CHAPTER ONE
Pound! Pound! Pound! Mark groaned and covered his head with his pillow. It was too early. And what was that annoying noise?
The seventeen-year-old half-asleep young man blindly reached over to his nightstand and grabbed the alarm clock. With an angry gusto, he hurled it against the wall. Bang! Not giving a flying leap that he'd probably dented the plaster, and certainly not giving a flying leap that he'd almost certainly broken his clock, he closed his eyes. All he wanted to do was sleep. Serious about catching some more shuteye, he gathered up his covers and pulled them over his head.
But the obnoxious pounding noise did not cease. And worse, a high-pitched, squealing voice now accompanied it. "Mark! You better get your butt up right now! You have less than a half hour to get ready and you don't want to be late for school!" Again, the disgruntled teenager groaned.
Damn. He'd forgotten. Somewhere in dreamland the fact that today was the first day of his junior year of high school had escaped his memory. But there would be no escaping it: summer had drawn out long enough, and it was finally time to go back to the place of his nightmares, the place he had been dreading to go to for weeks in advance. No childlike excitement for him, no giddy anticipation on his part about the return to an institution that so many others found, for a reason that was impossible for Mark to understand, useful. Unlike certain other members of his group of friends, including his girlfriend, he hated the imposition of having to spend day after day inside of a cramped building with a bunch of screaming teenagers with an extreme passion. And, it seemed, that was about how much the teachers at that school disliked him, too.
"I'm up, Mom!" hollered the teen, in a weak, sleepy voice.
"And don't forget, you have to pick up Beth today," she answered back. "You don't want to keep a nice girl like that waiting around. Remember, she doesn't want to be late for school, either." He found it ironic that his mother like Beth. In his mind, they were the last two people on Earth that he would have ever expected to get along.
It was 1990 and a lot of things had changed. Mark was seventeen now, but it seemed to him that he'd already lived a life a lot longer than that...time had gone by achingly slowly since eight years ago, when he'd pulled the trigger on his best friend, Cory Mitchell, killing him instantly. Seasons had passed and relationships had changed...but one thing had remained the same: the constant pang of emptiness that had plagued him since those early days of his childhood was still there, and as encompassing as ever.
Mark sighed heavily. His body was telling him he needed to sleep for at least twelve more hours. His limbs felt like an innertube filled with water--heavy and bloated. His head swam, and he was weak...and it felt as though a two-ton weight were sitting on his chest, threatening to implode his lungs.
Cory had been a light in his otherwise dull life all those many years ago, his only bridge to a social existence. In effect, he was not only his best friend but his only friend, filling the space in his life that his parents tried to, but could not manage to, fill.
Mark was a painfully shy boy, and had trouble reaching out to others, in no matter how small a way it would be. For example, even asking for simple directions from a peer proved to be a difficult task for Mark. His face would flush, he would be suddenly overcome with fear and anxiety, and most often, he would opt not to say anything to another person, unless it was an emergency.
But Cory was the bridge. He was the one person in the world with whom Mark had felt completely comfortable, completely at ease, completely himself. Although the two children were so unlike (Cory was outgoing and Mark was shy), Mark found that with this one boy, he could truly and easily express himself, without the fear of being judged.
And he was the one who pulled the trigger. He was the one to blame for his beloved friend's death. Nothing, no nothing could take that reality away, no matter how much he longed for it to be. After his death, guilt and self-blame and self-doubt took over the space where Cory had been, almost becoming a physical presence in his life. And suddenly, he was faced with two dilemmas: coming to terms with the tragic death of his friend, and the horrible guilt that accompanied it.
He stared up at his airplane mobile which dangled slowly above his bed. He'd had that stupid thing since he was eight, and every morning, without fail, he would open his eyes and see the cardboard cutouts twirling and flying slowly through the air. He was seventeen...shouldn't he have gotten rid of it by now?
