Нил Шустерман - The Shadow Club

Now I couldn’t even sit in it without bending my knees. It had been almost a year since I had been in it. Cheryl only lived down the street, but we never had much of a reason to go up into the tree house anymore.

It was Cheryl who had said, “Let’s talk in the tree house,” and I had said, “Fine,” figuring it would cheer me up. Now, an hour later, the twilight was more twi than light, and the early September chill had come rolling in off the ocean.

“What else?” said Cheryl. “Keep thinking.”

“I don’t know, I can’t think of any more.”

“Don’t you have any imagination?”

“No.”

“Yes, you do,” she said.

“OK . . . umm.” I thought hard. “I know . . . I would hang him by his toes . . . upside down . . . over a bear trap.”

Cheryl laughed. “Now you’re getting really gross.”

“You asked for it. Your turn.”

“OK. Next time she sings . . . I would throw roses at her, like that guy did, for her to put behind her ears. Only I would make sure they had lots of thorns on ’em!”

I grimaced.

“Your turn,” she said.

“I would set Austin loose in Lion Country Wild Animal Park, and see how fast he runs. Next.”

“Oohh! Vicious! Let’s see . . . I would . . . I would fill her little lunch-box thermos with hydrochloric acid.”

“Not fair,” I said. “I said that one at the wedding.”

“Well, then how about a king cobra in her lunch box?”

“No, wait . . . I’ve got one for you,” I said. “Why don’t we get her a nice date . . . with Tyson McGaw?”

“Ugh! A fate worse than death!” We both laughed good and hard just trying to imagine Rebecca and slimy Tyson McGaw together. What a match!

“I can’t believe we’re really this nasty!” I said.

“But isn’t it fun?” said Cheryl.

I guess it was. It was sort of like watching those horror movies. Sure, they’re sick and gross and bloody and all that, but everyone still loves them, right?

“I mean, it’s not like we’re really doing anything to them,” said Cheryl. “We’re not really mean and terrible, it’s just a game. Everybody has someone that really irks them, and there’s nothing wrong with pretending, right?”

“Wait a second, I just had a brainstorm,” I said. “We’ll pay some bozo to pretend to teach Austin to walk on hot coals, and when he finally goes for it, he’ll burn off his feet. So much for running!”

“You’re awful,” laughed Cheryl. Then she stopped laughing, and thought for a moment. Without the sound of our voices, the night seemed very quiet. I don’t think I heard as much as one cricket.

“Hey,” she said, “wouldn’t it be weird if any of those things actually happened to Austin or Rebecca? Like somebody up there was listening?”

“I’ll make sure I keep my eye out for bear traps,” I said. She laughed. I could barely see her now, in the shadows on the other side of the tree house. Like I said, it was small; I could feel her Reeboks touching my Nikes. I wiggled my feet, and she wiggled back, like we were playing footsy, or something dumb like that. I looked over the edge railing. It was clear that night. No fog like the last few nights. Cheryl’s house was the last on the street, and from there you could just barely see the ocean between the trees, a quarter mile away. It was my favorite time of day—when the faint blue glow against the horizon is just enough to make everything look black against it, just after the colors have faded from the sky.

Back when we were kids, I always loved talking with Cheryl, and even with Randall, in the tree house at this time of day. Ghost stories, or even just stupid-talk. Now that we were older and busier, it seemed as though I never really got to talk to Cheryl alone when it was quiet like this. It was different from the old days, but I still liked it. I wiggled my feet again, and she wiggled back.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have done all that before,” she said.

“What?”

“Talk mean about Rebecca and Austin. It’s like I feel guilty now.”

Now that we had stopped, I began to feel it, too. “Well, it was your idea.”

“Thanks, now I feel worse.”

“Sorry,” I said. Then I gave her her own speech back. “It’s only words,” I said. “It’s only like . . . sticking your tongue out at them. That’s all. Like you said, it’s only pretend. We’re not hurting anybody.”

“Right.”

“It gets out all our frustrations and stuff, so we don’t go around being angry at them all day.”

“Right.”

Somehow I still don’t think I convinced her. I didn’t convince myself, either. I couldn’t—not when my mind was still filled with all those nasty, ridiculous things that could be brought down upon L’Austin Space. What bothered me most was that, like Cheryl said, it was fun. I didn’t like feeling that it was fun.

I moved closer to Cheryl. Somehow I felt that moving closer to her would make that creepy feeling go away.

“Do you really hate Austin?” Cheryl asked. I couldn’t see her talking now, it was too dark. I could just barely make out her shape against the trees behind her.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Do you really hate Rebecca?”

Cheryl sighed and didn’t answer for a long time. Then she said, “It’s not really hate. She’s my cousin. I care about her . . . but sometimes I think she enjoys making me feel lousy.”

“I know Austin does.”

“Do you really hate Austin, Jared?” she asked again.

“I don’t know,” I said for a second time. I really didn’t know. “It’s all gotten so confused.”

She thought for a good long time. “Would you be happy if Austin Pace moved far away?” she asked very matter-of- factly.

“Yes,” I said.

“Would you be happy if he got hurt so bad that he couldn’t run fast?”

“I don’t think so. I think I’d feel sorry for him.”

“How about if he died?”

“Cheryl! C’mon!”

“Sorry, dumb question.” She was silent for a long, long time. She was thinking about something. I could tell. Then she finally spoke, very quietly, and slowly.

“I know what the real question is,” she said. “The real question to find out whether or not you hate him.”

“What?”

“The question is . . . if there were a way for you to make it happen . . . would you wish that Austin Pace had never been born?”

The cold of the night hit me just then, but I don’t think it was just the cold. It was something more. Something inside, not out. And it was because I knew the answer to that question, and I didn’t like that answer at all.

“Would you?” she asked again.

“Yes,” I whispered.

And then she whispered back, “I know how that feels.”

The breeze played with the dying leaves above us. The chill got stronger. Before, I had just felt nasty. Now I felt weird. Weird and uncomfortable—with myself, and with that question. Do I wish L’Austin Space had never been born? Yes. Yes, I wished that. As much as I hated myself for wishing that, deep down, really deep down, I did feel that way, and I couldn’t change that. It was scary.

“Cheryl . . . I’m spooked out.”

“Me, too,” she said.

“It’s getting cold ...” I said.

“Maybe we should go in.”

Cheryl went first, and I followed her down.

“You really do feel that way, too, huh?”

“I don’t want to talk about that anymore. Let’s talk about something nice.”

But we didn’t talk about anything nice. We didn’t talk much about anything at all. That good feeling we had when we first climbed into the tree house was gone, and wouldn’t come back for the rest of the night. We went in, watched ten minutes of TV with her brother, then I hopped on my bike and rode home. I tried to chase that eerie feeling away by burying my head in that first night’s homework.