Crush

Jonathan eased closer to the shelves to listen. He could not see the women, but they were directly across from him in the next aisle. Their conversation was as clear as the Muzak on the store’s speakers, though far more interesting.

“Xander called me from the police station. He has the early shift, and he said Weaver was smothered.”

Mr. Weaver, Jonathan thought, startled. He dropped the paperback but quickly snatched it out of the air before it hit the shelf.

“Smothered? Oh, that’s so awful.”

“I know. The idea terrifies me. Not being able to breathe. Xander said it could have taken up to three minutes before he died. Now, can you just imagine that? Trying to breathe and struggling and knowing someone wants to kill you? Three minutes would seem like hours.”

“So awful,” the second woman repeated. “Who found him?”

“Well, that’s the really weird part. His neighbors found him…because he was in their tree.”

“Their tree?”

“That’s right. Whoever killed him hauled his body fifteen feet in the air and threw him over a branch and left him.”

The women walked away, still talking about the tragic event, leaving Jonathan stunned. He didn’t know how to feel about this news. Sure, Weaver was an ass, but this was a totally screwed-up situation. Dead? Murdered? Smothered? Draped on a tree branch like a bit of laundry left to dry? He felt bad for Mr. Weaver. He also felt really weird because he’d never known anyone who’d died before. Even Jonathan’s grandparents were still alive, though he rarely got a chance to see them.

Jonathan put the book on the shelf and turned to go find David so he could share the news, but saw Stewart at the end of the aisle. The assistant manager had his arms crossed, nodding his head, chatting with a customer. Stewart threw a glance in Jonathan’s direction, letting him know that he was watching and would only take so much dis’ before getting all Trump on Jonathan’s ass.

Telling David would have to wait until their break. Thirty minutes. It seemed like way too long to hold this information in.

Three minutes would seem like hours.

Jonathan picked up another handful of books and began placing them on the shelf.

“You hated the guy, though. Right?” David asked, clutching his double espresso in his pudgy hand.

“He was crappy to me, but I didn’t want him dead.”

“Or did you?” David asked, leaning across the table. His eyes gleamed the way they always did when he was joking around. “I bet you snapped like a glow stick and got all R. Kelly. You decided it was time to teach the word jockey a lesson, so you snuck over to his house and…PAC!”

“PAC?”

“Popped a cap,” David said, lifting his cup for another sip.

Jonathan laughed, despite finding the whole subject unnerving. “They said he was smothered. Besides, how could I get his body fifteen feet into a tree? He weighed like a thousand pounds.”

“Don’t mock the girth,” David said, patting his belly. “Whoever did it probably hauled him up there with some rope.”

“But why do it?” Jonathan wanted to know. “I mean, it’s just creep-show stupid.”

“Maybe they wanted to play pinata.”

“Come on,” Jonathan said.

“What? I don’t know who’d off him, but my guess is the cops’ll have caught the guy before the evening news. I mean, someone had to see something.”

“I guess.”

Mr. Weaver’s death hung over him like a light, scratchy sheet. He even felt guilty for imagining the guy popping like a balloon, which was stupid, he knew. But he couldn’t help feeling it.

He wanted to talk about something else, so he reached across the table and lifted the book David had brought with him on break. Turned out this distraction was little better than what it was meant to distract. The cover was black with red lettering.

History of the Occult, the title read.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“It’s for a class,” David said. “I’ve got a paper due next week.”

“I thought Melling only let you study hard-core brain data.”

“Indeed,” David said. “My thesis is about how magic was the first science and the first religion. Well, more about being the first science because Melling High fears God talk. But it’s like they used magic for medicine, right? So my theory is they approached this from a pseudo-scientific perspective. Trying potions, changing ingredients until they found something that sort of worked. But most early cultures thought sickness had a spiritual cause, right? Possession? Curses? So they added chants and rituals to ward off the evil.”

“Move over, Merck pharmaceuticals.”

“Don’t be laughin’ at the mojo,” David said. “Some of the stuff I’ve read is pretty serious. It’ll be a cool paper.”

“No doubt.” Jonathan didn’t want to talk about magic any more than he wanted to talk about Mr. Weaver’s death. He sat quietly. Drank his coffee.

“Oh,” David said, straightening up in his chair, “I think we have a solid eight at one o’clock.”

Jonathan turned in his chair and looked across the cafe to where David indicated. Kirsty Sabine, from his English class, stepped onto the mezzanine where the coffee shop was located. She looked around, cautiously like she expected someone to throw something at her. After scanning the room, she ducked her head and walked to the counter.

“She goes to my school,” Jonathan said. “You think she’s an eight?”

“What? You don’t?”

“Maybe a five.”

“No, your mother is a five. She’s an eight. Besides, what do you care? You already have a fictional relationship with a certain Miss Emma.”

“Thanks,” Jonathan said, embarrassed. “I thought we weren’t going to bring that up again.”

“Hey, I’m just saying you can’t hog all the hotness. The rest of us need imaginary girlfriends too. What’s her name?”

“Kirsty.”

“Niiice,” David said. “Spill. Does she like her men ample or what?”

Jonathan laughed. “Yeah, man. She transferred in at the beginning of the year, and the first thing she said was ‘Where are all the chunky guys?’”

“You’re just jealous. You know women like a guy with something they can hold on to. They find a little bulk comforting.”

“And what twisted talk show told you that?”

“The one in my head,” David said. “So, does she have a boyfriend or what?”

“I don’t think so. She’s always alone at school.” Kind of like me, Jonathan thought. He looked toward the counter and saw Kirsty paying for her coffee. He tried to see her the way David did, as an eight, but it just wasn’t there. Like all girls, he compared her to Emma O’Neil, and to his mind, Kirsty just didn’t come close. Maybe no girl could.

“She’s making my pants tight,” David said.

“Thanks for sharing,” Jonathan said. “Why don’t you go over there and tell her? I’m sure she’d be thrilled to hear it.”

“No. I have to play it cool.”

“As in…watching her until she leaves and never seeing her again?”

“Yes,” David said. “Exactly. It’s foolproof.”

Jonathan couldn’t argue against the point. That was basically his tack with Emma. Just sit and watch and dream.

Kirsty carried her coffee to a small table in the back, where Jonathan could see her over David’s shoulder. She sat down and immediately opened a book. She lowered her head to read, and her hair fell forward like a curtain