Even if we are your friends, how can you involve us in a murder? What are we supposed to do? Just keep the secret and never think about it again?”

“But I did it especially for you, Hillary!” Sandy cried hoarsely. We heard a noise outside the den door—and all of us turned. Sandy went white. I'm sure he thought his mom was at the door.

It must have been a car or something out on the street. The door remained closed.

Sandy turned back to Hillary. “Why are you giving me a hard time? I did it especially for you,”
he repeated shrilly. “Al was ruining your life more than anyone's. He was blackmailing you and forcing you to give him money, and—and … ”