Julian shrugs. “My dad comparing me to Steven, it just became normal.”
“Do you see now that it’s not?” I reach out to touch his hand, stopping him from picking at the skin on his palm.
He turns to look at me. His eyes are red. He’s holding back tears. “What is it like to be normal—the way normal is for you?”
“Who’s to say that my normal is the right normal?”
“It’s got to be a whole lot ‘righter’ than mine.”
“So, let’s be normal,” I say, without a second thought.
His face furrows. He doesn’t get what I mean. I’m not sure I get it either. Still, I go for the bag of clothes, pulling out the pair of jeans from yesterday and the blue waffle top. “Put these on,” I tell him. “I have some other things in my room.”
“What for?”
“Just do it.” I head back to the house before he can argue.
“Are we done yet?” Julian asks, sitting on a toolbox in lieu of a makeup chair.
I apply a thick layer of concealer to mask the scar beneath his eye. I follow up with foundation across his cheeks, to hide the spray of freckles.
“Now?” he asks.
“Almost,” I say, pulling a knitted hat over his head to completely cover his hair. I also give him a pair of clunky black nonprescription eyeglasses, fished from our Halloween costume bin, and a puffy winter jacket to add layers to his midsection.
“Can I look?”
I hold the hand mirror up to show him.
“Wow,” he says, pushing the glasses up farther on his face. “But I still don’t know if this is a good idea.”
“It’ll only be for a couple of hours. Come on,” I say, taking his hand and leading him outside.
We leave the barn just as it’s turning dark, and walk along the bike path toward town. Julian barely says two words the entire way there. He just keeps looking up at the sky, waiting for the sun to go down altogether.
“Don’t worry,” I try to assure him. “No one’s going to recognize you.”
I pick a pizza place on the fringe of town, behind the local college campus. It’s always full of college students, so I never know anyone here. We slip inside, and I make a beeline for a two-seater table in the far back corner. I take the seat that faces outward, while Julian sits with his back to the other tables.
The waitress comes right away, not even giving Julian a second glance. She hands us the menus and then scurries on her way.
“Good?” I ask him.
“Weird.” He smiles.
“Normal,” I say, correcting him.
We order a caramelized-onion pizza with a side of curly fries and two limeades. And we start off by talking about normal stuff—like favorite foods and best ice cream. Him: enchiladas and fudge ripple. Me: veggie pad thai and butter pecan.
“So, what’s the one thing you’re most excited to do or see once all of this legal stuff gets cleared?” I ask him.
“If it gets cleared, you mean.”
“Finish school? Go on a vacation? Walk down the street without having to wear three inches of makeup and clunky glasses?”
“I don’t know.” He toys with the prongs of his fork. “I guess I don’t really have any expectations.”
“In other words, there’s nothing you’d do if you could?”
“I’d love to go to the beach again. Pretty basic, I know, but it’s sort of my special place, where I’ve always felt most safe. When I was little, I used to want to be a lifeguard.”
“So that you could save other people?”
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “I guess. I never stopped to think about it.”
“And what do you want to do now?”
“I don’t really dwell on what I want to do for work. I mostly just think about the kind of person I want to be.”
“And what kind of person is that?”
“More like you, actually.” He sets his fork down.
“Seriously?” I ask, waiting for the punch line.
“Absolutely serious.” He stares at me from behind the black rims; they make the gold in his eyes look brighter. “It’s pretty amazing the way you help people, without looking for something in return. I hope that doesn’t weird you out.”
“It’s actually pretty flattering. I mean, I’ve never really thought of myself as anything other than ordinary.”
“Well, you should,” he says, gazing at my mouth. “Because you’re the most incredible person I’ve ever met.”
My insides warm up like toast, and I don’t know how to respond. While he’s been wanting to feel normal, I’ve been striving to be super-normal—as if normal isn’t good enough. As if I have never been good enough.
Our food and drinks arrive. The waitress pushes aside the floral arrangement on our table to make room for the plates.
“Forget-me-nots,” I say, catching Julian admiring the tiny blue petals.
“I guess someone knows her flowers.”
“Only because I used to photograph them.”
“A perfect choice for our table, don’t you think?” He smiles.
I smile too. Things are just as I’d hoped. The food is good. Julian is relaxed. There’s not a single soul I recognize or who recognizes us.
But then the door jingles open.
And Tori walks in.
She’s with that Bojo guy from the Ragdoll. They search around for a table. Meanwhile, my body instantly shrinks. I look downward, sipping my drink, paranoid she might recognize him from the convenience store and put two and two together.
“What’s wrong?” Julian asks.
I peek back up. Tori’s looking in my direction. She waves. I wave back. And then she crosses the restaurant toward me.
I straighten back up, unable to help noticing that she’s dressed like Frida Kahlo, with a big red scarf, a blue floral dress, and flowers in her hair.
“Fancy finding you here,” she says, standing at our table. But she’s not even looking at me; she’s completely focused on Julian. “Aren’t we one for secrets.”
“Hey,” Julian says to her. “I’m James.”
