Aric Davis - The Fort

“I don’t know, maybe Scott’s on to something,” said Tim. “After all, stuff like that always happens in places that seem pretty normal. That’s how dudes like that get away with it for so long, because nobody wants to suspect their neighbor.”

“Jesus,” said Luke. “Both of you? You two need to soak your heads. Next thing you’ll be telling me you think the Russkies are really going to nuke us, and we need to dig bomb shelters. If you guys want to go play private eye, you can be my guest. Just so you know, though, I’ll be doing rad shit while you’re gone, and when you come back, I’ll be the one laughing. That girl is going to come home in a day or two with a broken heart and maybe a baby in her belly, and that’s going to be the end of it. Trust me, give it a couple days, she’ll come crawling back, and everyone except the high school kids will forget this ever happened.”

Eager to change the subject, and feeling terrible for having shared the information in the first place, Tim said, “Anyways, the guns. You guys really want to give up on the target? I think it’s fun to at least try.”

“Tim,” said Luke. “Let me level with you: Molly Peterson is a lot more likely to be really kidnapped than we are to hit that target with these shitty guns. I’ve got an hour left before I have to go home and make sure my idiot sisters remember to have lunch. You guys actually want to do anything, or just keep on yapping like old ladies?”

11

The three friends broke up the party fifteen minutes before Luke needed to be home to make lunch. If Luke was late, his sisters would tell on him. If he just skipped it, they wouldn’t eat, and they’d tell on him. It was ridiculous, they were just a year younger than he was, but it was what his mom wanted, so he tolerated it with a skin that was growing thicker by the day.

Scott had invited Tim to come over to his house and eat—no one was home, Carl was working, and his mom had a week of doubles—but Tim declined. There was never anything exciting happening at home, and as bad as he felt for Becca, he did want to see if there were any new developments. Tim was smiling as he walked past the patio and into the front yard, but the sight of the unfamiliar car in the driveway changed that, mostly because the one behind it was a marked police car.

With a lump in his throat, along with a powerfully burning curiosity, Tim walked through his yard and bounded up the driveway to the front door. When he walked in, he stopped dead in his tracks.

Becca and his parents were sitting at the kitchen table with a man in a black suit, along with a uniformed police officer. Five sets of eyes turned to him as the door swung open, and Tim closed it behind him quietly. “Tim,” said his mom. “Go to your room and read a book. No one is in trouble, and we’ll explain in a little bit.”

“OK, Mom,” he said, before gliding as silently as he was able through the dining room, the kitchen, and the hallway that led to his room, as though it were possible to offend the police officers by being noisy. The one in the uniform had looked just like any cop Tim had ever seen: he was tall, with a broad chest, and had a really cool-looking pistol on his right hip. The detective, though, if that’s what he was, had been different. Tim had been able to feel the man’s eyes on him as soon as he’d entered the room, and he’d known he was being analyzed, judged. He was as sure of it as he was of anything, as if the detective had used some sort of impossible brain scan on him to see if there were any useful information trapped in his mind. God, maybe Luke’s right. Too many scary movies. That wasn’t how it felt, though. The detective had been sizing him up, chewing on Tim as if he were a fatty piece of steak, and it was not a comfortable feeling.

With the bedroom door closed behind him, Tim felt a lot better, as if that sort of barrier could possibly protect him from a detective with the ability to know exactly when and how a boy was lying. It was a weak barrier. Tim wanted to, in order: (1) tell those cops that he knew nothing, (2) play Nintendo in the family room—Zelda, always Zelda lately—and (3) go hang out with his friends. A soft knock on his door was a fair indicator that none of the above would be happening, and Tim exhaled softly as his dad entered the room following the light tap.

“How are you doing, big guy?” Stan asked, and Tim searched his father’s face for information. There was nothing there. He looked like he always did, only maybe a little more tired than usual.

“I’m OK. What are those cops doing here?”

“They had to ask Becca some questions about last night.” Stan sighed. “Letting her go to that movie keeps becoming a worse and worse decision, unfortunately. One of the girls that she went with, Molly, didn’t come home last night, and her mom is really upset, really worried. Not that I blame her for that. If Becca hadn’t come home, your mom and I would be going nuts. I think any parent would. Anyways, Becca isn’t in trouble or anything, at least not with the police. They just had to ask her when she last saw Molly, who she was with, things like that.”

“What did she say?”

Stan took a deep breath. “She told them when she saw her last, and who she was with. Her description matched what some of the other girls had to say, and I think that made the cops happy that all their ducks were in a row.”

“Is Molly going to be OK?”

“I don’t know, buddy. I sure hope so, but I don’t think the guys your sister and her friends were hanging around with were very nice people. Now, that doesn’t mean that Molly won’t turn out to be just fine—that’s really the most likely thing. But it does make me worried for you guys, as a parent.”

“You don’t need to worry about me, Dad. I don’t want to hang out with creepy older guys; plus, I never go to the drive-in, unless it’s with you and Mom.”

Stan let out a bark of laughter, and then looked down at Tim again. “That’s good stuff. You get some lunch and go find something to do. It’s summer. You don’t want to be stuck up in your room all day. And remember, if you get bored, there’s lots of hard work to be done out back.”

Luke made it home with three minutes to spare. When he walked into the trailer, he saw his sisters sitting on the living room floor, watching a soap opera. From the sound of things, someone had been caught having an affair. Luke ignored them, and they ignored Luke as he passed them and went to the kitchen. As usual, his mom was nowhere to be found.

Luke took a jar of jelly from the refrigerator, and then a jar of peanut butter from the cupboard. He opened both jars, then placed three plates on the counter, topping them with bread that he quickly checked for mold. After spreading the sandwiches with peanut butter and jelly—lots of both for him; light jelly, heavy peanut butter for Alisha; light peanut butter, heavy jelly for Ashley—Luke topped the jellied pieces with the peanut butter–covered ones, then added chips to all three plates.

He carried his sisters’ food into the living room and placed it before them, getting no reaction from the girls. Ignoring them in return, Luke walked back to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of Coke from a two-liter bottle, then sat at the lone clean spot at the dining room table. The table was covered with bills and laundry, and not for the first time, Luke wondered if his mom chose for them to live in filth, or if she just didn’t know any other way. Deciding that was too depressing a thought to ponder, he began to imagine being screamed at by a drill instructor while he did push-ups. In the fantasy it was raining, he was knuckle deep in mud, and he was smiling. Someday.