The Suffering Page 6

  “This is amazing,” Kendele says and slurps happily at her bowl.

  She doesn’t seem to mind the informality of it all. Pho Junkies doesn’t offer much variety—their menu consists mostly of either Vietnamese noodle soup or rolls—but I’ve sampled practically everything and it’s all good.

  Kendele chose a steak pho. Being less discriminatory about what I put in my mouth, I opted for the “all the meats” selection. “I’ve never eaten at a food truck before,” she confesses as I sit beside her on a small ledge along the sidewalk, placing a plate of shrimp rolls between us. “And this is really good. How did you learn about this?”

  “You drive around an area enough times, you find out all these hidden culinary gems. Remind me to treat you to a lobster roll at the Red Hook next time.”

  The instant the words leave my mouth, I feel like kicking myself. It sounds presumptuous to think there would actually be a next time. I make up for the lapse by taking a swift slurp at my own bowl, nearly burning my tongue in the process. At least the pain in my ribs is going away. Fortunately, McNeil was too enraged to think about going for my face or my genitals—and just hit the places where the bruises will be easy enough to hide, easy enough to heal.

  Kendele only laughs. “Oh really? So you’re telling me you like prowling the city late at night, on the hunt for the best food bargains in the city? You don’t happen to run a food blog by any chance?”

  “Nothing that requires me to actually do work.” I’m starting to relax. She’s obviously trying to avoid talking about the incident, and I don’t want to ruin the ongoing moment between us either.

  Some instinct makes me look up from my soup to where several folks are still in line at the truck.

  Okiku wanders through the crowd, silently counting the people as she passes. A part of me relaxes upon seeing her; another part freezes up.

  I’ve never gone on a real date since Okiku took up lodgings with me—or, admittedly, at any point before that. I’m not sure how she’s going to react to Kendele, but she avoids looking my way, concentrating more on a group of teens clamoring for spring rolls than on us.

  “Hello? You still there, Halloway?” It takes me a second to see the hand Kendele is waving in front of my face. “You spaced out there for a second. Am I boring?”

  “No!” That comes out higher in pitch than I had intended. “I mean, no. I’m sorry. A lot of things happened today that I wasn’t really prepared for.”

  “Tell me about it.” Kendele wriggles closer, nearly dislodging the plate of rolls between us. “But only if you want to.”

  I’m not used to Kendele being so tactful, and from the way she’s fidgeting, I assume she isn’t either. I say, “Hypothetically—if you were in a situation where you had to do something kind of illegal, knowing it would help put someone away who deserves it, would you?”

  She chews thoughtfully on a bean sprout. “I guess that would depend on what’s involved. You mean like killing him? Hypothetically speaking.”

  I definitely don’t want to go into more detail. “Or maybe just illegally detaining him and stuff. It would be a really bad idea to let this person loose.”

  “How bad of an idea?”

  “Kicking-Hitler-out-of-art-school bad. Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

  “A poorly drawn painting sounds better than a potential holocaust. But what does this have to do with everything that just happened?”

  I take a deep breath. “I seriously think McNeil’s been taking advantage of girls in school, Kendele.”

  “Including Trish? Was that why you mentioned her before?”

  I was hoping she wouldn’t be that perceptive. “Well…yeah. And the thought of him getting away with all of that makes my blood boil.”

  “Taking advantage of them? How so?”

  “I’m thinking sexual assault. Not with Trish yet, but I think she’s next. I confronted him about it.”

  Kendele eyes me through the steam rising from her bowl. “Did he admit to this? Was that why you punched him? Do you have any proof you could show to the authorities?”

  I couldn’t exactly introduce Okiku into evidence—but I’m glad Kendele’s not dismissing my claims out of hand. “It didn’t take much to fill in the blanks. But it’s not the kind of confession that would hold up in court. I’ve had enough experience with this sort of thing to know.”

  “I feel like there’s a lot more to this than you’re telling me.”