He mustered all of his energy, stood up straight on his mattress and ripped it from the plaster in the ceiling, filled with a sudden rage. He wadded it up into a big ball of trash and sailed it through the air, towards the wastebasket. Air-ball.
He collapsed down again, groggily burying his face in the softness of the pillow, tempted to fall back into the comforting blanket of sleep. His girlfriend was going to be pissed at him for being late.
After a few minutes, he jumped out of bed, suddenly coming to the decision that he really did have to get ready, despite the exhaustion in his body. Why was he so tired all the time? He rubbed his eyes, and yawned.
He was dressed only in white boxers when he padded over to the damaged alarm clock. Amazingly, the secondhand was still turning. It was 7:24 and he had just enough time to get showered and put on some clothes.
He left his room and headed for the bathroom. Inside, the mirror was dirty. Looking into it he saw a leper with drooping eyes and tousled hair. The bones in his face looked especially prominent this morning. He wasn't skinny, but he was nowhere near beefy, either. He had a flat stomach with a few muscles poking out. He turned away from the mirror, went back to his room and flipped on his stereo system. The sound was set to max-treble max-bass. He liked the new style of music. It was angry, passionate, guttural, and raw. Cory would have liked this, he thought, as he adjusted the speakers. He twirled the knob until it was up to seven. The voice was loud, in-your-face, bloody and angry.
He went into the bathroom and stood in the shower stall, after having stripped himself of his clothes. As he turned the knobs the ice cold water cascaded on top of his head and ran down the crevises of his body. He opened his mouth real wide and drank as much of the tap water as he could before he ran out of breath. He was so damn thirsty. He breathed hard and opened up again for another gulp. He felt like he could drink the Mississippi river dry. He soaped up his body and his hair, then rinsed. The water was finally warming up. He rested his head against the tiles and closed his eyes. He looked from his wet body to the shower floor, where he was transfixed, for several seconds, by the way the water ran down the drain. He realized, with a surprised start, that he had almost fallen asleep standing up.
He lathered his body again with soap, covering every inch, then rinsed off again. He felt dirty, unnaturally so. Then he just stood there for a few moments, letting the heavy stream of water run over him, feeling the sensation of it. He noted, with regret, how his senses seemed somewhat dulled.
When he was finished, he stepped out to a steamy bathroom, breathing in the warm vapors. He wiped off the mirror over the sink with his hand and examined his face for the second time. No longer a leper, but he looked tired. There were bags under his eyes and his cheeks were hollow-looking. He lathered up and gave himself a quick shave, then he toweled off, and went back to his room.
He hadn't done laundry in ages. He examined a pile of clothes which was lying on the floor and chose a pair of dirty, ripped jeans from the assortment. Then he threw on a long-sleeved black t-shirt with a hole in the shoulder he found flung over the chair behind his desk.
Without combing it, he ran his fingers through his damp hair and curled it behind his ears. He didn't have time to dry it, so he headed downstairs with wet locks.
He was greeted by a barrage of harsh words. His mother was sitting at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, waiting for him. It was a fearsome sight: his mother was in the suit and pumps her job required her to wear, an exasperated expression on her face. During the week, she worked for an accounting firm uptown. It was a tough job; sometimes she worked eighteen hours a day, and it was quite often that he would go days without running into her once. One thing was for sure: the pressures of a high-stress job left her cranky and intolerable to be with whenever she was home. It was just a matter of time, he knew, before he could move out of the house and get a place of his own.
It was a few minutes past eight and his mother was already dressed to go. As soon as she saw him, she put down her coffee and proceeded with the attack.
"You'd better kick yourself into the twelfth grade if you think I'm writing any excuse notes for the first day of school, Mark."
"I know, I know, Mom," was his answer.
She narrowed her eyes. "Just what do you suppose they'll think at that school with you starting off this way? With all the trouble you got into last year? Think, Mark, think. It was lazy and selfish of you to oversleep."
