He eases the envelope out of my hand and opens it. He only looks at the photos for a moment, and then he’s back to staring at the river again. “I guess this was last night.”
I glance over to see what Fran and I are doing: me lying on top of her, breathless, hopeless. It looks inexcusable, but at the time, neither of us needed an excuse. It had felt right. Innocent. God-given.
“A week of trailing you around, and she’s hit pay dirt,” concludes Matt.
“You think she’s going to publish them?”
His look of surprise quickly morphs into one of pity. “Oh, Luke. Six TV vans don’t tag along because of a bust-up at a book signing.” He bites his lip. “She’s published them already.”
I won’t cry. I can’t give Teresa—or Chastity—that victory.
“Then why did she come to the signing at all?” I shout. “Why give me these if she was just going to publish them anyway?”
Matt rests an arm across my shoulders. “I guess she wanted you to know she’d won.”
I can’t hold it in any longer. I just throw myself against him and sob. He wraps his arms around me and doesn’t let go.
“I am so stupid. I am such an idiot!” I yell, and the words torture me.
“No. This is not your fault, bro. What she’s done is wrong. It’s evil.”
I lean back. “I’m not talking about the photos. I’m talking about Fran.” I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “She’s all I’ve thought about for years. I love her. I really love her. And I screwed it all up.”
SUNDAY, JUNE 22
Realizations 8: 12–17
12. But yea, there were those who said “No!” And others who said “No way!” And some, even, who spake thus: “No freakin’ way, dude.” 13. But yet did the boy realize they were mistaken. 14. For though they had heard, they had not listened. And though they had read, they had not understood. 15. And so did the boy grasp the book and say, “This once was mine, but now is yours.” And he held it aloft and waited for someone to take it from him, to claim it as their own. 16. Yet no one did, because they all knew that the story ended somewhat inconclusively, and was thus really, really irritating. 17. And besides, the cover sucked.
9:50 A.M.
The Dorsey Residence, St. Louis, Missouri
Sunlight floods into my bedroom, though the curtains are drawn. There’s a poster of Gandhi above my desk. On the mantel over the blocked-up fireplace, framed certificates and awards fight for space. Somehow everything looks familiar and strange at the same time, as though I’ve woken up in another period of my life. Come to think of it, I sort of have.
I hear my parents’ voices on the other side of my bedroom door, so I roll out of bed and stand beside it.
“You take the coffee, I’ll take the muffins,” says Dad.
“Sounds good,” replies Mom.
“Remember, no responses. Please.” This from someone whose voice is out of place here.
Colin.
I can’t face explaining to Colin what happened last night, and why I left him behind, and why I’m probably responsible for getting him fired. Since that means I can’t leave my room, I figure I’ll just wait here until—
The door flies open and stubs my big toe. I stifle a cry.
Matt peers around the door. “Oh,” he says, somewhat apologetically. “Well, good to see you’re up already.” He barges into my room and throws some clothes on the bed. “Colin says you should change into these. It’ll be easier for you to go unnoticed if you don’t look like… you know… you.”
There’s a criticism hidden in there somewhere, but I can see Colin’s point. So I throw on Matt’s oversized T-shirt and sport shorts, and pull the drawstring as tight as possible.
“There’s something written on your arm,” he says, pointing helpfully.
Colin appears in the doorway, cup of coffee in one hand, muffin in the other. “Looks like you spilled some black stuff on your arm, Luke.” He holds out the muffin. “You hungry? There’s about fifty more where this came from.”
I’m starving, so I take it. “Fifty?”
“Uh-huh. Seems your mom likes to bake. And being the kindly soul she is, she thought it would be a nice gesture to feed all the press gathered outside.”
“Fifty? For the press?”
“I know. Not enough for everyone, but I told her she has to draw the line somewhere.”
I’m not hungry anymore.
“Come on,” says Colin. “We need to talk.”
