Yet a stranger, p.14
Yet a Stranger, page 14
part #2 of The First Quarto Series
“I heard you,” the man said. “So who are you talking to?” The door opened wider, and the man standing there was tall and big, wearing a button-down shirt and suit pants. He had his graying hair in a tight flattop. “May I help you?”
“We just needed to talk to Genesis,” Auggie said.
“Regarding what?”
“Dad, leave them alone,” Genesis said.
“We’re just asking a few questions,” Theo said.
“I understand that,” the man said. “And I asked you what those questions are regarding.”
Genesis shook her head.
“The Reese family,” Auggie began.
“No,” the man said. “You can speak to our lawyer.”
He shut the door. On the other side, Genesis said something, her tone familiar to Theo: the disenfranchised late adolescent. Her father said something back. Then the deadbolt went home, and Theo looked at Auggie.
“So much for that,” Auggie said.
“We’ll try again later. Is she a student? Do you think we could catch her after class?”
Auggie shrugged. “I’ll see what I can find.”
They were halfway down the drive when an angry shout came from behind them. Mr. Evans, Genesis’s father, was coming toward them in a pair of fuzzy moccasins, and next to him was a younger man who was even bigger—possibly Genesis’s older brother, to judge by how he resembled Mr. Evans.
“Hey,” Mr. Evans shouted again. “Stop right there.”
“Jesus,” Theo said. “Keep going. Get in the car.”
“What?” Auggie said. “Are you kidding?”
“You promised, Auggie. You promised to do what I tell you.”
“Theo, please don’t do this. Please.”
“Auggie—”
“Please. I’m not trying to go back on my promise. I’ll do it if you say, but please don’t make me.”
“If one of them throws a punch, you run for the car.”
Auggie was silent.
“Auggie?”
“Yes. Yeah. You’re in charge.”
Theo glanced over. “Why am I troubled that this was so easy?”
“Because it’s a good plan. I’ll get to the car, and then I’ll run them over.”
“Jesus Christ,” Theo whispered.
“Young man,” Mr. Evans said as he got closer, “I want you to listen very carefully to me. You go back to those scorpions, and you tell them that if they think they can intimidate my daughter, they’ve got another thing coming. I’ve already called the police, and you can expect me to file a full report. I have your descriptions, and this will be added to part of the lawsuit. You boys have stepped in it. You’ve really stepped in it. If you weren’t in it before, you are now.”
“Mr. Evans,” Theo said.
“If I want you to talk, I’ll tell you to talk. Do you understand? Get in your car, turn around, and go straight back to them. We don’t scare. And I won’t stand to have my children threatened in my own home. Is that clear?”
“Mr. Evans—”
“Yes or no.”
“I understand that you’re upset, but—”
“Yes or no.”
Theo looked at Auggie.
“Yes,” Auggie said.
“Now take a good look at this.” Mr. Evans reached into the pocket of his suit pants and pulled out a revolver. A .38, Theo guessed. “Do you have any questions about this?”
“We wanted to talk to Genesis about—”
“Yes or no.”
“No,” Theo said.
“This is what you’re getting if you come back. I don’t care if they put me away for it. You, or anyone like you, show your face around here again, and I’ll put all six bullets in you. I don’t want you to have any doubt about that. Wise, make sure they understand.”
The younger man, Wise, glanced at each of them. Theo recognized the look. This guy was young, inexperienced, frightened, and trying to be tough. Theo had seen the look on his own face growing up when he’d gotten dragged into fights that Jacob and Abel started. He’d seen it on Luke’s face when Luke had gone drinking with Theo and some of the guys he logged with. He’d seen it when Luke got in too deep over and over again. He’d seen it on Auggie’s face when Auggie had faced down the girl who held Theo at knifepoint. He’d seen it too many times.
“If my dad doesn’t kill you,” Wise said. “I will. Stay away from my sister. Stay away from our family.” He touched the hem of the polo he was wearing, and the fabric tightened over the outline of the gun holstered underneath. “Understand?”