"I know, Mom, I know." He couldn't bear listening to her chastisings. He never appreciated them, but today they seemed especially unbearable.
She crossed her legs. "Seven absences and twenty-two tardies last year, Mark. Believe me when I say I remember that meeting with the guidance counselor we had. I had to take valuable time off of work because of you."
"I'm leaving now."
"Oh, no you don't."
"I'm only going to be late if you keep hassling me like this." The tall, thin, lanky boy placed his hands on his hips.
"Just two more words."
"What's that?"
"Break-fast." She motioned to the plate of two cold pancakes and the glass of orange juice on the table. "You need to eat."
He scratched his temple. "Damn."
"And don't swear. I get enough verbal pollution from the women at work."
Mark rolled his eyes and cursed. His mother had already averted her attention to the daily newspaper; she obviously wasn't taking no for an answer. "Fine," he said, as he sat down. Despite his slightly nauseated stomach, he forced the dry pancakes into his mouth.
By then a baby headache was already starting to grow at his temples. Before long, he knew it would get worse. "Can I have some of that coffee?" he asked.
"No," she said, pulling it away. He continued shoveling food into his mouth, stifling the urge to grab her mug and swipe a gulp anyway.
But it was more than just the physical sensation; somehow the sickness in his body seemed to be permeating his emotions, too, making him feel a sense of deep loneliness that he had been experiencing in an especially poignant way for weeks now.
When he finished his plate, he tossed the dirty dishes into the sink. "When will you be home?" she demanded.
He hitched his bag over his right shoulder. "Beth's got cheerleader tryouts today."
"So when does that mean you'll be home?"
"What do you care?" he chided.
She sighed dramatically. "Don't start with me."
He relented. "I dunno. Seven, I guess. The guys and I might go out again tonight."
She pursed her lips and then frowned. "It's a schoolday, Mark," she said.
"It's not like they'll give us any homework," he replied.
"They might," she answered.
He didn't respond to her final comment. Instead, he gathered his things together. "I'm leaving," he announced, and made way for the door.
She did not ask for a kiss. She didn't smile at him. He knew what she was thinking: she was a single woman with a full-time occupation and a part-time job as a mother. If she was home some of the time and asked questions most of the time, then she was doing her job. Ever since Dad left home, seven years ago, she ran the place like it was a business.
Mark headed towards his car without looking back. Glancing at his watch, he took note of the time. Good. Beth wasn't going to be mad.
Last year, Mark's father had bought him a second-hand Ford convertible to celebrate his sixteenth birthday. It was about ten years old without a lot of mileage on it. It was a good car; pretty sturdy. He took it everywhere, inside and out of Glenwood. He unlocked the driver's side door and got in, throwing his things in the back, then buckled up and closed the door. Before turning the ignition, he took out a bottle of aspirin from the glove compartment and took a few into his mouth and chewed. He winced on the bitter flavor. By now his head was pounding pretty bad, and he silently wished he'd taken something earlier. To cut the taste, he then rolled down the window and lit up a cigarette.
He started up his car and headed for Beth's neighborhood. It took him less than five minutes to get there. Traffic was surprisingly light that morning, despite the start of the new school season. He'd taken back roads where there were no traffic lights.
Her house was practically a mansion. It was plantation-style, with four white stone pillars to the front of the house. It was three-story, with a pool and a jacuzzi in back. The front was painted white except for the door and the shudders, which were painted grey.
The Hammons' front door opened no less than thirty seconds after Mark's car arrived in the driveway, and out she came.
She was a vision that day. She was wearing tight-fitting jeans and a new silk blouse. Her long blonde hair was waved and brushed and left down, falling to the mid of her back. Mark could not help but notice how highly appealing she looked to him that day. She seemed to float down the front steps and glide across the lawn with her dance-like strides. As she approached the car, she took off the purse which was hanging from her shoulder and clasped it with her two hands.
