Peter Abrahams - Bullet Point

“All right,” his mom said. “Think it over, for sure. But doesn’t it make sense?”

“Yes.”

“Great. Be seeing you, then. Drive safe.”

Aunt Hildy got delayed at work. Dub came home with pizza. Wyatt was at the kitchen table, Hamlet open in front of him. If the ghost was just in Hamlet’s mind, how come these other guys, like Horatio and Marcellus, saw it? On the other hand, the ghost didn’t talk to them, talked only to Hamlet, so maybe Anna was right. The ghost went on and on, kind of understandable phrase by phrase-except for impossible words here and there, some sort of explained in the margins-but not at all understandable in its entirety. Whatever was on the ghost’s mind got Hamlet upset, although for some reason he didn’t tell Horatio and Marcellus anything about it. Weren’t they Hamlet’s friends, Horatio especially? There was no Shakespeare in sophomore English at East Canton High-a good reason to go back, right there. That was kind of a joke: he wanted to tell it to Greer.

Dub slid the pizza box across the table. “How was practice?” Wyatt said.

“We suck.”

“Can’t be that bad.”

“We scrimmaged Southern High-sixteen-zip before they stopped it. Can’t hit, can’t pitch, can’t field, can’t do shit. Nobody’s heard of the cutoff man.”

“Bad days happen.”

“Bad as this? Guess who had to pitch the ninth.”

“You?”

Dub nodded.

“That’s bad. Did you get anybody out?”

“Hell no.” Dub tore a slice of pizza from the box, downed it in two bites, a string of melted cheese hanging off his chin. “This all sucks.”

“What does?”

“Everything-coming here, you not playing, Coach Bouchard getting shafted.”

Wyatt shrugged.

“Come on-you don’t miss baseball?” Dub said.

“Yeah, I miss it.”

They ate more pizza, got down to the last slice, flipped a coin for it.

“Tails,” Wyatt said.

Heads. Dub finished the pizza. He was still chewing when he suddenly looked up at Wyatt and said, “So tell me about this babe.”

“Babe?”

“That’s what everyone says.”

“Who’s everyone?”

“People,” Dub said. “Is it supposed to be a secret or something? How come you didn’t tell me?”

“It just happened. And what was I supposed to say?”

“What were you supposed to say?” Dub said. “Whether you were getting any, of course. What else?”

A good reason for secrecy, right there. Dub was his best friend, didn’t mean any harm, but Wyatt got angry anyway, so angry he was a bit taken aback himself. He pushed away from the table, knocking the pizza box to the floor. “It’s nobody’s goddamn business.”

“Hey. Calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down. I am calmed down.”

Dub laughed.

“I’m not joking,” Wyatt said.

Dub held up his big hand-his left, catching, hand, two fingers taped. “Ease off, Wyatt. Just trying to look out for you, is all.”

“I don’t need looking out for. And wipe your goddamn chin.”

“Huh?” Dub wiped his chin, glanced at the cheese on the back of his hand, smeared it on his pants, then glared at Wyatt. Now he was angry, too. Was the cheese responsible in some way? “Not so sure about that,” Dub said, “the not-needing-looking-after part.”

“Oh? How come?” Wyatt’s chin was up. He felt the kind of thing that was coming, even if he couldn’t have said exactly what.

“’Cause maybe you’ve gotten in over your head. This girl has a reputation, according to Aunt Hildy. No way you could have known, so new here.”

“What reputation?”

“Don’t make me spell it out.”

“Spell it out.”

Wyatt’s chin came up a little more. Dub was red in the face. They’d somehow closed in on each other, even though the table was still between them. Getting into a fistfight with Dub? Something that had never happened, had never come close to happening, in all the years they’d been friends. Was it about to happen now? Dub would kick the shit out of him, no doubt about that. Wyatt got ready.

Dub took a deep breath, backed away. “Naw,” he said. “Gossip sucks. You do what you gotta do.” He turned, picked up his books, went upstairs.

Wyatt put the pizza box in the trash, sponged off the table, and then went down the first-floor hall to his bedroom at the end. His cell phone rang. He checked the number: Greer. Wyatt didn’t answer. He was going home.

A few hours later, as he was falling asleep, he had a crazy thought: What would have happened if, after the talk with his father’s ghost, Hamlet had just said fuck it and left town, starting life somewhere else and ending the play in the middle of Act One. He wondered what Anna would think of an idea like that.

Wyatt was fast asleep when a distant tap-tap reached down into his consciousness. Tap. Tap. He rolled over, opened his eyes. Tap. Tap. The sound was coming from his window, a sound a lot like the tapping of a sharp fingernail. He got up, went to the window, drew the curtains apart a few inches.

Wyatt saw a face outside the window-a pale oval that seemed to hover in the night, unconnected to a body. The sight scared him for a moment; then his eyes adjusted and features took shape on the oval face-Greer’s features. She wore dark clothes, merging with the night. He opened the window. They spoke in quick, urgent whispers.

“What are you doing here?”

“Seeing you.”

“Why now? What’s wrong with you?”

“You’re not taking my calls. That’s what’s wrong with me.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Don’t be silly-I’m coming in.”

“That’s not a good-”

But Greer already had a leg through the opening, and a second or two later she was in the room. It was a night like the last, clouds racing across the moon, allowing just enough flickering light in the room to pick out the bright things: the eyebrow ring, Greer’s teeth, her eyes.

“What the hell’s going on?” Wyatt said, still whispering.

She looked him up and down. “Always sleep in your boxers?”

“Shh.”

She lowered her voice, although not much. “You must be freezing your ass off. I am.” She turned and closed the window very quietly.

“You can’t stay here.”

She faced him. “That’s the last thing I need, present company excluded. A few hours will be fine.”

“I don’t want you here.”

“No?” she said. She put her arm around his neck, pulled him close, kissed his mouth. Her free hand slid down the front of his shorts. “You’re a liar,” she said, her lips now right at his ear.

Wyatt awoke with Greer in his arms. The wind had died down, and steady moonlight came through the gap in the curtains, illuminating her sleeping face. She looked younger asleep, peaceful and beautiful. He was all mixed up inside. His mind kept doing a lot of on-one-hand, on-the-other-hand stuff. A toilet flushed upstairs and then footsteps moved on the floor of the hall above, light footsteps, Aunt Hildy’s. A bedspring creaked. Silence. Wyatt pulled Greer a little closer.

She mumbled something that sounded like “Five more minutes.”

“You’re awake?”

“No.”

They were so close they hardly had to make any sound at all to communicate, almost like telepathy.

“Then how come you’re talking?” he said.

“Because I love you.” Her eyes fluttered open. “Oops. Way too soon for that kind of revelation.” She met his gaze. “Promise you didn’t hear.”

“I heard.”

“And?”

And what? Was he supposed to say he loved her, too? How did you know if you did? Who did he love? His mom, and Cammy, too, but that was different. This, whatever was going on with Greer, provoked strong physical feelings, not just the obvious kinds, but others in his head and in his gut, like he was in a constant state of excitement, could live on nothing but water and air. Was that a type of love? He had no idea.