  I watch Okiku lift her head and close her eyes and spin slowly in a circle, like she does when she’s deep in thought.

  I opt for the closest thing to the truth that I can tell Kendele.

  “There’s someone I’m very close to.” I clarify again, and Kendele looks at me, surprised. “She’s the most selfless person I’ve ever met, and she’s stuck her neck out for me on more than one occasion. She’s had a rough life, and assholes like McNeil make her think that she’s not worth saving. So no, I don’t regret punching him. If anything, I wished I’d punched him harder.”

  “She must be very important to you.”

  Okiku opens her eyes, her attention suddenly focused on a small errant firefly clumsily weaving its way through the air above us, mistaking the glare of a streetlight for a potential mate. She reaches an arm up, but the glowing orb escapes her outstretched fingers. It bobs higher, into the trees overhead, and she smiles at its antics. It’s an odd expression to see on her pale, withered face. I smile too, despite myself.

  “Yeah. She’s the most important person in my life right now,” I say. “I almost think I would kill for her if I had to. I mean, hypothetically speaking,” I add, realizing how much I’m giving away.

  Kendele doesn’t seem to notice. Her own smile looks a little sad. “Do you love her?”

  “Of course. I already said she was important to me.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Are you in love with her?”

  “What?” That throws me off guard. I take my eyes away from Okiku to gape at Kendele. I’d never really thought of it like that, and I don’t know what to say. Sure, I care for Okiku, and she could be ridiculously pretty when she wants to be. But there’s also the matter of her being a three-hundred-year-old ghost, and that’s not a quality one usually looks for in the ideal girlfriend. “It’s…I don’t know. It’s a lot more complicated than just that.”

  Kendele shakes her head. “You either love her or you don’t, Halloway. How hard is it to figure out? And people think women are difficult to understand.” But my answer seems to improve her mood, and she attacks her pho with newfound gusto. My eyes search the crowd again, but Okiku’s disappeared.

  Kendele expertly steers the subject to lighter matters, and by the time we finish our meal, it’s nearly midnight.

  She slides back into the passenger seat of my car with a small sigh of satisfaction. “That was nice. You know, I’ve wanted to ride in this car since the first time I saw it.”

  “Was that why you volunteered to be my lab partner?” I edge the Bimmer out into the street.

  “No, I volunteered because I wanted to see if you kissed as good as you look.”

  I keep my eyes on the road, but I’m sure the tips of my ears are burning bright enough to create my own headlights. I sense movement behind me and glance in my mirror to see Okiku sitting calmly in the backseat of the car, watching Kendele with peculiar detachment.

  Crap. My earlier worries resurface. I’ve never driven a girl home before—never had another girl ride in my car even—and I’m not sure how Okiku’s going to react.

  “Trish was all for me just walking up and planting one on you before you could get away, but I wasn’t sure you’d appreciate that.”

  Between Okiku and the current topic of conversation, I’m not sure how I’m going to get home without transforming into a riot of nerves. “Thanks for being considerate,” I mumble.

  “I am going to talk to Trish about this though. About what you told me. On one hand, I’m mad that she didn’t trust
me enough to tell me, and on the other, I feel like I’m a bad friend for not figuring it out sooner.”

  “I probably shouldn’t have told you. It wasn’t my place to.”

  “No, I’m glad you did. I’m glad we left the party early. I’m not glad McNeil punched you, obviously. But I might never have known that Trish needed help, and you might still be oblivious.” She giggles when I turn red. “We were doing nicely until the power went out. Wasn’t that weird by the way? I’ve been over there several times, and that’s never happened before.”

  I couldn’t resist. “With Trish or with someone else?”

  She smiles at me. “You’re so cute when you’re trying not to be jealous. Yes, with Trish. I’m not the type to hook up with random guys at parties—or anywhere else. If you must know, you’re the first guy I’ve thrown myself at, but that’s because you’re so dense.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  “I’ll tell people you made the first move if you want. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

  “Why do you hang around with those jerks anyway?” I can’t keep from asking.

