DEAD AT SIXTEEN (THE KNOWERS Book 1) Page 2

  “Wow,” said Mike. “I wish I could feel that way. To me, it’s more like wrestling an armload of kittens into a box. I know I’ll never win, but at least it’s fun trying.”

  “I think algebra just hates me,” I said, crumpling my first empty milk carton. “Jamie here helps me understand one little thing, which is great, then there’s a mountain more of something I don’t understand. I’m pretty sure it’s hopeless.”

  “I think the problem is you’re trying to do it Mike’s way instead of the numbers’ way,” Jamie said. “Math just is. It won’t bend to you. You have to bend to it. It sings the song and you have to figure out how to sing along. Once you figure that out, the problem gets solved.”

  “A mathematician and a poet. I’m impressed.” Roger spoke up without looking directly at anyone. He had a sly kind of smile, a one-sided smile showing off only one dimple.

  “Someday, Jamie may run the world,” Milton said thrusting out his pointy chin.

  The rest of us gave that one a “Ha!”

  “It’s possible is all I’m saying,” Milton continued. “Statistics show that someone as smart and together as Jamie could go very far in this world.” To Jamie, he said, “May I suggest your first stop be Harvard? Then, off to conquer the world! The odds may have been against Phil here for being a girl, but they are definitely in your favor in the long run.” Then lunch was over.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Three weeks after rehearsals for “The Crucible” began, I celebrated my 16th birthday. I say celebrated, but my family didn’t really do birthdays. I expected and got a card at breakfast with twenty dollars in it, and I knew that would pretty much be it. When I told Mike about this at lunch that day, he had other plans.

  “Well, we have to do something tonight then. What do you say, guys? Do you want to get together after school and have a little party for Philip here?” he asked our group at the lunch table. It was a Friday, so we didn’t have play rehearsal. Roger, Milton, and Jamie all said, “Yeah, that sounds cool,” or a variation on that.

  “You guys, that would be really awesome,” I said. “Thank you. I’ve never really had a birthday party. So it’ll be a first for me.” We all decided to go home first, then Mike would come around to our homes, since he had a car, and pick us up for dinner.

  I was walking home after school thinking about the night ahead. It would be the first time I’d gotten together with any of them outside of school and, as I walked down our midwestern sidewalk, past our town’s midwestern houses, I tried to figure out what I wanted. Were these the friends I wanted? Jamie and Milton were definitely the smartest kids I knew and Mike was great if a little too spontaneous for me. I usually liked to plan and order my life. I didn’t really get Roger yet, but it was clear that the others cared for him a lot. I had an uncomfortable feeling that I had not actually chosen these friends. I wanted to make my own life, on my own terms. Instead, I felt like a magnet being pulled into their circle whether I liked it or not. I decided that I could always change my mind later. For now, I was going to a birthday party where I was the guest of honor and I was going to enjoy it.

  We had always lived in a typical house for our neighborhood. It was a long, low ranch house made of red brick and white trim, and I came running out when Mike pulled up in his old, pale green Chevy Nova. It would have been a cool car except this one was the four-door style and it looked like it had been his father’s car first, which it had.

  I was the special guest, so I got to sit up front with Mike. Something about riding in the front seat with him felt really special to me. I couldn’t have explained it at the time. There was just a special kind of joy associated with sitting next to Mike in that car. I must have been smiling like an idiot. Sitting next to him, I looked over and he had a big goofy grin on his face as well. I started to laugh, so Mike started to laugh.

  Jamie, who was crammed in the middle in the back seat leaned forward and asked, “Hey, what’s so funny up there?” Of course, that made me laugh some more. Every time I looked at Mike, he would show me his big grin, and I would laugh again. We’d stopped our laughing fit by the time we got to the pizza place, but the rest of the evening had a bit of that happy madness about it.