“Tori,” she says, extending her hand for a shake. “Have we met? Because you look so familiar. Debate team? Middle school?”
“I don’t think so.” Julian bows his head slightly.
Finally, she looks back at me. “I think we definitely have some catching up to do.”
“Well, you’ve been pretty preoccupied.”
“Right,” she says, taking Bojo by the hand. He’s wearing striped harem pants and a matching hat that looks like a tissue box. “We’re just grabbing a quick bite before our movie.”
“Well, we were just finishing up.” Julian nods to the half-eaten pizza.
“You do look really familiar,” Bojo tells him. “Do you go to Crest Hill?”
Julian shakes his head.
“Well, I never forget a face, especially not this one,” he says, turning to Tori. He smells the flowers in her hair and then kisses her cheek—not once but three times. “Table?”
“Definitely,” she purrs.
While they head off to a booth, Julian and I pack up and leave. It’s completely dark out now, making the air seem suddenly cooler.
We walk along the sidewalk, toward the south end of the street, and once again Julian has fallen silent.
“Did Tori and her friend bother you?” I ask him. “The stuff they said about never forgetting a face?”
“How could it not? I mean, I’m really out on a limb here.”
“By being outside, you mean?”
“By all of it: being outside, befriending you, talking about stuff that no one else really knows.”
I stop him from walking by grabbing his forearm. The clock on the bell tower chimes, reminding me that we don’t have time to waste. “But all of that stuff—opening up, being vulnerable, trusting others, forming relationships—that’s normal too.”
Julian stares at me—hard—studying my every blink and breath. “I have to go back, you know. You
have your own life. And I can’t pretend to be anyone other than—”
“I’ve never asked you to pretend. And you don’t have to go back right now.”
“You’re right.” He takes my hand and brings me across the street.
We continue for four more blocks, before he leads us between two houses, where there’s a pathway made of beach shells. We move down a grassy hill, and the ocean makes its appearance. The moon shines over it, painting stripes on the incoming waves. I take a few pictures, including one of Julian, able to smell the sea-tangled air.
“Zigmont Beach,” he says. “Ever come here?”
I shake my head.
“So then what are we waiting for?”
I hop onto the sandy beach and kick off my shoes. There isn’t a single other soul here. I gaze back at the row of houses behind us. A couple of them have their porch lights on. Someone’s barbecuing food. There’s music playing in the distance—a flute, a piano, a violin. People are enjoying life.
People, including us.
Julian takes off the hat and glasses and begins toward the water. The cool beach sand feels like powder beneath my feet. We roll up our jeans and sit by the ocean’s edge.
“Thanks for letting me bring you here,” he says. “The ocean always makes me feel invincible somehow—like anything is possible.”
“Anything is possible.”
“You make me feel that way too.”
My heart pounds in response. “I know something that’ll make you feel even more invincible. Ever hear of the polar bear plunge?”
He shakes his head.
“Okay, well, technically, it’s a pre–polar bear plunge, since it’s not winter yet, and normally there’s a fund-raising component, but we can just skip that part.”
“Okay,” he says, but still there’s a question on his face.
“So, let’s take the plunge.” I get up and nod toward the water.
“You can’t be serious.”
“You’re not chicken, are you?”
“Hell, no,” he says, getting up too. He peels off the waffle shirt, revealing a thin white tee.
I follow suit, pulling off my sweater, leaving the tank top underneath.
Julian kicks off his boots and wriggles out of his jeans. I take my jeans off too, trying not to peek at his boxers, unable to help staring at his legs—the muscles in his calves, the hair sprouting from his skin—all the while tugging at the length of my tank.
“Last one in is a polar bear,” I shout, running for the water.
Julian follows. We splash through the incoming waves. Together, we swim out, toward the moon. The water is absolutely freezing, but there’s warmth here too.
“So, now what?” Julian asks.
“That’s it. We took the plunge.”
“So now we leave?”
“Yeah.” I shrug, twitching from the cold.
He moves a little closer—until we’re standing just a few inches apart. “Except I don’t want to leave just yet.” He reaches out, finding my hands beneath the water.
I weave my fingers through his, wishing he could be someone else—even for a moment—rather than this person on the run, this person I’m trying to help.
The moon lights up the sharp angles of his face. “We’re from two entirely different worlds,” he says.
But that doesn’t change how I feel.
Julian clenches his teeth and looks away. Perhaps he’s just as conflicted. Still, all I can think about is wrapping my arms around him. And never letting go.
I feel myself floating toward him, forcing him to look at me.
“Day,” he whispers into my ear. His breath is against my neck. “We should stop.”
“I know.”
He takes a step back. His eyes meet mine. But I draw him closer again and press my lips against his cheek, able to feel his heart throbbing against my chest.
His hands encircle my waist. My leg tangles with his as I swallow him up in my arms, melting into his embrace.
“Just this once,” I whisper.
He nods slightly. His lips graze mine—once, twice, three full times—before he kisses me, finally. And it tastes like warm, salted caramel inside my mouth, over my tongue, awakening an aching deep inside me.