  Kendele makes a face. “I guess it’s mainly because of Trish—and also because I hang out with the other cheerleaders, and they tend to hang out with the jocks. They’re harmless enough from what I’ve seen of them.”

  “You know, not many other people would have believed what I said about McNeil. You’re a lot more understanding than I thought you would be. Thanks for that.”

  “I never had you pegged as a liar, Tark. It’s one of the things I like about you.”

  “I’m not exactly the best catch at school.” It sounds like I’m trying to fish for compliments, but Kendele could have snagged any other guy in school—and definitely one without my stellar reputation.

  She shrugs. “I’m not sure why to be honest. But sometimes, I feel that you actually like and even encourage people to say odd things about you. Because it makes it easier for you to push people away. And in your own way, I think you’re a bit dangerous.”

  “Me?” I ask, disbelieving. “Kendele, a jock just almost knocked me out with one punch.”

  “I think you could have done worse to McNeil if you really wanted to, but you held back. You’re not the type of guy to show off, because you don’t care what other people think about you. I kinda like that.”

  I stay silent, a little shaken that she’s figured me out so well. We pull up by her house, and she hops out.

  “You know all this from being my lab partner?” I ask.

  “And being tutored by you. Don’t forget that. Incidentally,” she adds, making her way to my side of the car, “you were supposed to ask me if I was right.”

  “If you were right about what?”

  “About you kissing as good as you look.” She bends to peck me on the lips. “Very dense,” she says, laughing, before skipping up her driveway and letting herself inside. I stare stupidly after her before remembering that I am not alone in the car. I clear my throat several times before I find my voice again.

  “Okiku?” She stares at me with the strangest expression, looking almost perplexed. I pat the passenger seat and she complies, drifting over, and I drive back to the intersection.

  I’m not entirely sure how to explain Kendele to her—I don’t even know how to explain Kendele to myself—but Okiku doesn’t express any interest, so I decide to let it pass for now. In fact, she’s the one who takes the initiative and starts talking after we stop at a red light.

  “He is one of them.”

  “What?” That throws me off for a bit. I figured she wanted to tackle the Kendele issue first.

  “The boy with the brown hair. The boy with the dead eyes. He is one of them.”

  “Wait. Being a serial rapist is one thing, but you can’t tell me that McNeil is planning to kill—”

  “One of them.” She makes the statement the way a judge would pass a death sentence.

  “Okiku, there’s no way McNeil has ever killed anyone. People would know. I would have seen him covered in those—”

  “He has not. But he will.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “I know. He feels like the others.”

  Sometimes Okiku’s ambiguity can be irritating. “Okiku, if he hasn’t killed anyone, you can’t just go and do whatever you want with him. There are rules.”

  “Not my rules.”

  “Look—I know he’s done some terrible things. But we agreed to go after the people the law can’t touch, remember? Believe me, I want McNeil to pay too. But we can’t do it your way. We have to go through the law first.”

  “Not my rules.”

  “I forbid you to do this, all right? You can’t—” I break off. Okiku is looking at me with real anger sparking out of her dark eyes, and the occupants of the car next to us are looking at me, puzzled at why I am conducting an impassioned argument with my car seat. “We’ll talk later,” I finally add as the light turns green.

  We don’t talk later. Okiku is silent all the way home and disappears shortly after I enter the house. She’s never been angry at me before, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything.

  I can feel Okiku somewhere above me when I enter my room, invisible but—I suspect—sulking. I call out to her, but she doesn’t answer, and I sigh. I feel too exhausted to attempt reconciliation.

  Maybe tomorrow when the world doesn’t feel like it’s steamrolling over my back, I decide, crawling into bed. When that frozen look on Okiku’s face, Kendele’s kisses, and that little girl crying out for her father finally stop preying on my mind.