Mark could see that her makeup was heavier than usual. Her eyelashes were thickly painted with dark mascara, and her lips were a shade of deep mauve. It made her look cheap and tawdry--and, if he were honest with himself, he would admit that he was guilty of liking that sort of thing. As she opened the door and got in, swinging her legs over the seat, he could smell the strong scent of her perfume.
Her fragrance was floral and musky. Beth bent over and gave him a soft, wet kiss. "Hi, sweetie," was her hello. She reached over to touch his face, scratching him with her long nails. He grabbed her hand and kissed it.
"Hi, yourself."
He put the car into gear and sped off. As he was driving, he reached into the backseat with one of his hands and retrieved something for Beth. "You left this at my place," he said, as he dropped a black bookbag into her lap. It had a multi-colored embroidered butterfly attached to the back of it.
She frowned.
"What's wrong?"
She rolled her eyes. "You'll never believe my sister," she said. "She is the biggest brat in the world. The only way she'd be happy is if she spent her whole life with a mirror fastened in front of her pretty little face."
"What did she do now?"
"Ally wants to be a model. She spent three hours in the bathroom this morning fawning all over herself. I tried to get in, but she said she needed time to make herself beautiful." Her eyes turned into two smoky slits. "You see what I have to put up with?"
Mark turned on the stereo in his car to the station he'd been listening to that morning.
"I can't believe you listen to that crap, Mark. How can you take that in the morning?"
He ignored her. "Maybe there's a boy at school she wants to impress," Mark offered.
"Yeah, but that's gotta be some boy." She looked at her nails, which were freshly polished and manicured. She was as annoyed as she was annoying today, Mark thought dully. But beautiful.
"Who do you have for homeroom?" asked Mark.
"Miss Campbell. I have her for English, too. Who do you have?"
Mark searched around in his pocket, then found his schedule, a white slip of paper that was thoroughly crumpled and torn, and threw it at her. "I don't know. Read it to me."
"Mrs. Blum. That's like the whole building away," she complained.
They drove past the old courthouse, which, although collasping from age, was still in use. The six stone pillars in front were partially covered with crawling ivy, and the stones that made up the front steps were falling out, crumbling. Besides the old schoolhouse, it was a landmark in their small town, the town that Mark had never been able to get away from.
"We never have any classes together. When are we ever going to see eachother?"
As they reached an intersecton, Mark put the car in park and reached over and kissed her. "Whenever you want," he said. He found, usually, that she was a pushover for his kisses.
Beth sat back in her seat. "Oh, sure, you can cut class, but I'm taking college courses this year. Do you realize how important that is?"
"Then we'll meet after school."
"I can't. I have this stupid cheerleading thing I have to go to. All the j.v. babies have tryouts today."
"Well maybe I can come and watch."
"Maybe." Beth looked at her watch. "We better get there soon. I don't want to be late."
Mark turned up the volume on his stereo. As they made the drive, Beth lit up a cigarette and flicked the ashes out the window. She hated the fact that Mark smoked, but she herself was an occasional smoker.
When they approached the school, the traffic started. Cars were coming into the parking lot from all directions. Dozens of kids were swarming into the school. They had five minutes before the first bell was supposed to be rung when Mark finally found a parking space. As quickly as he could, he turned the car off, got out and opened the door for Beth. Together, they walked to the main entrance.
As they were going in, Mark took a puff from his inhaler. Beth held his hand as they crowded into the building, the air inside clear and cool. The lights looked dim compared to the outside. Eventually his eyes adjusted, and the sight of screaming teenagers looked like a circus. He saw Joey Parrish talking to some short red-haired girl against her locker and intended to go and talk to him.
Joey was the type of guy who would and could be friends with anyone. He was gregarious and talkative, fun to be around, and had a wicked sense of humor. He was a year younger than Mark, but in the same class. They'd been friends for a few years now, and Mark found that he was always dividing his time between Mark and his "other" friends.
"I'll be going now," Beth said. They parted ways with a long kiss. She slipped her hand underneath his shirt and scratched him lightly with her nails. "Don't be late, O.K.?"
