December Park(172)

“We thought you might be mad at us,” Michael said.

“Me? Why would I be mad at you guys?”

“Because we went along with it,” Scott said.

“Because what happened in that old building would’ve never happened if we didn’t let you go in there,” Peter said.

“We thought you might blame us,” Michael finished.

“I don’t blame you guys at all,” I said, finding myself relieved. “In fact, I thought you guys were mad at me.”

Scott made a face. “Why would we be mad at you?”

I tried to answer but my throat had tightened up.

“Always making up stories,” Michael commented. “Always creating drama.”

“Yeah, Mazzone,” Peter said, “you’ve got some imagination.”

We played cards until dusk when Scott had to head home. Before leaving, he nodded toward the samurai sword I’d leaned against one of the wicker chairs. “That is a sweet f*cking sword.”

The three of us remained on the porch, watching the sun sink below the line of trees.

Michael announced that he might try to run for class president again this year. “I’ve done my time in summer school and have been on the other side of the tracks. I think that would really appeal to the working class.”

Peter and I called him names, which only egged him on.

When my grandmother poked her head out onto the porch and told Michael that his mother had called and wanted him home, he saluted her, then gave me a big sloppy kiss on the cheek.

“Madonna mi,” exclaimed my grandmother, who quickly withdrew into the house.

“Great to have you back, you big toolbox,” Michael said to me as he hopped off the porch.

“Get bent, butt cheese,” I tossed back at him.

Michael threw both middle fingers in the air. Running around the side of the house toward the street, he shouted at the top of his lungs, “Gorbachev’s wife!”

Once Peter and I stopped giggling like a couple of schoolgirls, Peter said, “Did you hear Adrian’s coming home from the hospital tomorrow?”

“That’s great.”

“We’re gonna have to get that turd a new backpack. No more superheroes and shit. It’s embarrassing.”

I smiled and looked down at my hands.

“What’s wrong?” Peter said.

“I’m moving.”

“Moving where?”

“Away. Me and my family. We can’t stay here.”

Peter was silent for a moment. Then he said, “No. That’s stupid. Who said you have to move? You didn’t do anything.”

“We still can’t stay here. It’s too much.”

“But . . . when?”

“I don’t know. Soon, I guess.”

“Where are you going?”

“Maybe New York.”

“That’s like a million miles away!”

I stared down at my hands. A single teardrop fell on my left thumb.

“So this was our last summer hanging out? No way. I don’t believe it. You’re joshing me, right?”

I shook my head.

“Come on, Angie. Say you’re only joking, okay? Just say it.”

“I’m not joking.”

“But we promised each other that when we left, we’d do it together.”

“I guess that was a silly promise to make, huh?”

Peter hung his head as he sat there on the porch steps beside me.

I knew then that everything that had happened over the past year would not have been possible without him and without the others, too. And not just what happened at the end but all the stuff that led up to it. The good stuff. The stuff that made us stronger, better friends. The stuff that mattered most.

“Do me a favor and look after the guys,” I said after a time. “Make sure Scott doesn’t cut his thumbs off with that stupid butterfly knife. And make sure Michael actually graduates.”

Peter laughed. There were tears in his eyes.

“And look out for Adrian,” I said. “Don’t forget about him when school starts.”

“No way, man. He’s one of us now. He always will be. Just like you are. We’re brothers, man. The five of us.”

“Brothers,” I said, liking the way that sounded.

Grinning, he threw an arm around my shoulder, and we sat like that until it was time for him to go home.





That evening, I stood outside my father’s bedroom while he reclined on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. When he sensed my presence, he turned and looked at me.

“That cop who drove us to the cemetery today,” I said. “He’s been following me around town the past few months.”

Something akin to a sad smile overtook my father’s features. He sat up on the bed, swinging his legs over the side. “He mentioned to me that you had finally noticed.”

“You knew?”

“I asked him to keep an eye on you.”

“Because you didn’t trust me? Because you wanted to know what I was up to?”

“No,” he said. “To make sure you were safe.”

When I didn’t respond, he asked me if I was okay.

“I guess so,” I said, though I was unsure exactly how I felt. “I’m gonna go for a walk.”