  ***

  The irony is that the rest of the weekend passes smoothly.

  I go to the game with Dad. We stomp our feet, jump out of our chairs, and holler ’til our voices grow hoarse. Dad doesn’t notice anything amiss with me, and I’m glad. I’ve squirreled away secrets for years, too many for a father to forgive.

  I spend the rest of Sunday puttering around the house, mostly in front of my laptop, doing all the homework I’ve been putting off and telling myself that I won’t have to cram like this again until college starts in the fall.

  Okiku keeps her silence. I call out to her when Dad isn’t around to hear, trying to entice her to listen, but in the end, I’m left baffled by her stillness.

  Sunday evening, I receive a call from Kendele. Not entirely sure if she is going to ask me out again, I answer, nervousness hiding underneath a thin veneer of bravado.

  “If you’re planning on slumming it with me at the food truck, Kendele, I really think that you should—”

  Kendele’s frantic voice disabuses me of that assumption. “Tark, I’m at McNeil’s. Something’s happened. I think you better get here as soon as you can.”

  The jock has been missing since Friday night. Everyone thought he’d stomped off to sulk, but he was supposed to meet his parents at the airport the next day, and they grew frantic when he didn’t show up. They couldn’t file a missing person report until at least twenty-four hours had passed, so they and some members of the football team had started searching the neighborhood. It was Sondheim who found him inside a small, abandoned shed on an overgrown lot only two blocks from McNeil’s house. I learned that most of the jocks hung out there some weekends, smoking where their coaches couldn’t see.

  Kendele called me fifteen minutes later.

  I brush past the crowd that has gathered, brush past Kendele’s next round of protests and stand in front of the shed, staring inside.

  McNeil is all huddled up, curled in a fetal position with his hands over his head.

  His face is bloated to twice its size and rotting, like he’d been held underwater for days.

  My stomach clenches, and I suppress the urge to be sick.

  His face…

  It all comes back to me.

  Blood splashed on the bathroom tiles.

  I’m taken back two years—to when I was still in Maine and staring at Todd McKinley’s head sitting on the sink, his
features so twisted that his mother would never have recognized him.

  Todd McKinley was the first person the masked woman of my childhood killed in an attempt to free herself from me. Today, I see him clearly, as if it’s only been hours since his murder. McKinley’s dead face resembles Keren McNeil’s, the McNeil without his fake face of joviality or his fake face of anger, but his real face, gray and defiled and foul, his tongue hanging loosely out of his mouth like he’s a rabid dog that had to be put down.

  The shadow of the masked woman who haunted my nightmares for so many years fades. Now there is Okiku in her place, staring down at her creation with quiet serenity.

  Chapter Six

  Aftermath

  Okiku doesn’t approach me until Wednesday—after the news crews with their explosive headlines have wrung as much as they can from Pembrooke High and its so-called football heroes. After Keren McNeil’s body has been taken away—after reporters have deemed the pictures too disturbing for mainstream media.

  After I’ve been called to the principal’s office to give my own statement to the police officers waiting for me there. After witnesses single me out as a potential suspect because of the fight I had with McNeil that Friday night. After Kendele, Trish, and the other football players who’d seen me leave—even the guys at Pho Junkies, observant enough to recognize me from photos—provide me with the alibi the cops ask for, confirming my whereabouts at the time of the murder.

  After the police grill me about the similar circumstances of another jock’s death at my old high school. After I say, “You don’t have to beat around the bush, Officer. I didn’t kill McKinley. I didn’t kill McNeil either, and at least a dozen people can attest to it. Yeah, Officer, I’m pretty unlucky that way.”

  After my father arrives at school, demanding to know why I’m being treated like a criminal.

  Because I’m not a football jock, Dad, is the right answer. I may not have been smart enough to prevent McNeil’s death, but I’m smart enough to keep my mouth shut. The hunt to find McNeil’s killer is treated with such fervor that all these people clamoring for justice disgust me more than I can say.