Mark nodded in agreement. As they pulled away from each other, the first bell rang, signaling three minutes before the start of homeroom. He watched her disappear down the hall. Then, realizing he didn't have time to speak with Joey, began the search for Mrs. Blum's classroom.
In homeroom, schedules were passed out and lockers were assigned. Just as expected, Mark was placed in remedial courses again. One class, Chemistry, was a repeat for what he'd failed the previous year. He swore under his breath when he saw that it was the same teacher he'd had before. It was Mrs. Crenshaw. She gave the most homework than any other teacher he'd ever had before and always gave Mark stern words for not doing his work. She'd caught him skipping class a couple of times, too. Both times, she sent him straight to the principal's office. Whether it was a low test score or an unexcused absence, every day in her classroom was like a nightmare.
But there was something different about this year than last...something more unbearable. He seemed more tired, less interested, the pressures more immense. He thought about this as he walked through the halls, dazed at being back here for the first time in months.
And Cory...he was thinking more about Cory lately. He didn't know why that was.
He mostly slept through first and second periods, but stayed awake for third and fourth. Fourth period was Mrs. Crenshaw's class. He scurried in amidst the sophomores, and found an empty seat at the back of the room. The bell rang, and the teacher strode in.
After a few moments, the chatter died down. Mrs. Crenshaw stood up straight and tall at the head of the classroom and then spoke.
She said a few words of welcome, introduced herself, and talked briefly about the subject matter for the class, but then, to Mark's horror, she paused, taking in a deep breath. "It seems," she said, "that we have a veteran in our midst this year. Everyone," she raised her hand to Mark. "Say hello to Mark." He stared at the teacher in disbelief as she spoke, although it wasn't like he hadn't been expecting something nasty from her. The students gave weak hellos before she continued. "Apparently, he liked this class so much last year that he decided to come back. But there's just one problem. He's way back there, and I'm all the way up here. So thanks to our new friend, Mark, to whom I'm sure you will all be undoubtedly grateful, for the remainder of the year, we will all have seating arrangements." The students gave loud groans. It was just like before. This teacher had it in for him. Mark glared at her as he moved to his new spot, but she acted like she didn't care. Another nightmarish schoolyear was in store for him, there was no use doubting it.
Fifth period was his lunch period this year. Beth was nowhere in sight. He learned from one of her friends, Lacey, that she had sixth lunch. He found Dan Riggsbee, Drew Santini and Joey Parrish in the cafeteria and sat down to eat with them. They were already lively in discussion.
"I don't believe you."
"I'm telling you, it's true."
"Dan, you can't be saying to me that your parents are going to leave you alone with the house for an entire two weeks. You've got to be kidding me. They don't trust you."
"Sure they do."
Mark slid into a seat beside them. "Hey, guys," said Mark.
"Oh, hey, Mark." Joey moved over to make room. "So when is it gonna happen? When's it gonna go down?"
"Next month."
"Well the proof is in the pudding. Is there gonna be dope?"
"Hell yes."
"I'll believe it when I see it."
Mark concentrated on his food. He wasn't particularly hungry, and still nauseous, but he knew that if he didn't eat, then weakness would be added to his ailments and he began to slowly stuff the hot dog into his mouth. He wasn't listening very closely as his friends discussed an upcoming party; only caught swipes of the conversation here and there. He was surrounded by friends, and yet the ever-growing chasm of loneliness was still there, and growing wider by the second, distracting him.
Joey kept staring at him. Mark frowned. "Why do you keep staring at me?" he asked. Dan and Drew, the two senior football players, stopped their conversation.
"You didn't hear a word I said, did you?"
Mark swallowed a bite of his food. "I'm not feeling all that great today."
Joey leaned on his elbows. "That's been a problem with you a lot lately. You've had bad concentration."
Mark thought about making a joke but thought better of it. "I'm just sick so lay off."