“Yes,” Theo said. “I just want to be clear: we’re not trying to cause trouble. We’re looking into Cal’s murder—”
“Oh no,” Mr. Evans said. “You’re not pinning that on any of us. If I’d met that man in the street, I would have shot him dead. You can put a Bible under my hand, and I’ll swear to it. I’d have killed him with my bare hands if you gave me half a chance. But I own my actions. That’s how we’re different from the Reese family. We’re not the kind to drag a man off and leave his body in the weeds; if I’d killed him, I’d be telling the whole world. We’re not the kind who trap girls in dark rooms.”
“What does that mean?” Theo said. “Why—”
“Get off my property,” Evans said, gesturing with the .38. The movements were erratic and unsteady, and Theo could see the cartridges in the cylinder. Evans looked agitated enough that his finger might slip—accidentally or, for a man in his state, not quite so accidentally.
“We’re going,” Theo said, catching Auggie’s arm. He moved in front of Auggie, and they shuffled backward together. “We’re leaving right now.”
“Don’t come back,” Evans said. “You come back, and I won’t bother telling you again.”
“We won’t come back,” Theo said. He still held Auggie’s arm. Auggie was shaking. Theo was shaking too, he realized. The .38, which had looked small when it came out of Evans’s pocket, seemed very big right then.
Evans and Wise watched them go.
A soft bump and then, “Car,” from Auggie made Theo stop moving. “Ok,” Auggie whispered after another moment. “Theo, you’ve got to let go of me now.”
“I know.”
But he didn’t let go. He was watching the .38. He was seeing Luke in the hayloft, flies crawling on his eyes.
“Theo, it’s ok. We’re going to get in the car and drive away now.”
“Yes,” Theo said. Then he took a shuddering breath and released Auggie. The younger man sprinted around the car, and Theo eased into the passenger seat. Auggie started the engine, pulled around sharply, and sped back up the street.
At the end of the next block, when the Evans house was out of sight, Theo said, “Stop. Stop the car.”
Auggie hit the brakes, and the Civic squeaked to a stop.
Theo grabbed Auggie and pulled him close, one hand in Auggie’s short crew cut, one hand around his back, the smell of Auggie’s hair in his nose, the feel of his face against his shoulder.
“We’re ok, Theo. It’s ok.”
Theo released him and dropped back into his seat. He covered his face. He could still hear the flies. He managed to say, “Ok. You’re ok.”
“We’re ok. We’re both ok.”
“Right.” Theo took a deep breath, but he had to keep his hands over his eyes because it wouldn’t help if Auggie saw him like this. “Right. We’re ok.”
23
Auggie drove back to the Sigma Sigma house at Theo’s insistence.
“I really don’t think you should bike home,” he said when he pulled into the lot.
Theo’s face was the color of that white, goopy cheese Fer liked. His mouth pulled into something that was supposed to be a smile, and he said, “I’m fine. Just need some fresh air.”
“Theo, please let me drive you home. We’ll put your bike in the trunk.”
Elbowing open the door, Theo just gave that awful smile again and shook his head.
It didn’t matter how hard Auggie argued; Theo wouldn’t budge. Auggie stayed outside, squinting into the September sun, as Theo shrank to a black smudge. Then Theo swung around a corner and was gone, and Auggie went inside.
The Sigma Sigma house, by this hour, was busy. Auggie had been making an effort to learn names, so he recognized Kyle Whitney, blond, freckles, chasing Digs—Auggie didn’t know the kid’s real name—down the hall, snapping a towel at Digs’s bare ass. Igor was in the kitchen making a club sandwich; he offered to make Auggie one, but Auggie just got water from the tap and shook his head. The kitchen had a pass-through that connected to a serving area, and the serving area had both doors open to the dining hall, and Auggie found himself watching the guys who had set up a board game—something really complicated, something with a million tiny painted figurines—and were laughing and shoving each other. Auggie only recognized Tayyib, who was trying to grow a goatee; the sophomore rolled dice and then howled with dismay, dropping out of his chair while the other guys jeered.
