The Revealers Read online

  I turned for the big doors, and saw the outside light leaking in between them. I started to get the fear.

  “We could study them,” Catalina said, behind me. “Like scientists.”

  I stopped. “Who?”

  “The predators,” Elliot said. “Yeah.”

  I turned back slowly. “How?”

  Catalina shrugged. “We could experiment.”

  “Yeah!” said Elliot.

  “How?”

  “I’m not sure,” Catalina said. “Maybe we could do certain things differently ourselves. With them. We could watch what happens.”

  “I keep trying to walk different ways home, but he always finds me when he wants to,” I said. “I just wish I knew why me. Why does he pick me?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” she said. She didn’t even know who I meant—but it was like she didn’t need to. She understood.

  “Yeah!” Elliot said. “Like a scientist. Maybe you could figure him out.”

  “I guess it’s possible,” I said.

  “It’s something to do,” said Catalina.

  “It might get me killed.”

  “No, no,” Elliot said. “We’re looking for something different.”

  I grinned and shoved open the outside door. I stood there blinking in the late day’s light.

  “We’d be like detectives,” Elliot said, coming up beside me. “Solving strange mysteries.”

  The buses were gone by now, and the parents’ cars—and the kids. He wasn’t around. And I was halfway home before I realized that with Elliot and Catalina, I really hadn’t said anything too clanky or weird. Not that it would stand out if I did. Not in that group.

  EXPERIMENT

  That night when we were doing the dishes, I told my mom about Elliot and Catalina.

  “The thing is,” I said, “they’re kind of nerdy.”

  She leaned against the counter. Crossed her arms. Uh-oh.

  “Why do you say that? Aren’t they just people?”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Well?”

  “Never mind, Mom, okay?”

  “No, really. What makes someone nerdy? I never got that.”

  “That’s ’cause you’re, you know—a scientist.” (My mom’s an environmental engineer. She works for the state.)

  “Oh, so I’m a nerd?” She smiled. “Is that it—if you’re scientific?” She rinsed a plate and handed it to me.

  “Well … not exactly. It’s more that people just know they don’t fit in.” I slotted the plate in the dishwasher rack.

  “Well, how important is fitting in?” she said. “I mean, really?”

  I just looked at her. Is this where we get cluelessness—from our parents? Is it genetic? Am I doomed?

  I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “All right, it is important. I do remember. But, I mean, are these nice kids? These two?”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, they’re kind of out there, but I think they’re okay. Then … then there’s this other kid. He’s older, and bigger. He’s sort of into scaring me.”

  Her head jerked around. “What do you mean, scaring you?”

  “Well, he’s basically a predator. And I’m his latest prey.”

  She leaned back against the counter. Crossed her arms again.

  “Why?”

  “That’s the thing—I don’t really know.” I put in the last glasses and shut the dishwasher door. “These other two kids, they think I should just ask him.”

  She grinned. “You mean, take a scientific approach?”

  I looked down. “Yeah. That’s nerdy, isn’t it?”

  “No, actually I don’t think it’s nerdy at all. If this boy’s been bothering you and you march right up and ask him why, I think that would be fairly courageous.”

  “Yeah? You think I should do it?”

  “Well, maybe not.”

  “What?”

  “I just don’t know,” she said. “If this boy’s dangerous, maybe you should stay away from him. Can’t you just avoid him?”

  “I’ve been trying to avoid him for days. It’s not working. I need to figure out how I can get him to stop. What if I tried this, as like an experiment? Asking him why?”

  She shrugged. “Well, what’s the worst that could happen?”

  “I don’t know.” I really didn’t. “I guess he could tell me to shut up and go away.”

  “Maybe he’d go away,” my mom said as she turned off the kitchen lights.

  “I’d be fine with that,” I said, and my mom and I laughed.

  I want to know what to say. How to ask him.

  You’re asking ME?

  I shook my head at the screen. Who else would I ask?

  Didn’t you ever want to ask anybody why? Why you?

  Yes.

  But you never did?

  No.

  What would you ask if you could?

  How about … How would you prefer to die?

  Whoa. Maybe Elliot was better off staying in the Jurassic Age. I started typing quickly.

  But what would be … scientific approach?

  Have a theory. Test it.

  OK, what theory?

  That he does it cause somebody does it to him?

  WHAT? Nobody does it to Richie.

  Then what?

  Well … he likes it that I get scared. He likes it BECAUSE I get scared.

  Gives him power.

  Yes. Control. I thought about that.

  If you ASK him, does that take away control?

  What, like magic?

  No. But he’s not dominating you if YOU ask HIM.

  Maybe.

  Will you try it?

  Don’t know.

  Try it, OK?

  Why?

  I just hope you try it.

  I thought about it.

  I’ll TRY to try it.

  OK try.

  Next day. After school. I took a deep breath and started up Chamber Street.

