December Park(44)

Because I felt like a deviant just standing there staring at him, I offered Adrian what felt like a conciliatory smile.

Adrian did not return my smile. He only stared at me, causing a wave of discomfort to rise through my body like steam.

“Did you do it?” he said, his voice quivering.

“Did I do what?”

He pointed down at his backpack. “The lock. Did you do it?”

I slammed my locker shut, tugged the strap of my backpack over one shoulder, and went over to him.

“Someone put it on there when I wasn’t looking,” he said. “I don’t know the combination, and I can’t get it open. All my stuff is in there.”

Someone had locked his backpack by slipping a combination lock through the holes in both zippers.

“Oh.” Half of me suddenly felt sorry for him while the other half was embarrassed by his weakness, his pathetic nature. “I didn’t do that. Why would I do that to you?”

“Damn. Fuck.” That second word squeaked out of him, and I wondered if it was the first time he’d ever said it. He glanced sideways at me, as if to see whether or not I was bothered by the curse word.

Dropping to one knee, I examined the lock and tried to tug it apart. No dice. Instinct told me to flee and leave this little twerp to suffer his own follies, but good sense intervened before I could take to my heels.

“I’ve got a friend who can get that open,” I said finally, standing up.

“You do? Who?”

“Michael Sugarland,” I said. “I’m gonna go meet up with him and the other guys now down at Drunkard’s Pond. You wanna walk with me?”

“What’s Drunkard’s Pond?”

“A pond.”

Distrust was more than evident in his eyes. I wondered if he had been avoiding me on purpose for some reason.

“Hey, man, it’s up to you,” I said when he didn’t respond.

Wordlessly, Adrian hefted his backpack off the floor and put it on with both straps. He followed me down the hall, keeping at least one step behind me.

This kid’s in for a tough year, I thought. Was it possible things had been easier for him in Chicago? It might seem that a big city would eat someone like Adrian Gardiner for breakfast, but I wondered if the anonymity might not prove beneficial for him. He could disappear. He would be one among countless other losers to choose from. But out here in Harting Farms, Maryland, the kid stood out like a turd in a punch bowl.

We exited the building, the frigid air rushing up to greet us. We cut across the parking lot, which was a traffic jam of bleating car horns and blasting stereos, and headed toward Solomon’s Bend Road. Solomon’s Bend overlooked Drunkard’s Pond and the little spit of land in which it sat. Most of the neighborhood kids steered clear of this area, due mainly to the hobos who squatted beneath the tin bridge and the overpass, so my friends and I usually had the place to ourselves.

It was no different this afternoon; as Adrian and I reached the corner of Solomon’s Bend Road, I peered over the guardrail and spotted Peter, Scott, and Michael skimming stones off the frozen surface of the pond.

“Those guys are your friends?” Adrian said. It was the first thing he’d said without being prompted since we’d left the school.

“They’re cool,” I promised him. I’d spent the duration of our walk talking aimlessly about movies and music, neither of which Adrian seemed to have any interest in, and I was suddenly grateful to dilute Adrian’s awkwardness among my friends. “Come on.”

I climbed over the guardrail and was halfway down the embankment before Adrian followed. Several times I thought the weight of his backpack would send him toppling down the hillside, but despite his ungainly approach, he managed to stay on his feet and reach the bottom without incident.

“Hey, slacker.” Michael winged a rock in my general vicinity. “We had a bet you got detention again. Guess I lost.”

“Not detention, exactly.” But I let it drop there. I wouldn’t mention the talk I had with Mr. Mattingly about the AP English class. There was no point in making myself an outcast among my own friends. In fact, I decided then and there that I would not take the class next year.

Peter and Scott were digging up stones from the bank of the frozen pond. They both looked at me, then simultaneously turned to Adrian.

I swung my backpack into the dirt and hunkered down on top of it. “This is Adrian Gardiner. He and his mom moved into the old Dunbar house next door to me. He’s from Chicago.”

“Hi,” Scott said.

Adrian looked like he wanted to blink out of existence. “Hello.”

“You go to Stanton?” Peter asked.

“Yeah.”

“We’re in the same English class,” I said.

Michael whistled. “Jeez, kid, you picked a helluva time to move to town. You hoping to make the Piper’s top ten list?”

“Cut it out,” I told him. “He’s got a bit of a problem with his backpack. You want to give us a hand here, Mikey?”

Michael drop-kicked a large stone halfway across the frozen lake, then clapped the dirt from his hands. “Sure thing. What’s up?”

“Go ahead,” I said to Adrian. “Show him.”

I had expected him to point out the combination lock, but instead, he turned around so we could all view the ridiculous bulging backpack as it hung from his shoulders. He didn’t say a word.