Auggie dumped out the rest of his water and went upstairs. His thoughts kept pace with him. Other guys played board games. Other guys chased each other with towels. Other guys didn’t worry about keeping up Facebook and Instagram and Twitter and, now, Snapchat. Other guys didn’t spend fifteen minutes getting the lighting perfect for one selfie before they even went to take a leak in the morning. Other guys didn’t think about murders.
Did other guys think, if I could hold his hand, if I could kiss him, if I could make things better for him somehow, if he didn’t think of me as such a kid, if I were smarter, braver, stronger older, maybe he’d finally see me, see me the way I see him (everywhere, every time I turn around)? If they did, they didn’t talk about it. If they did, it was probably somebody their own age, somebody they actually had a chance with.
In his room, Auggie locked the door, crawled into bed, and pulled the pillow over his face. After a while, he got out his phone and texted Theo: Are you ok? I’m worried about you.
He fell asleep waiting for an answer.
When he woke, the thud of a bass line reverberated through the house, and the smell of weed filtered under the door. Guys were laughing, shouting, running through the halls. A voice that sounded like Miller Benitez crowed, “Dude, she is going to suck the fucking root tonight, I swear to God.” Auggie groaned into the pillow, now sticky with drool, and pulled it away from his face.
He’d forgotten about the Sigma Sigma back-to-school party. It was a tradition—everything was a tradition—and since this was his first year as a full brother, it was his first chance to attend. Auggie scrubbed his eyes clear and made his way to the showers. Someone was in the stall next to Auggie, making outrageously loud fapping noises and moaning intermittently. Then somebody else picked up on it, and then another guy, and then somebody let out a sharp cry and everything was silent. Whether it was real or not, Auggie had no idea, but a chorus of laughter followed. Auggie laughed along with the rest of them until he remembered Theo, the expression on his face, his tone as he asked, You like it here? He rinsed off and left the showers; the other guys were screaming fake orgasms, but it wasn’t funny anymore.
Snapping his way through the process, Auggie picked out clothes for the party—a tank that said I’M THE COOL KIND OF BRO and his skinniest jeans, paired with the ridiculously expensive Jordans that Fer had bought him last Christmas. He was pulling on his pants when he got a snap back from dylan_j199. It was a picture of Dylan’s face, his eyes huge; judging from the background, Auggie thought Dylan was already downstairs at the party. Dylan had scribbled something—a drawing that might have been a dog. A second snap immediately followed, this time only half of Dylan’s face, and he was covering his eyes. The text said, thats a fox. ur a fox. dont judge me, i immediately regretted it.
Grinning, Auggie finished dressing and headed downstairs. The party was going full force, guys and girls wandering the halls with red plastic cups in their hands, someone in the kitchen asking if they were going to order pizza, another guy selling drink bracelets. Auggie paid and put on the bracelet, and then he got himself a shot, which he did first, and a beer, which he carried with him.
Then he wandered the party. He wasn’t looking for Dylan. He was just wandering. He just wanted to get a feel for the night. That’s what he told himself every time he disengaged from a conversation, broke away from a group, pretended not to see someone flagging him down. The nice thing about the main-floor layout was that most of the rooms had multiple entrances: he could cut through the kitchen, wave at somebody in the serving area, pretend to spot someone in the dining room, and loop back through the mud room and into the gallery. He cut across the foyer, with its seating area that was only ever used by parents, the upholstery finely patterned with the Sigma Sigma emblem. He worked his way through the massive living room, where a grand piano and an enormous river-stone hearth competed with clusters of seating and flatscreen TVs. When he left through the other side of the living room, he passed the public restrooms.
No Dylan.
Not that it mattered. Not that he was looking.
He made his way downstairs. The frat had invested in a speaker system for the public areas, and a steady selection of recent music accompanied Auggie: Macklemore, Ciara, Pharrell. He could still taste some of the Milagro, even through the beer, and a stripe of heat licked its way from his collarbone to his navel. A blond girl passed him, leading her friend by the hand, and when Auggie looked over his shoulder at her, they were whispering and staring at him. The girls burst out laughing when they realized they’d been caught, and both of them blushed bright red. They ran up the stairs.