  He was leaning on the far side of a tree, right by the street. As soon as I saw him a wall went up inside me. I couldn’t get past it—I just couldn’t. Then he turned and raised his eyebrows, and he smiled that smug smile.

  That did it. I walked up to him.

  “Why?” I said.

  Richie’s eyebrows lifted again, but more in surprise. He leaned in close.

  “Are you speaking to me?”

  I stepped back. “Well, yeah. I just wonder why. Why me? What’d I do?”

  He leaned in closer. “You know what you did.”

  “Okay … yeah. But you got me back, right? So how come it’s not over?”

  He got snarly. “I told you—it’s never over.”

  “But why?”

  He tilted his head. “Are you going to cry again, little boy?”

  But I wasn’t. “Why does it matter so much to you?” I asked. “Do you need somebody to fixate on, or what?”

  He leaned back. “What the hell do you mean, fixate?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  He shoved me. “You don’t figure out crap, all right? There’s nothing to figure out. I do what I want to do. All right?”

  “But why?”

  He snorted. “Kid, whenever you think you’re smart, you’re stupid. Okay? Whenever you think you’re smart. Think about that.”

  “I don’t think I’m smart.”

  “Well, neither do I.” He poked me in the chest. “I think you’re nobody. ’Cause you are nobody.”

  He leaned in close and started talking slow. “And if you ever—and I mean ever—talk back to me again …”

  “What if somebody did this to you?” I said. “How would you feel if somebody wanted to make your life hell and you didn’t know why? How would you …”

  WHAM!

  A bone-b
ashing fist hit my face. The sky swam … my head clonked on the street.

  I curled up, arms around my head. My face pounded. My nose was pouring something wet and dark on the pavement.

  I looked up … Richie was hazy, standing there wavering. Everything went shimmery, whitish. I felt sick.

  Someone picked me up by my armpit and one leg and carried me off the street. Laid me down. The grass was cool and soft. The person’s feet went away, then came back, and my backpack was dumped beside me.

  The feet hurried off. I looked up. It was Richie, quickly walking away.

  Somehow I staggered home, holding to my face some blood-soaked napkins left over in my backpack from the lunches my mom made. In the bathroom I sat on the floor a long time. I just sat there. My face was pulsing; every pulse hurt.

  Finally I got up. I peered at myself in the bathroom mirror. There was a multicolored area around my left cheekbone, below my eye—mostly shades of purple, gray, and blue, with some red crinkles. I wet a washcloth and very carefully wiped off the rest of the blood. Then everything went whitish and hazy again. I stumbled into my room and fell on the bed.

  I felt a nudge. A hand on my shoulder was gently rolling me up.

  “Russell? What are you … oh my god.”

  She sat down. I inched up on the pillow.

  “He hit you. That boy hit you.”

  I nodded. That hurt. She bent to look.

  “How is it?” I said.

  “Well … interesting colors.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “What happened?”

  “I asked him some questions.”

  “He didn’t like that.”

  “No. I mean, at first he was just being a jerk, but then …” I touched my face. “Ow.” The low, thick throbbing was coming back.

  My mom stood up. “What’s his name?” she said.

  “Richie Tucker. Why?”

  She stood there thinking, like she hadn’t heard me. “That boy’s got a lot more problems than you do,” she finally said. “And one of them’s about to be me.” She walked to the door.

  “Mom.”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t call. Don’t do anything.”

  “Don’t do anything? Why not?”

  “’Cause it’ll just make a mess. I mean, think about it.

  Everybody’s going to know about this …” I pointed to my face. “And if my mom comes in yelling or does whatever …”

  “I’m not going to yell or do whatever.”

  “So just don’t, okay? I’m all right. Really.”

  She looked at me, tilting her head. Her eyes got wet.

  “Baby, I’m sorry.” She started crying. “I’m sorry. I feel so responsible.”

  “Why?” I said. “You didn’t do anything.”

  “I said, What’s the worst that could happen?” She shook her head. “I should have known.”

  “How?”

  She blew her nose, and shrugged.

  “Because he’s a guy,” she said.

  “I think he felt bad.”

  “You do? Why?”

  “He helped me. After he hit me.”

  “He helped you?”

  I nodded. “He carried me off the street.”

  She just looked at me, her mouth open. Her face got red. “He hit you and you were lying on the street?”

  “Wel … yeah.”

  She stood up. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not doing nothing. If one adult did this to another, he’d be in jail. Why should it be different for kids?”

  “I don’t know. ’Cause we’re kids?”

  “A kid like that is going to keep on doing the same things to people, even when he’s grown up. Unless someone calls him on it.”

  She went out. She came back with an ice bag.

  “Hold this here, nice and gently,” she said. “I’m going to go call the principal.”

  “Don’t.”

  “I’m going to call her at home, okay? Very quietly. I just think she should know.”

