The problem with my plan was that when I pictured what Bob’s body would look like after they pulled it out of the water, it didn’t satisfy my desire for revenge at all. Instead it made me think of Sam, and I forced myself to get off that train of thought before I felt even worse.
I drank some Dr Pepper to settle my stomach, took off my shoes and socks, and got out my guitar—I always play guitar barefoot, no matter where I am or what the temperature. I feel more connected to the earth when my feet are touching the ground. More deeply rooted. Like a redwood.
I started strumming an old Tom Petty tune that I’d just learned, and when I got to the chorus I heard a voice behind me singing the words.
I looked back and saw Cal on the trail down below. He was standing maybe ten yards away, his head raised toward the sky, and from where I sat it appeared as though he was staring directly into the sun.
I recognized Cal right away. Well, not by name, but I had seen him twice before, both times at the record store in Mill Valley.
It was hard not to notice Cal. He was extra tall for his age, reed thin and willowy, with fine, wispy yellow hair that made him look like a stalk of wheat blowing in the wind. He had a narrow face and these little round, crafty eyes that reminded me of the great gray owls Bob and I went looking for once in Yosemite. And that day he was wearing the only thing he wore the whole summer—a navy blue sweatshirt and a pair of cutoff denim shorts that his hipbones could barely hold up, with two drumsticks sticking out of his back pocket.
I quit strumming and he said, “That sounded rad.” He slid onto the bench across from me. “I dig that song.”
I reached into my backpack and pulled out the CD.
“You have the whole album?”
I nodded, though it actually belonged to my mom’s boyfriend, Chuck, who was twenty-seven, had a perpetual tan, and worked as a trainer at the gym where she took exercise classes. Chuck was basically living at our house, and he called me Mutant Joe when my mom wasn’t within earshot. I was pretty sure he was trying to make a joke about how I was mute, but he was too stupid to know that the word “mutant” wasn’t some adjectival version of “mute,” and if I hadn’t actually been mute, not to mention timid beyond reason, I would have called him stupid to his face. Instead I wrote the word “rebound” on the notepad in the kitchen every morning, which made my mom laugh; back then, not much made Ingrid laugh, so I kept doing it.
I remember wanting to invite Cal to eat lunch with me, but I figured he was too cool to say yes. Even back then I had a sense that certain people were out of my league.
Luckily, Cal was sure of himself in a way kids that age rarely are, and he didn’t need an invitation. He looked at all the food on the table and said, “What’s with the spread?” Then he noticed the Dr Pepper and said, “Can I have one of those?”
He grabbed the can, opened it, and waited for the foam to fizz out over his hand. Then he drank the whole thing in seconds, an achievement that culminated in a long, loud burp, for which he took a bow.
I watched him, and that’s when he began looking at me suspiciously, as if he were waiting for something—probably words—to come out of my mouth. The longer the quiet lingered between us, the more puzzled he seemed.
I swallowed hard and looked down at the table, embarrassed and now wishing he would go away.
But instead of laughing or calling me a freak or threatening to beat me up like most of the kids at school did, he leaned over and said, “You all right?”
That was a hard question to answer.
“Say something,” he prodded.
I stared at him.
“Can you say something?”
I shrugged. That was an even harder question to answer.
Cal reached over and picked up my guitar, watching me carefully, as if I were a stray dog that might bite him.
After examining the guitar, he handed it back to me and said, “Play something else.”
I looked down at the neck and started playing “Big Love” by Fleetwood Mac. It was a hard song and the one I often used to warm up because it required a lot of finger picking, plus some flamenco and classical stuff.
When I was done, I set the guitar on my lap and looked at Cal. His jaw was agape. “What are you, like, twelve? How is it possible you can play like that?”
I was small for my age, and people always thought I was younger than I was. I took out my notepad and wrote I’m 14.
“Me too,” Cal said.
Wow woulda guessed 17, I wrote. Thought u were older.
“Everyone thinks that.” He pointed to the guitar. “Seriously, though. Why are you so good?”
Practice, I wrote. I drew a smiley face next to that word, because it was such an understatement it made me laugh.
Cal gestured toward my Dr Pepper. “You gonna drink that?”
I took another sip. It was warm, and I handed it to Cal because it seemed like he wanted it more than I did. He was staring at the food and I handed him a sandwich too.
“What’s your name? I go by my last one. Callahan. You can call me Cal.” He ripped the crusts from the bread and stuffed them into his mouth. “I go to Tam High. Well, I mean, I’m starting there in September.”
Me too! I wrote with an embarrassing amount of enthusiasm. Then I scribbled my name across the page. Joseph Robert Harper.
Cal asked me why I was there by myself and
