Stalked

asked them. All A’s except a B in P.E. and a B+ in honors physics. I could live with that.

Mr. Doherty smiled. “You have a lot of talent, Peter.”

I shrugged. I liked writing. I was good at it. But that didn’t make me talented.

He slid the essay over, upside down. I took it, looked at the cover page. A+. I smiled. I knew I’d nailed the assignment, but the validation felt good.

“I’m a little concerned about the pessimism in your story.”

I shrugged.

“A couple other teachers have come to me and asked if they need to be concerned about you.”

Why’d anyone talk to Mr. Doherty about me? I was quiet and maybe antisocial, but I wasn’t a troublemaker. Didn’t these people have anything more important to worry about? Like the kid who brought a knife to school last month or the group who smoked pot on the roof nearly every Friday?

“I’m fine,” I said. Fine. I suppose I’d never be fine, but really, what else could I say? I showed up, I got good grades, and I didn’t bother anyone. What more did these people want?

“I know this year has been hard on you-”

“No shit,” I said. Then I thought of Grams and how much she hated swearing. “Sorry.”

“I told them not to be concerned; then I read your story. I could see you in your character Thomas. I was completely hooked by the story, the depth of character, your keen sense of description, the emotions you evoke in just a few words. Then Thomas kills himself. And the comments from your teachers made me concerned that I’m missing signs. I like you, Peter. You have a lot to offer.”

I thought a lot about death and dying. And maybe sometimes I thought about being dead. I wondered if Rachel could see me, wondered if there was a heaven and if she was happy. Or if there was nothing. That death was final; there was no more.

“It’s fiction, Mr. Doherty.”

He stared at me. I didn’t know what he saw, but he was worried. “I think I should talk to your mother.”

My heart skipped a beat, but it was only anger I felt. My mother had no right to know anything of how I felt.

I stood. “No.”

“If not your mother, maybe I can find someone for you to talk to.”

“I’m not going to kill myself. It’s a story. That was the assignment, right? A work of fiction?”

Mr. Doherty looked away, then changed the subject. “What are your plans this summer?”

Stay out of the house as much as I could. “My dad’s making me visit him for a month.”

“Maybe that would be good for you.”

I shrugged.

“People change, Peter. You should forgive them.”

I walked out.

I could forgive Benjamin John Kreig easier than I could forgive my parents. I thought Kreig should have gotten the death penalty for killing my sister. I think my parents should get worse.

But I couldn’t do anything about it. And I wouldn’t. I just wanted my mom and dad to disappear. I didn’t want to talk to them; I didn’t want to see them; I didn’t want to be reminded of what happened in our house.

I went to my locker to get the last of my things. I opened it and a vile smell assaulted me. I stared at the bloody mess in front of me, not knowing at first what it was. Then I saw. A dead cat. Flattened, like roadkill. Flies buzzed; bugs burrowed in its wounds. Tears came fast, for the poor animal, for me, for Rachel-I had never felt so alone. Not even when Grams died. Not even when I found Rachel’s empty bed.

I slammed my locker shut and ran to the bike cage, ignoring the stares of my peers. Go to Hell! I wanted to scream at all of them. Instead, I got on my bike and rode away fast. I didn’t want to go home, so biked south, through one old Newark neighborhood after another. I didn’t have a destination; I just wanted to get away.

But maybe my heart knew best, because two hours later I ended up at the cemetery where Rachel was buried.

I found her grave. There were no flowers on it. I walked back to the office and bought her a white rose. Not because she liked them-I don’t know that she had a favorite flower-but I only had three dollars in my pocket and the rose was $2.49.

I went back to her grave and put the flower in a little cup in the ground. It looked small against the large headstone. I sat on the grass and talked to her. I told her everything that had happened at school, told her about Mr. Doherty, told her I missed her and I was sorry I hadn’t visited her since she was buried.

I think she understood. At least, I felt better. Like maybe I would get through this whole thing, that there was hope. A future.

I didn’t know how long I’d been there, but it was after six when I looked at my watch. I traced her name with my finger. “I love you, Sis.”

Three more years until I turned eighteen and could get out of my mom’s house. Then I’d never have to see her again.

It took me an hour to ride my bike home, faster than it took to get to the cemetery, but I’d taken the long way there, probably because I hadn’t planned on it.

I glided up the driveway and frowned. My mom had a visitor. I didn’t want to talk to any of her friends. Or worse, what if it was a date? She went out every weekend, so I wouldn’t be surprised if some jerk had come to pick her up.

I dropped my bike in the side yard and went in through the kitchen door. Saw a meal on the table. Two plates, both empty. A bottle of wine, also empty.

I walked through the kitchen to the living room and stared at the familiar jacket draped across the couch. A tweed jacket, with leather patches at the elbows.

A copy of my essay was on the coffee table.

Someone laughed upstairs. Then came the all-too-familiar sounds of sex.

If I’d had a gun, I might have shot them both. Right then, at that moment, I would have done it. I could see my hand with a pistol aimed at my mother, aimed at the traitor, pulling the trigger over and over and killing them.

But the murderous rage passed as quickly as it crept over me, and I broke.

Broken and free.

I went upstairs, passed her room, and quietly entered mine. I packed a backpack with everything I could carry, and stuffed in a small, framed picture of Rachel, Grams, Grandpa, and me. My family, my only family, and they were all dead.

I took all the money out of my mother’s purse-a hundred dollars-and her ATM card because I knew her code. I went into Mr. Doherty’s jacket and found his wallet-he had only forty-nine dollars. I took it, too. I packed cheese, crackers, granola bars, and water to get me through a couple of days. Then I went to the garage, got a sleeping bag from the rafters, and tied it to the back of my bike.

Then I left. It was three days before Mom canceled her ATM card, and by that time I had fifteen hundred dollars.

I never would have gone home, except the cops arrested me six months later.

And this time I was unlucky enough to be sent to live with my dad.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

FBI Academy

This was supposed to be Class 12–14’s first weekend with forty-eight hours of freedom-they could leave, visit home, go away for R amp; R, or hang around campus without obligations. But because of the extra weapons