"Okay, okay. Are you going to come to the party?"
He looked into the faces of the others, who were all looking at him. "I'll see if I can make it."
He was still feeling the heaviness, the pain, the nausea, when lunch finished.
In seventh period, Mark was drifting off to sleep when he saw Drew Santini's face framed in the window of the door. He mouthed, "What?" Drew motioned for him to come outside. He raised his hand and asked to go to the bathroom.
When he was outside, Drew said, "I've been looking all over for you, man. Come on." He followed Drew into the boys' bathroom. He pulled out a fresh pack of Marlboros and packed it hard and quick. "Here, man, you want one?" He took it from him and lit it up. It tasted great after a full day of not smoking. He leaned back against the sink and closed his eyes, savoring it.
"So what is it that you wanted?" he asked. "I'm so upset that you had to pull me out of English." He laughed briefly.
Drew reached into his jacket pocket, not smiling, and pulled out a little joint. "This is for the other night," he said, scratching his bare head. "I didn't know when I'd see you, but I brought it anyway. Consider it payment."
Drew, unlike everyone else that Mark was friends with, was a total mystery. Several years ago it was rumored that he had sent his father to the hospital with a severe concussion and a broken leg after a fight about his twenty-eight-year-old brother. Just in seventh grade, the people said, he was sent to a juvenile delinquency rehabilitation facility and left there by his parents. When he finally came back to school, everyone was afraid of him, and with due cause. In tenth grade a small, well organized group of white supremacist skinheads emerged in the form of fights with the black members of the school. Drew decided to join them, completely shaving off his dark hair and getting a real tattoo that said, 'White Power'. But no one really knew the truth about where he stood politically. There were times when he was seen talking to kids of other races with no disdain on his face whatsoever, and at one point, Mark remembered, he was secretly dating a young hispanic girl from Venezuela. But his sheer size and the serious, determined expression on his face made him somewhat intimidating, and less than easy to approach. Everything to him was a big deal. And that scared most people off. Most people except for Mark.
Dan, the fellow football teammate, was also a skinhead, but he made it clear to everyone around him that his membership was not just for show-and-tell. Mark considered him a jerk, but he was able to tolerate him enough to hang out with him every once in a while. Everone else he knew seemed to think he was a jerk, as well. He made trouble daily. Drew did his schoolwork silently, when everyone wasn't looking. Dan tore up his work in front of his teachers and wrote racist phrases on the blackboard when they turned their backs. Mostly Drew spent all his time with Dan, but he seemed to prefer Mark.
Mark took the joint from him and nodded his head. "Thanks, man." He slipped it into his pocket. "I'll save this for later."
As he came out of his classroom, he froze. Something totally unexpected, the last thing he would have guessed, happened just then. He felt all the blood rush to his head as he squinted his eyes through his contacts, looking through the crowds of students making their way through the halls. There, about ten yards away, he saw her.
There was no mistaking her. She no longer wore bangs and pigtails, and of course she was several years older, but it was definitely her. It was the same face, the same color hair, the same shy smile. Everything about her was familiar and yet different. It was Megan Mitchell, Cory's little sister.
Mark had no idea where she'd come from. He'd not seen her in years, not since the incident. She'd mysteriously disappeared, and he never saw her again until this very moment.
Still frozen, he realized that his mouth was slightly open. He watched as she flipped her dark brown hair behind her shoulder and look around confusedly, as though she were lost.
A moment later, she disappeared into a classroom.
He realized his breath had been taken away. Quickly gathering himself together, he shook his head and went in the direction of his last class, which was located at the opposite end of the building.
After school Mark found Beth heading for the locker rooms. He slid his hands around her waist and then brushed her hair back. "What time does your little get-together begin?"
"It's not a get-together. It's just something I have to do. Are you going to be there?"
"I wouldn't miss it," he said, while brushing his lips against hers...trying to forget, but not very successfully, what he had seen that day.