  Once we were all seated in the red-and-black-checkered booth, Milton asked, “Do you guys know why World War II was so important for Italian food in America?” After having spent the last several weeks with this group, I was now used to Milton’s setups like this one. He would ask a question and when someone said, “No Milton, I don’t know,” he would begin expounding on the subject. Sometimes it was interesting and I usually learned something. This time I jumped in.

  “No, Milton, why was World War II important to Italian food in America?”

  “Funny you ask Phil, I’ll tell you. You see, the factories built to manufacture all the C-Rations during the war had nothing to do after the war was over. But, during the war, they had learned how to preserve noodles in tomato sauce in cans, so they switched from making them for soldiers and began marketing them to the American public.” He was leaning forward with his hands on the table, using it as a podium. “Soon, housewives began opening cans and heating the sweet stuff for their little baby-boomer kids for lunch. Today there are Italian restaurants in every town across the country, all because of those little round ‘O’s’ in cheesy tomato sauce served in a can.”

  “Milton,” I asked, “How do you know this stuff? I never had this in history, that’s for sure.” I was really beginning to enjoy these people.

  “Well, if I told ya’, I’d have to kill ya’. It’s strictly hush-hush stuff. You know top-secret. Right up there with ‘Who shot J.R.’. So, there you have it.”

  “Ooh! Who do you think really did it?” Jamie asked excitedly. “I think Sue Ellen did it.”

  The rest of the table was quiet for a moment, but couldn’t hold it in for long as the contagious laughter we thought we’d left in the car burst out again. This time everyone at the table caught it. Even Jamie eventually couldn’t resist the infection.

  ◆◆◆

  One day, we all got together after school. Mike and I were waiting for rehearsal, and the others decided to wait with us. This was the first time I saw the friends argue. It was about Roger. Mike must have started it. They were talking about school and he said something like, “Come on, Roger. You just need to try a little harder.”

  Milton jumped in, “Really? What do you know? Why should Roger have to work harder than the rest of us, just to get the same grades? It’s the whole system that needs to work harder to change to make it just as easy for Roger as it is for you and me.”

  I wasn't quite sure what Milton was talking about. Then Jamie said, “Did you know that statistically, being black determines how long you will live more than how much money you make? Generally, the more money you make, the longer you live. That’s true everywhere, but in America, statistically, a rich black man will die sooner than a middle-class white man. That sucks.” That was the first I knew about Roger being black. I’d just thought he was Puerto Rican or Spanish or... I don’t know. I guess I’d just never thought about it. He didn’t look like the other black kids at school and he didn’t hang out with anyone but us. I guess I was just never interested enough to find out more about Roger. He usually sat at the end of the table, kept his head down, and talked quietly to Milton if he talked at all.

  “Did you know Roger’s father was born on a train coming north from Alabama to Chicago?” Milton was still hot. “They had nothing. Absolutely nothing. Imagine what that must have been like, how scary that must have been. Roger’s grandfather ended up getting drafted and fought in the war, but did he come home to a new house and free college like the white soldiers did? No, he didn’t. He couldn’t have bought a house if he’d wanted to ‘cause the United States government made it a rule not to insure mortgages in black neighborhoods and no one was going to sell him a house in a white neighborhood.”

  Mike was looking very uncomfortable by now. “I
didn’t mean,” he stammered, “I didn’t know all of... I’m sorry if I was offensive, I really didn’t mean to be.”

  Milton acted as if he didn’t hear Mike at all, “And college? There were no schools close enough to him that would even take a black student. So while the white veterans were moving their families to the suburbs, Roger’s dad was being raised in public housing in Chicago.”

  “Milton, come on man. He didn’t know,” Roger said, stepping up and between Milton and Mike. “He was focused on Washington D.C. and all that mess there. He didn’t know.”

  “Roger,” Jamie said and looked at me. I stopped chewing the last of my after-school snack. They all glanced at me and I looked around at everyone, trying to figure out what Jamie had meant by that look.

  “Oh, right, sorry,” Roger said to Jamie. “Look, Milton, shouldn’t we be going? We’ll continue the study of race in America later, okay?”

