Liar. Part 4

"They're both bad seeds," Dad said, patting my head 'cause he knows I hate it.

"Dad!" I protested.

"I am cursed," he told Isaiah, who nodded back at him.

"Who'd have children? Other than the two of us," Isaiah said, laughing. "Mine are more than a handful. But none of them in jail yet. That's the blessing I'm counting."

Then they started talking boxing. Dad told Isaiah about his career as a lightweight. Lightweight was right, but only if you left out the boxing part. Dad liked to say that he was "averse to violence." As far as I knew he'd never hit anyone. Not even me. Though, trust me, he'd wanted to.

"I got out before it was too late," Isaiah said. "Wanted to keep a few of my original smarts." He tapped his left temple to demonstrate there was still something in there. "I can add up and read and I know who the president is. That's a lot better than some of the brothers I went through with."

Dad nodded wisely.

"Dad got out after his nose was smashed up," I said, and Isaiah peered at Dad's nose in the rearview mirror. The crooked lump in the middle came courtesy of his oldest cousin, Cal, up on the farm. Or, at least, that was the story I'd heard most often.

Dad nodded again. " 'Course," he said, "I was never going to be a contender. Nose was broke in my fifth bout."

"You did right," Isaiah said. "Look at you now! Riding around in a limousine."

Dad laughed. "Just reviewing it."

"Good enough," Isaiah said.

Next morning at school without saying anything directly I let it be known that my dad was a man to be reckoned with. By the end of the day it was Micah's dad, the arms dealer.

I neither confirmed nor denied.

AFTER.

The police interview all the seniors. The art room becomes the inquisition room. I am one of the first they call. I wonder why. I am a Wilkins so it can't be alphabetical.

When the officer says my name I stand up and walk slowly out of English. Everyone looks at me. The teacher, too. I lift my chin a little higher, threading my way through the desks, trying to close my ears to the whispers, but my hearing is too good.

They talk about me and Zach. Disbelief echoes around the room and follows me out into the hall. How could he? With her?

I hate English. Even when no one is whispering about me.

The police officer smiles at me. "I'm Officer Lewis."

"Micah," I say, even though she already knows that since she asked for me by name. I wonder if she heard the whispers.

"The art room is this way," she tells me, making it even. I told her something she knew, now she's telling me something I know.

She's shorter than me. She looks young. Like she could still be in high school. Her uniform is neat and she has a gun in a leather holster on her side. I wonder if she's ever fired it.

"Don't worry," she says. "One of your teachers, Ms. Yayeko Shoji, will be there. We just want to ask a few questions. You might be able to help us find out what happened to Zachary."

"Do you have any ideas at all?" I ask her. "Was he really murdered? Everyone's saying so."

"I'm sorry, I can't answer that. The investigation is ongoing," she says, still smiling. "Was he a good friend of yours? It's hard when someone you care about dies."

"No," I say, feeling weightless for a moment. I skid on a tile. The officer puts her arm out to steady me. "Slippery," I say. "He wasn't a friend of mine. It's weird. You know . . . someone you've seen around."

She pats my shoulder. "I understand," she says.

I hope she doesn't, and follow her along the empty hall into the art room.

AFTER.

"This is Micah Wilkins," Officer Lewis says.

Two men nod. One of them, tall and thin, is leaning up against the wall. His elbow rests against someone's painting of a cow exploding. At least, that's what it looks like. The other man is sitting in a chair that's too small for him. It looks as if it might collapse under his weight. He's much fatter and more gray than the man standing. Neither of them wears a uniform and if they have guns I can't see them.

Officer Lewis gestures to the chair next to Yayeko Shoji, who turns and nods at me. Under the table she squeezes my hand briefly. For a moment I think I might cry.

Officer Lewis stands by the door. I am perched on the edge of my seat, toes flexed. I haven't been in the art room since the tenth grade. I hated it then; I hate it now. The smells of paint, paint remover, clay, glue, chalk, pencil, dust are overwhelming.

I sneeze. Yayeko blesses me.

Why is the art room never clean? I look around at the messy paintings, the sculptures, the cabinets and desks and chairs in every imaginable color.

"Micah," the older-looking man says, turning from his notes to me and then back to his notes. "Micah Wilkins. I'm Detective Rodriguez."

"h.e.l.lo," I say. I wonder if they picked the art room on purpose, hoping that ugly art will make us want to confess.

The other man looks down at me, bares his teeth, and says, "Detective Stein."

I smile but it's a little smile. I glance at Yayeko; she nods.

"We're going to ask you a few questions. That alright with you, Micah?" Detective Rodriguez asks.

"Okay," I say. It's not okay. I don't want to answer questions. I don't want to talk about Zach. I want to run.