He leads me into the living room. My living room, though I don’t feel at home here. Newspapers and magazines are strewn across the coffee table; he gathers them up and carries them away. He’s pretty slick about it, but I know he’s just hiding the evidence, unaware that I’ve already seen it firsthand in glossy 8×10.
“How did you get here?” I ask.
Colin sits down on Dad’s La-Z-Boy and points at the sofa as though he’s inviting me to join him.
“There are these handy things called rental cars,” he explains, narrowing his eyes. “I was going to get a Hummer, but then I discovered how expensive they are. Certainly don’t want to bankrupt my employer, do I?”
I cringe at his sarcasm. “I’m sorry about the ride. I forgot about you.”
“Evidently.”
He downs his coffee and helps himself to more from a carafe on the table. I wonder if he slept at all.
“Okay, moving on,” he says decisively. “Last night was not your greatest moment, not by a long shot. And this morning, well… things aren’t looking good. The National Enquirer has run the story about your extraordinary alcohol consumption. Now, your brother has explained the whole situation to me, so I know you didn’t touch a drop. He’s also promised to take full responsibility, so that Fran won’t be implicated either.” He takes another swig of coffee. “Speaking of your brother, he’s returned the thousand dollars, and made arrangements to repay me for other unauthorized expenses. So we’re putting all that behind us. I’m sorry I blamed you for it yesterday; he told me you didn’t have a clue what was going on.”
“That’s okay.” Actually, it’s better than okay. I can handle everything he has mentioned so far.
“Now the bad news: There are photos of you and that girl doing something. Some magazine printed them first, but they’re in the newspapers too.”
I want to disappear. “We were kissing.”
“Hmm. I worked out that much.” He rubs his thumb along the edge of his cup. “Listen, it’s none of my business what you two were up to. But last night you told the audience you didn’t know her, and that puts us in a bit of a pickle, see? You’ve got some pretty vocal opponents now. Looking on the bright side, you’ll be relieved to know that in spite of your behavior—or perhaps because of it—book sales have gone through the roof.”
“I couldn’t care less about book sales.”
Colin is adding milk to his coffee, but pauses. “Well, I do, thank you very much.”
“So as long as you make your thirty pieces of silver, everything’s just fine. Is that it?”
“My what?”
“Thirty pieces of silver. You know, like Judas.”
“Judas?”
If he’s kidding, he’s keeping a really impressive poker face. “Have you actually read the Bible?” I ask.
“Is that relevant?”
“I think so, yes. I mean, my book is a spiritual self-help guide, and you were the one who bought it.”
“Not exactly. That would’ve been your editor, the executive editor, and the acquisitions department, not publicity. But coincidentally, I am an expert on self-help guides, so I’m halfway qualified.”
“Are you even Christian?”
Colin sighs. “To tell the truth, Luke… no, I’m not. I don’t even qualify as agnostic. But your book was a sure-fire best seller in the current market—”
“So it really was about money?”
“Let me finish. I asked to be assigned to your book, because I felt you had so
mething to say. Your writing is honest and refreshingly humorous. So many books on religion are dry and preachy, and most people can’t relate. But even I could relate to your book.”
“But you just said you’re not Christian. That’s so hypocritical of you to take it on.”
“Hey, O Holy One, if the only people you want to read your book are the ones who already agree with everything in it, what was your point in the first place? Isn’t the goal to reach non-believers? Trust me, I love to see thousands of people clamoring to buy your book—strong sales make for a happy publisher—but what you should be concerned about is not how many people are buying your book, but who is buying it.”
He finishes pouring the milk. He trusts that his words will sway me, or at least make me think, because he has a point. More than that, he’s right. Trouble is, I just don’t care. Right now I want to step outside and give the press a sound bite they won’t forget in a hurry.
Colin sips his coffee with one hand while sending a text message with the other.
“I guess your bosses want to know how it’s going, huh?”
“What? No, I was just gloating about the fact that golf got rained out. Serves them right for going ahead without me.” He slides the phone into his jacket pocket and leans back in his chair. “Luke, I know what you’re thinking. You want to say screw it. You want to bail on this afternoon’s signing. It’d be nice, wouldn’t it, to do that just once?”