His hands cradle my face. His fingers glide down my spine, beneath my tank, all over my skin. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the heat between the two of us could set this ocean on fire.
He lifts me upward and I wrap my legs around his waist, wishing I could take the picture, desperate to capture the moment. As if moments could ever be captured. As if time could somehow stand still.
Thursday, October 22
Afternoon
I was nine years old the first time I saw my mother’s scars. On her wrists. Thick red slash marks, crusted over with dried blood.
She was crouched beneath the picnic table, still dressed in her nightgown from the morning, even though it was approaching nighttime.
“What happened?” I asked, joining her under the table, nodding to the cuts.
“Just a scrape.” Her eyes were vacant—so far gone from all her pills.
There was a hole in the soil between us. Inside was a beaded bracelet that Dad had given her for a wedding present, as well as a couple of her pills, and one of Steven’s baby socks. Tiny scraps of paper lined the walls of the hole. Scribbled across them were the words GUILT, MARRIAGE, FEAR, and MY LIFE.
“Can I have a slip of paper?” I asked her.
“Sure.” She brightened. There were dried up tear tracks down her cheeks. “What would you like to bury?”
“Dad,” I told her.
She didn’t so much as flinch, just handed me the pen. I wrote his name down. She kissed my cheek. Then, together, we refilled the hole.
After school the following day, I check my phone, noticing a missed call. I don’t recognize the number, but still I press it to dial, wondering if it might be Barry’s.
“Hello?” A male voice.
“Hi, I think you called me?”
The phone goes radio silent.
“Hello?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “I heard you’re doing an assignment on Julian Roman’s case.”
“That’s right. Is this Barry?”
“Which college?”
“Crest Hill State University. Would it be okay if I asked you some questions?”
“Not over the phone. Let’s meet someplace. I’ve got some free time now.”
“Um, sure,” I say, completely unsure. My tape recorder’s back at home. But still I don’t want to miss this opportunity. “Where?”
“Orange Park? I’ll be on one of the benches by the dog park.”
I agree and hang up, both anxious and excited to question him. I cross the street in front of the school and take the number-four bus into the town of Decker. On the way, I do a search of the local headlines with Julian’s name, looking for any updates.
An article pops up right away. It was posted just this morning:
SEARCH CONTINUES FOR TEEN ACCUSED OF HOMICIDE
WEBER, MA—The search continues for Julian Roman, 16, of Decker Village Park. Roman was reported missing from the Fairmount County Juvenile Detention Facility on October 6, while awaiting trial for the alleged murder of his father. Officials know Roman escaped from the courtyard through a section of wire fencing compromised during construction. Roman is reported to have dark hair and eyes, an athletic build, and to be six feet tall. He was last seen on surveillance video taken from a convenience store in Bethel, wearing gray pants and a hooded sweatshirt. Officials have reason to believe he’s still in the Bethel area, and urge anyone who might have information about his whereabouts to contact their local police department.
I click off my phone, feeling my stomach twist. Officials have reason to believe he’s still in the Bethel area? What is their reason? Didn’t the police say that someone fitting Julian’s description was spotted in the town of Millis?
About forty min
utes later, the bus pulls over in front of the park’s entrance gates. I get out. The doors close behind me with a hard, heavy thwack. The park looks smaller than I remember it last—fewer benches, not as many trees. There’s a skating rink in the center that my parents used to take me to when I was first learning to Rollerblade. It looks smaller too.
I peer all around, spotting the dog park in the corner. I move in that direction, scanning all of the benches. I’m just about to walk around the perimeter of the gate.
But then: “Day?”
I whirl around. The boy from the coffee shop is sitting on the ground, beneath a tree. I recognize him right away: the faux-hawk hair, his olive skin. Dressed in baggy jeans and a zip-up sweatshirt, he comes and extends his hand toward me.
“Barry?” I shake his hand.
“Yeah. You’re a lot different than I pictured.”
“What did you picture?”
“I don’t know. Some mousy college girl, I guess.” He laughs. “By the way, I think it’s way cool that you’re researching Julian’s case for an assignment. For once, schoolwork that actually has a point.”
I take a notebook and pen from my bag.
“Julian is a really good friend of mine,” Barry continues. “We grew up together, in the same neighborhood.”
“So you know his parents?”
“I know everything,” he says, giving me a pointed look.
“Well, then can you please explain why he was arrested in the first place? Because I’m having a hard time trying to piece together enough of a reason. So much seems circumstantial.”
“Do you mind if we walk and talk?” He gazes over his shoulder at the street. “I think better when I’m in motion.”
“Sure,” I say, following him toward the exit gate.
There are cars whizzing by on the main road, and a strip of shops in the distance. The smell of car exhaust is thick in the air. Barry stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket, and we walk along the sidewalk, toward a major intersection.
“First, I just want to say that I don’t think Julian’s guilty. I mean, yes, he hated his dad pretty hard-core, but who didn’t? The guy was a total asshole. But did Julian kill the dude? That just doesn’t seem like something that Julian would do.”