Cheated by Patrick Jones

Author:Patrick Jones
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Walker Books
Published: 2008-09-10T04:00:00+00:00

Part Two

Sunday, November 14

9:30 a.m.

I was jolted awake by the ringing of the telephone. I took a quick glance at the clock wondering who would be calling me early on a Sunday morning. The phone felt heavy as I picked it up. I guessed maybe it was ex-Dad telling me one of those “work things” had come up, so he wouldn’t be taking me to the Lions football game. I wouldn’t be surprised by his broken promise; in fact, I almost expected constant disappointment from him.

“Hello.” My rough morning voice croaked into the receiver.

“Have you seen the paper?” It was Brody.

“What paper?” I asked.

“The fucking Flint Urinal, what do you think?” Brody shouted through the phone.

“No, why?” I said, as I recalled how I used to enjoy reading the newspaper. I got hooked when Mr. Daunt made us study current events in social studies. But since that night, I couldn’t bring myself to even glance at it. I was afraid of seeing my picture on the front page.

“There’s an obituary,” Brody said. He was struggling for words. “He had a name.”

“Who?”

“The Scarecrow had a name,” Brody answered. Before I could tell Brody I didn’t want to know any more, he dropped it like a bag of bricks. “Edward Shreve.”

There was silence on both ends of the phone, not mourning the death, but instead mourning the birth of Edward Shreve to both of us. He’d been the Scarecrow: not real, but a character without a true name. If he had a name, he was a person. If he was a person, then my name would have another word next to it: murderer.

“You know who that is?” Brody asked.

“It’s the Scarecrow,” I replied, wondering why Brody was acting so dense.

“No, dude, I think it’s Cell Phone Girl’s father,” Brody whispered.

“What?”

“Her name is Lauren Shreve. The paper said he’s from Swartz Creek and he had a daughter,” Brody said, as I recalled that Cell Phone Girl had missed school on Friday.

More silence, except for the sound of me cracking my knuckles.

“Dude, do you think I should tell her?” Brody said softly.

“Are you crazy?” The thought raised me out of bed. I checked to see that the door was closed, but wondered if Mom was on the other end of the phone. “Are you fucking crazy?”

I listened closely; the F word would smoke her out if she was listening in without permission. Instead, there was just more silence.

“I know, I know,” Brody repeated. “Don’t worry, Mick, what happened dies with us.”

I wanted to say, I understand you wanting to tell someone. I can’t bear this burden of knowing and not telling. But I know we can’t change the past; we gotta protect our futures. Like you said, this dies with us. Yet, as each day passed since that night, I wondered if telling would enable me to sleep, eat, or breathe again. I couldn’t speak of that night to anyone. We’d really only talked about it once. The next night, we’d got our stories together.

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