In the lower lounge, people crowded the sofas, the coffee tables, even the corners of the room. Some were small groups of guys and girls, laughing and drinking. Some were couples—swaying, dancing, kissing. Theo’s beard, when he and Auggie had kissed, had been scratchy, but in a wonderful way, rasping against Auggie’s skin until he was about to burst into flames. Auggie drank some more of the beer. He was sweating.
The basement wasn’t as easy to loop through; he had to check the rooms one by one. The study—a threesome, two girls and a guy, were making out on the table. The gym—the door locked, empty and dark on the other side of the glass. The mechanical room—the door locked, the strip under the door dark. He skipped the bathrooms, went back to the lounge, and tried the multipurpose room. A blacklight had been set up, making Auggie’s Jordans shine as a mob danced and grinded on each other. If Dylan was in there—not that it mattered—Auggie didn’t have much of a chance of finding him. He kept going.
In the game room, people were sitting around card tables, heads close together as they shouted over the music. A group of guys was playing pool. Dylan had on a white t-shirt that was so tight Auggie could see his nipples, and he was wearing blue polka-dot shorts that only came to the middle of his thighs. Seeing him in person like this was always so different than the snaps. His hair was darker in the pictures, and tonight, the curls had been given more shape and definition with some sort of product. His face seemed less perfect, although familiar because of the smirk he wore without seeming to realize it. But mostly it was his size that shocked Auggie: he was just so damn big, something that Auggie had internalized from all the hours in the gym but that still managed to surprise him. Auggie, always sensitive about his own height, felt like a kid next to Dylan, but it was more than that. Dylan was built with muscle. He was huge. And he had an adult’s definition to his body, not the rangy, stripling growth that many guys carried through most of college. He was chalking a cue, laughing, when his eyes cut to Auggie. He kept laughing, but now the smirk was there again, and he raised one eyebrow.
Auggie sat on the arm of a couch, sipped his beer, and pretended to watch the game.
It wasn’t going well for the other guys. Auggie didn’t know much about pool—in fact, he wasn’t entirely sure that this wasn’t some other game that also used a pool table—but he knew a little bit about people. Six guys were playing, split across two teams, and every time Dylan or one of his friends took a shot, the other guys muttered and growled and traded looks. Dylan’s little smirk kept getting bigger. Then Auggie saw the cash neatly stacked on the edge of the table.
Auggie wasn’t looking when it happened.
“Foul,” one of the guys shouted. Auggie recognized him; his name was Trevor, and he played lacrosse with Dylan. He was the same guy who had made the comment about Auggie’s jerkoff videos at tryouts.
Dylan looked relaxed; he was almost slouching, the cue tucked up against his shoulder. But his eyes were hard. “That wasn’t a foul.”
“Fuckface, you hit the cue ball twice.”
Dylan shook his head.
“I saw you,” Trevor said. “Joe saw you too.”
Another guy, presumably Joe, nodded.
“I hit it once,” Dylan said. “Now let’s finish the game.”
“No way. No way. You’re a fucking cheater.”
“What’d you say?”
The atmosphere in the room shifted abruptly. Music still pounded from the speakers—Imagine Dragons shouting about something radioactive—but everyone had turned their attention to the men around the pool table. One girl stood up, cradling a drink, and left.
“You’re a fucking cheater,” Trevor repeated. “We’re done. And we’re taking our money back.”
“Seriously?” Dylan said. He glanced at his friends; neither of them made a move, and he shook his head. “Fine. Take your money. Fucking bad losers, that’s what you are.”
Trevor was counting out cash, and he waved it at Dylan. “Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you,” Auggie called from across the room. Then, before he could stop himself, he added, “Pussy.”
Trevor turned. “What the fuck did you just say, dickhole?”
“I said you’re a pussy. Fuck you.”
Dylan was watching. He was wearing that little smirk again.
“What a fucking joke,” Trevor said, shaking his head at his friends. “He’s got a million boys playing with their tits for him, so he thinks he’s tough shit.”