  After they left, it was just me, Mike, and Jamie. “Wow, that was intense," I said and was finally able to continue eating my snack.

  “Yeah,” Jamie said. “Milton is um, really smart and really passionate sometimes. Not always a great combo, if you know what I mean. He’ll get over it, he always does.”

  They opened my eyes to see and question things I’d never even thought of before. I still wasn’t sure if I’d chosen to be part of this group or had simply been pulled into it, whether I wanted to be a part of it or not. All I knew then was that it felt good and right whenever we were together.

  I’d never been happier.

  ◆◆◆

  By the time we got to the performance weekend of the play, I really felt like part of the group. It had been six weeks of rehearsals, doing homework between scenes, and getting to know my new friends. Mike kept looking at me like he was trying to look right into my head and the others often looked at me with those amused, curious expressions. I still didn’t have any answers for what those meant.

  My parents came to the opening night.

  My parents.

  I know they loved me, ‘cause they said they did. I just didn’t feel it very often. Once, when I was mowing the lawn on a hot summer day, my mom came out with a glass of lemonade for me. It was the sweetest thing she’d ever done. For no reason at all, she’d just brought me lemonade. I loved her for that.

  Mom was not the height of fashion in our town—she wore her unnaturally blonde hair teased up in a style that was at least ten years old, and the smock dresses she wore didn’t help. She was only two years younger than Dad, but looked much younger due to her round cheeks showing no wrinkles at all. A slight crinkling around the eyes was the only hint of her true age. You’d think that as the only child, I’d have gotten spoiled with affection, but usually, I felt like more of a burden to them than a treasured son.

  Mom was always trying to get me to interact more with my dad. She’d suggest that we play basketball together. Yeah, that was not gonna happen. She’d buy games for the three of us to play and I could tell when Dad would lose interest: about thirty minutes into the game, just when we’d started having fun, he’d check his watch, pull back from the table, and grunt out something about having to get something else done. Then Mom would jump up and help him with whatever project he was working on. I couldn’t really depend on either one of them to be there for me when I needed help… To be honest, I don’t know what I’d have needed them for since I couldn’t depend on them. So, I was determined to make it through high school on my own, without much help from them.

  “Philip? Did you get the list for this week?” my dad would ask about the weekly list of chores I was expected to do. My balding father, who wore shorts on the weekend, exposing his ridiculously white knees, would hand me another copy of my chores on his way out to work on his perpetually dying lawn. His slumped shoulders seemed to carry the weight of the world, in addition to the old college tee-shirt he always seemed to wear on Saturday.

  “Yeah, I got it. Anything else?”

  “I think your mother has a grocery list she might need you to help her with.”

  “Got it, Dad.” That was our usual, warm family conversation. You might think I’m just a spoiled teen, complaining that I had chores, but it’d been this way since I could remember—until the opening night of the show.

  ◆◆◆

  The show was set to run for three nights—Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Then we’d have strike, which is where the set gets torn down and everything is returned to storage.

  After the opening night show, my folks came backstage to see me, and they looked a bit stunned. Now, keep in mind that I just had a small part—a handful of lines, really—but I did look cool in my costume with a glued-on beard. They were practically speechless.

  “That was great, Son,” my dad said. He never called me “Son.”

  “Oh, Phil! You made me so proud tonight,” my mom said. Believe me, this was emotional stuff for them. “Now that we know how talented you are, we won’t be surprised by any of the great things you’ll do. Isn’t that right, George?”

  “I’m sure the boy has great things in store. I didn’t know you had it in you, Phil. Well done. So well done, Son.” He said it again.

  I had this sudden feeling come over me: an urge to introduce them to Mike. I just felt like they should meet. Right now. I was a little giddy from the unexpected compliments as I wheeled around in a circle looking for him.

  “Hey, Mike!” I yelled across the stage to Mike, who was talking to someone else's parents. He broke away and came right over.