That’s exactly what I’m thinking; I just know I shouldn’t be.
“Don’t go there, Luke. It’s so much easier to let people down than to stay strong. And once you change, even for a moment, it can take a lifetime to find your way back again.”
“I’ve already changed. You were there last night. You know what I did.”
“No. You panicked, and you made a mistake, but I could see how bad you felt about it. There was nothing calculated about last night. But if you don’t show up today… well, that’s a different story.”
“What if I don’t want to find my way back?”
He takes a bite of muffin. “Of course you do. Or you will soon. Everyone does. I could’ve lied to you, told you I’m a devout Christian, but I want you to know who I really am. I have no intention of spending my life playing the role of someone I’m not.”
The words are aimed at me, but I can only think of Fran. We’ve forced her to play a role all year, and just as she was emerging from it, I shot her down. Who will she be now?
“What should I do, Luke? I don’t want to pressure you, but I’ve been working through the night to get books ready for sale. I have to know if I can count on you to be at today’s event.”
I close my eyes and imagine Fran lying beneath me, our bodies pressed together. I hate feeling ashamed of that night. I hate that anyone feels they have the right to judge me for it.
“Luke?”
Her kisses—soft, lingering. Her hair, tickling me. Her breath, warm. Her body coiled up against me, sleeping, calm, complete. Her entire being, mine. Just for an instant.
“I’m sorry,” I say finally. “I don’t have anything left to say.”
There’s a long pause. “I see. Your parents will be disappointed, but… I understand.”
“Thank you.” In my mind I’m still picturing Fran; still wishing I could hold her. When I open my eyes at last, it’s because I’ve made a decision: “I have to go see her. I need to apologize.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Not at all.”
Colin downs his coffee and reaches for another refill. “Take the alley out back,” he says. “There might be photographers there too, but probably not as many.”
He hands me his sunglasses, and furrows his brows as he looks me up and down. “Although, on second thought, I bet you’ll make a clean escape after all.”
10:45 A.M.
The Dorsey Residence, St. Louis, Missouri
I grab Matt’s Cardinals baseball cap from the stool beside the back door. I’m about to slip out when someone taps me on the shoulder.
“You’re going to see Fran, huh?” Matt asks.
“How do you know?”
“I was eavesdropping.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. So, can you give this to Alex?”
He hands me an envelope. Not just any envelope, mind you: It’s the manila one Teresa/Chastity/my destroyer gave me. He scribbles through the message on the front. “Sorry, bro. I couldn’t find another envelope. And it’s really important that Alex gets this letter.”
“Why can’t you give it to her yourself?”
“She doesn’t want to see me. Anyway, this is the only way I can trust myself to say the right thing.”
I still hesitate. “I don’t think she’ll be ready to forgive you.”
“I’m not trying to get back together with her. I just want things to end with the truth.”
So it really is over between Matt and Alex. I guess I ought to be sad, but Matt seems more relaxed this morning than he has all week. As I take the envelope, he gives me a hug. A real hug.
Outside, the sun is already high, the temperature soaring. In seconds my armpits prickle with sweat. I imagine frightening off the paparazzi purely through the stench of my body odor.
If only it were that easy.
The alley at the end of our yard is hidden behind a tall wooden fence, and I’m no longer naive enough to believe the coast will be clear. Sure enough, as I creep beneath Mom’s decorative trees I hear voices outside; they’re discussing the heat and the smell from the Dumpsters, so I figure they’ve been camping out for a while.
Since I can’t exit through the gate, I grab the sturdy metal post at the side of the yard and hurdle the low chain-link fence that divides our yard from the neighbors’. For good measure, I hurdle the next fence too. Conveniently, there’s even a bag of trash left at the end of this yard. When I open my neighbor’s gate, I’m fifty feet from the photographers, with a trash bag slung over my shoulder, partially obscuring my face.
“Hey!” The voice is loud and demanding; pretending I don’t hear it would be ridiculous.