  She went out. I lay there for a while with the ice bag. Af- ter a while I went over and turned on the computer. A message from Elliot popped up right away. I told him what happened, and what my mom said.

  She’s telling the principal.

  Don’t worry. Principal won’t do anything.

  How do you know?

  She never does. She’s weird. How’s your face?

  Not broken.

  Can you type OK?

  With my face?

  No I mean can you type?

  I stared at the screen. Okay, well, Elliot’s in an alternate universe.

  I guess. Why?

  Type what happened? Send it to me?

  What for?

  It was an experiment—you need to notate the results. That’s what scientists do.

  So now we’re scientists?

  We’re not punching bags. Will you write it? Just write what happened.

  OK. I guess.

  Stream it to me. Attach the file to a message.

  Simple. Do it?

  OK OK!

  I didn’t really feel like it, and I had homework to do. But I logged off, looked at the screen, and started to type.

  THE WEIRD GIRL

  “It felt kind of good, writing that,” I said the next day.

  “Well, it was good,” Elliot said. “I read it.”

  “What was good?” said Catalina.

  We were at the lunchroom table in the corner by the sandwich counter, Bun Appetit. The usual lunchtime racket was clattering off the walls.

  “He wrote down what happened to him,” Elliot told her. “He just wrote the facts.”

  “Did you ever try it?” I asked. “I mean, after somebody did something to you.”

  Elliot just looked down. He didn’t say anything. Finally, I said, “So … what are you going to do with it?”

  “Keep it! Hold on to it.”

  I didn’t get it. “What for?”

  “I don’t know—’cause it’s information. We’re scientific investigators, right? We need to collect data. That’s what …”

  “What scientists do. I know. That’s what you say.”

  Catalina was sitting straight backed next to Elliot, staring off like she was only partly there. I thought, What a pair.

  “So,” Elliot said to her. “Maybe you could do the next experiment.”

  Catalina blinked. “What?”

  “Well, I mean … you could say something different to Bethany. Or do something different. See what happens.”

  Catalina’s eyes bulged. She whispered, “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well … I couldn’t just go talk to her. She has never spoken to me. She only talks about me.”

  “She does?”

  I said, “Why you?”

  Catalina shrugged. “I don’t know”

  “Well,” Elliot said, “what does she say?”

  “I told you—she doesn’t say it to me.”

  Elliot turned my way.

  “Don’t look at me,” I said. “I don’t understand anything.”

  Elliot just sat there twirling the straw in his milk carton. Nobody said anything.

  “Hey,” I said. “What if we listened to her?”

  Elliot said, “To who?”

  “To Bethany.”

  “Bethany talks to you?”

  “Of course she doesn’t—that’s just it. What if we listened anyway?”

  Elliot peered at me. “How?”

  “Look,” I said, leaning over the table, “Bethany DeMere does not see or hear us. Right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She doesn’t want to see or hear us. Right?”

  He shrugged. “I guess.”

  “So what if we kind of … shadowed her? We could be hangin
g around, in the hallways and stuff—just close enough to hear what she says.” I leaned closer. “We could observe her in her natural habitat.”

  Elliot’s eyes twinkled. “Like scientists,” he breathed.

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe we’ll find her weakness,” he said to Catalina. “Maybe we can figure out what really gets to her.”

  Catalina shrugged. But, staring off, she smiled, too.

  Of course my face had been noticed. My eye was black and purple, with red accents. Fairly gruesome. When I came into homeroom that morning there were whispers all over. Heads turned as I ducked into my seat.

  “Whoa, Trainor. What happened?” said Big Chris Kuppel, beside me. Our homeroom was a science classroom, so we sat in pairs at black lab tables.

  I shrugged.

  “Get beat up by your cat?”

  “No.”

  “Stumble into the shower nozzle?”

  “No.”

  “Miss your mouth with the milk bottle?”

  “No!”

  “Okay, I give up,” Chris said. His head looked like an acorn. He had his hair cut in this short bowl shape, which looked a little goofy because he was big. Chris and a kid at the next table, Jon Blanchette, were in the group of three guys who were Elliot’s primary tormentors. They used to wait for Elliot after school. He called them the Jock Rots.

  “So what did happen?” Chris said. “Or maybe I shouldn’t ask.”

  I shrugged. “I got slugged.”

  “You? By who?”

  “Richie Tucker.”

  Chris’s face bulged. “Richie Tucker slugged you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How come?”

  I smiled at him. “’Cause I’m so bad,” I said. “I angered him.”

  Big Chris leaned over and whispered the news to Blanchette, whose expression arced upward in the coolly humorous way he had. Then Blanchette tilted to pass the word across the aisle. In about one minute the whole class was buzzing again. Even the girls were glancing at me. It was kind of neat, in a way, although I couldn’t help wondering if the only way I would ever get to be somebody in seventh grade was by getting myself brutalized.