  “Mike, these are my parents, George and Lydia.”

  This is when things started to get strange. Mike came directly in front of my dad and just stopped and stared at him for a few seconds. His head was cocked a little to one side like that thing dogs do. Then, he straightened and said, “I know George.”

  “You!” my dad said.

  “May I say your son is growing up just fine, even with the education he’s received.” He turned and walked away.

  I did a quick double-take from my dad to Mike. I was so stunned I got a little light-headed. Everything started to swim around just a bit. As it did, I was staring at Mike’s back as he walked away. The colors around him shifted. His clothes changed from a t-shirt and blue jeans to green army fatigues. Then, I looked at my mother’s open-mouthed, surprised look. Her features shifted around as I stared at her. I blinked and shook my head and suddenly everything was back to normal. I didn’t know what to say or do. I was certainly confused. I wanted to apologize for Mike but I didn’t know if he’d actually been rude or if it was just my perception. “Um, Mike directed us in the show. Do you know him?” I finally managed to haltingly ask.

  “No. No, we don’t. Well, he did a fine job, a fine job,” Lydia said quickly.

  “Yes. Yes, he did,” George said. “If you change now, you can come home with us. Or, do you have another ride already?” he said, glancing worriedly in the direction Mike had gone.

  “No, I’ll be just a minute,” I said, moving toward the dressing room. I really wanted to look for Mike and ask him what that was all about, but I thought it would be best to be with my parents since they were behaving strangely, too.

  When we got to the car, my dad did a very unusual thing, motioning my mom to sit in the back seat. I took it to mean that he wanted me to sit in the front with him. That had certainly never happened before.

  “What do you know about this kid, Mike?” he asked when we had gotten out of the parking lot and were on our way.

  “I don’t know? I met him last month at auditions.” Mom was in the back, behind dad. I looked back to get some reassurance from her, but her head was turned, looking out the window. Her lips were pressed together and she seemed to be pushing herself back in the seat as if to get as far away from the front of the car as she could.

  “I get the feeling he’s not the right sort of person for you to hang around with. I bet he has a few buddies he spends a lot of time with and I bet you they’re a bad l
ot to get involved with, too.” He was starting to get worked up and just then Mom reached up and put a hand on his shoulder, although she kept her face turned to the window. “What happened to those kids you used to hang out with?” Dad went on. “You never talk about them anymore. I remember one girl—isn’t her name Heidi? I bet she’s turned into a real looker by now. Whatever happened to her? Then there’s the track team. Haven’t you made any friends there? You must’ve met a few good guys by now. You should make more of an effort there. You know, be more of a team player, am I right?” His forced, jovial delivery was downright bizarre.

  “Another thing,” he said, in a calmer voice. “I think you should stop rummaging around in the past. I’ve seen the library books you've been bringing home lately. The historical ones? I’ve said it before to you, and I'll say it again: the past is dead and gone, Phil. Just leave it be and focus on today. I really think that would be best for you.”

  Did he think this was going to reassure me and calm me down? “Okay, Dad,” I managed to say, before too long a pause made it awkward. Mom withdrew her hand from his shoulder and continued staring out the window. We were all quiet for the rest of the mercifully short ride home.

  “Son,” he said it again, after parking the car in the garage and following Mom and me into the house. “I don’t know if this is going to do any good at all, but your mother and I are begging you not to spend any more time with this Mike fellow.” Looking uncomfortable, he stood in the living room while my mother, for whom he decided to speak, had headed directly for the kitchen where pan and dish noises could soon be heard. I think I started to roll my eyes like teenagers do as he started in again, but I realized this conversation was headed into uncharted territory. “We’ve never interfered in your personal life before,” Dad went on, “But it wouldn’t be too strong for me to say this could be a life or death situation.” He paused for effect and then hit me with, “I’m telling you, Son: you are forbidden to talk to Mike after the show closes.” Of course, I was speechless.