I turn around. Slowly.
Five guys with cameras slung around their necks stand huddled together, shrouded in smoke. One of them raises his cigarette in greeting. “The kid that lives in this house,” he shouts. “You know anything about him?”
I wait for someone to recognize me. I have guilty written all over my face in Route 66 neon. But no one seems interested in me. It’s like the sunglasses and baseball cap really are a disguise.
“He’s a total dork,” I say. “What do you want with him?”
The guy takes a drag and smiles. “Haven’t you heard? He got caught doing the dirty. The kid’s finished, man.” He points a thumb at the guys around him. “We’re here to finish him.”
I believe him. He has the look of a bloodhound, all sagging jowls and dog-tired eyes. He’ll probably camp out for days without food and water for that one perfect shot he stands no chance of getting. Meanwhile, my poor parents are imprisoned in their own home, baking muffins for the enemy. I glance at my house, two doors down, and pray they’ll get through this with their faith intact. Which is how I notice Mom standing by an open window on the third floor, scanning the alley.
Or at least the part of it she can see.
“Luke, what are you doing out there?” she shouts. “Come on inside.”
My eyes shoot back to the five guys, but Mom can’t see them, as they’re directly behind our fence.
“I’m serious,” she says. “We really need to talk.”
There’s a moment of complete stillness. I hear cicadas, the rush of distant cars, and through it we all remain bolted to the spot.
Then I twitch.
The jowly guy is first to come at me, camera raised. He’s in attack mode, so I throw my trash bag in the air and run. I hear feet clattering behind me, but these guys are slow. They have shoulder bags and cameras with long lenses, and they’re middle-aged an
d even more out of shape than me. Plus, they probably don’t want to waste their cigarettes. But they’re also shouting, so we’ll have company before long.
I sprint around the corner and double back through a narrow passage between the redbrick warehouses. At the end I turn left and lose myself in the sea of pedestrians and diners at the sidewalk cafés.
From here it’s only a quarter of a mile to Fran’s house. I’m pretty sure I’ve lost my pursuers. I’m as good as free.
So why do I feel like the worst is still ahead of me?
11:05 A.M.
The Embree Residence, St. Louis, Missouri
I press the doorbell to Fran’s house. It’s a beautiful door: an old oak frame surrounding a large sheet of crystal glass in which I can see my own hideous reflection.
I take off the baseball cap, attempt to flatten my lopsided, spiky hair, and then realize there are letters on my T-shirt that I hadn’t noticed before. I stretch the shirt and work out that the letters spell Beer: not just for breakfast! I was already anticipating a beating from Mr. E., but this pretty much seals the deal. So I drop Matt’s envelope on the ground, whip the T-shirt off and turn it inside out. I’m in the process of putting it back on when the door opens.
“Why, it’s Luke Dorsey,” Mrs. Embree announces. “And he’s topless.”
I’m not topless—not completely, anyway—and I’d have preferred it if she’d said bare-chested, but I agree that the situation is kind of awkward. I force my hands through the sleeves, adjust the collar, and feel the telltale smoothness of the label at my Adam’s apple.
Inside out and back to front. Who could harm someone so pathetic?
Mrs. Embree retreats—either because she’d like me to enter, or because I’ve freaked her out—and I step into a pristine, dust-free, climate-controlled oasis.
She directs me to the living room, where Mr. Embree is watching a Cardinals baseball round-up show on TV. He raises a finger to indicate that he’ll be with me soon.
The room is a shrine to Alex and Fran—framed photos adorn every inch of wall space. There’s even one of me and Fran, taken straight after the debate championship; her arm is wrapped around my waist, while my eyes burn into her, unaware of the camera, aware of nothing but the girl beside me, holding me, smiling so wide I wondered how the whole world hadn’t ground to a halt to take in something so perfectly beautiful. But that was the other Fran: the pre-punk Fran; the Fran who could do no wrong. Punk-era Fran isn’t recognized on these hallowed walls. And she never will be.