"Anything you can think of, even if it seems kind of irrelevant to you," Rodriguez continues. "It might help us with the case. We need you to think hard. Tell us everything you can remember."

"Okay," I say again.

"Did you know Zachary Rubin well?"

I shake my head.

"Did you know him at all?"

"We were in some of the same cla.s.ses."

"Which ones?"

"Biology," I say, glancing at Yayeko. She smiles. "English, math, Dangerous Words."

"Dangerous Words?" Detective Stein asks.

"It's a cla.s.s about censorship."

"Interesting," he says, but I can tell he means weird.

"When was the last time you saw him?" Rodriguez asks.

"Friday, I guess. In cla.s.s." Friday night sneaking around in Central Park. "The Dangerous Words cla.s.s."

"Did you notice anything about him? Did he seem different?"

"Different?" I ask.

The man nods.

"I didn't really look at him," I say. "He's-he was-popular. I'm not. I stay out of his way. I don't think he's ever said a word to me in school. Or me to him."

"I thought," says Detective Stein, looking down at me, "that this school wasn't like that. Isn't this one of those alternative schools where everyone's happy and no one gets beat up at recess?"

"Does that question have anything to do with your investigation?" Yayeko asks.

"I was just wondering, Ms. Shoji," Stein says. "I didn't think a hippie school would have popular kids."

"Wherever there are people," Yayeko observes, "there are hierarchies."

"True enough," Stein says. "And Zachary Rubin was high in this school's hierarchy? Is that right, Micah?"

"Very," I say. "With students. With teachers. He was good at everything. Especially hoops."

"Hoops?" Stein says with a smirk to his voice. "I thought schools like this didn't have much of an athletics program."

"We don't," Yayeko says. "Not compared to more traditional schools. But some of our students are very athletically gifted."

"Like Zachary?" Stein asks.

"Like Zach," Yayeko confirms.

"Was he ever mean to you, Micah? Popular kids often are."

"No."

"Where are you in the school hierarchy?"

"Not very high." I prefer being invisible. Not that I am anymore. Thanks to Brandon.

"Micah is one of my star students. She's popular with me," Yayeko says, and I wish she hadn't. Detective Stein smirks some more.

"Do you think other students resented Zachary's popularity?" Detective Rodriguez asks.

"I don't know," I say. "Probably." Brandon Duncan certainly does. Did.

"You say Zachary was popular," Rodriguez says. "Did you like him?"

"Sure," I say. "I certainly didn't not like him, you know? He seemed like a nice guy. He never did anything mean to me. Or anyone else that I saw."

"But some other students have?" Stein asks.

"Have what?" I ask.

"Been mean to you."

"I can take care of myself," I say, crossing my arms. I bet Detective Stein was as unpopular as me. More even. I bet being back in high school makes him tense. Even a "hippie" one like this.

"I'm sure you can," Stein says. "And which students have forced you to take care of yourself?"

"No one in particular. I mostly get left alone."

Stein stares at me. I can tell he doesn't believe it.

"Well, if you think of anything that might help our investigation," Rodriguez says, glancing up at Stein and then back to me, "you let us know."

I nod. "I will."

"You can go back to cla.s.s now."

I don't. I go into the bathroom and hide in one of the stalls until the bell for next period. I don't want to hear any whispering for a while.

BEFORE.

It's true that Zach never spoke to me in school. He didn't look at me either. Not before, anyway. After, he would sometimes catch my eye when he was sure no one else was looking at him or at me. Easy to find a moment when there were no eyes on me, difficult to find one for himself.

We met for the first time in Central Park. Under a bridge hung with icicles. Winter of our junior year. Middle of the day. A weekday. A school day.

I say "we met" even though we'd been in school together since we were freshmen. We exchanged a few words during the one game of hoops. But we'd been in cla.s.ses ever since without so much as saying hi, how you doin'. He spoke to the cool kids. I spoke to no one, not even my teachers-except Yayeko-if I could avoid it.

Under the bridge he spoke to me.

"Micah, isn't it?"

I was staring up at the icicles. It was warmer that day and they were dripping. I wondered how long before they fell, which one would be first.

"You like icicles, huh?"

I turned to look at him. I knew who he was from his voice. I am better at voices than faces. His was deep. The kind you want to hear sing or read a sermon. So that you can float away on the words blurred together. It was too deep a voice for a sixteen-year-old boy. It was deeper than my dad's.

This time, I really looked at him. I never had before. I have learned to let my gaze slide over the surface of people without retaining anything or resting anywhere. That way no one calls me "freak."

I saw that he was beautiful. Not weedy like he'd been in our freshman year, though still lean. Taller, too. Much taller. I guess we both were.