December Park(170)

“That’s some dream,” I said.

“Don’t you get it? I never knew what the dream meant until all this happened. It was a prophecy.”

“A prophecy for what?”

“For what we did. The five of us. We went to the world beneath the world, fought the monster, and won.”

I smiled. “That would make an awesome comic book.”

“Yeah,” he said, returning my smile, “it would. That’s a cool idea.”

“Well,” I said, getting up from the chair, “I should probably go. My dad’s waiting for me. Let me know when you’re back home, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks for coming by.”

“No sweat,” I said.

“Hey,” he called.

I turned around. “Yeah?”

“See you later, alligator.”

“After a while, pedophile,” I said and closed the door on his laughter.





The next morning, I came downstairs to find Mr. Mattingly sitting at the kitchen table having coffee with my dad. Mr. Mattingly stood up. My dad got up, too, and said, “You’ve got a visitor, Angie.” He rubbed my head on his way out of the room.

“Your dad seems like a great guy,” Mr. Mattingly said.

“He’s okay, I guess.”

“How’re you holding up?”

“I don’t know. Why’d you come here?”

“Well, I wanted to see how you were doing.” He came around the side of the table while sliding his hands into his pockets.

“Is this about the note?”

“The note?”

“The note we left on your door.”

He furrowed his eyebrows and cocked his head. But then his features softened and he actually smiled. “Ah, the note. Yes. That prompted some interesting conversation around the Mattingly household.”

“I’m sorry. It was a mistake. We thought you were . . . someone else.”

“No harm done. And, no, that’s not why I’m here.” His smile softened even further. “Angie, I came here hoping you’d make me a promise.”

“What promise is that?”

“That you continue down the path you’ve already begun carving out for yourself.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Yes, you do. You know exactly what I’m talking about. That’s just what I mean—you’re a smart kid. Maybe you’re afraid to try for something new because you think that means you have to leave everything you know and care about behind.”

“Doesn’t it?” I said.

“Never be afraid of who you are.” Mr. Mattingly picked up a hardcover book off the table and handed it to me—Lord of the Flies. “When I was your age, I wanted nothing more than to be a writer. This was my favorite book. It’s about a bunch of kids who get stranded on a desert island.”

“What happened?”

“You’ll have to read the book to find out.”

“No,” I said. “I mean, what happened with your writing?”

“I was afraid. I didn’t think I was good enough. After a few rejection slips, I stopped sending my work out. It was easier to quit than to fight through it. And then life just got in the way. It’s so much harder to try and recapture those lost years once they’re behind you. So don’t let them be behind you.”

I nodded and looked down at the book. My vision threatened to blur, and it was all I could do to fight off tears.

Mr. Mattingly held out one hand. I shook it . . . and he drew me closer and hugged me with one arm. To my surprise, I felt myself hug him back. Hard.

“So?” he said once he let me go.

“So what?”

“Do you promise to keep fighting for it?”

“Yeah.” I touched my nose. “I promise.”

Mr. Mattingly laughed. He laughed so hard that tears sprung from his eyes. I felt a tear escape one of mine, though I was only chuckling along with him.

After he left, I took the book up to my room, sat Indian-style on my bed, and flipped through it. I paused when I came to the title page, where Mr. Mattingly had written me a note. I’d grown accustomed to seeing his handwriting in red ink in the margins of my papers, but the context of this note was altogether different.





To Angelo,

My life goal for you.

Your friend,

David



Your friend, I thought and began to read.





My second visitor showed up the following day, as I sat on my bed reading Lord of the Flies. When my father’s voice boomed up the stairs, I set the book aside and moved down the hallway to the stairs with mounting agitation. I hoped to find Peter, Michael, and Scott on the front step. I hadn’t spoken to them since that night at the Patapsco Institute. Their sudden and inexplicable absence from my life filled me with a fear that caused me to question who I was as a person. Not until that moment did I realize how much I had relied on my friends to define who I was.

Rachel Lowrey stood on the front porch. “Hey,” she said, smiling. She had her hair swept back in a ponytail, and there was the faintest hint of rouge on her cheekbones. As I came out onto the porch, I caught the scent of her perfume—honeysuckle and warm bathwater. There was a car idling in the street, Rachel’s mother behind the wheel. “I wanted to come see you.”