December Park(46)

Michael executed a flamboyant bow and said in a cockney accent, “Atcher soy-vice, gov’nor.”

I pointed to the others. “And that’s Scott Steeple and Peter Galloway.”

“Hey,” Peter and Scott said in unison.

Then Peter punched Scott on the arm. “Jinx.”

“Sweet mother, what in the name of holy hell is all this?” Michael pulled a jumble of random items out of Adrian’s backpack—flattened soda cans, a single muck-streaked sneaker, several large stones that glinted with flecks of mica, a couple of audiocassettes, a paperback novel with its cover missing, and something that looked oddly like a plastic flute. “Our boy is a hoarder, it seems.”

“It’s just stuff,” said Adrian.

“Yeah, but why are you hauling it around?”

“Because I found it. I collect it.”

Holding the filthy sneaker by its tattered laces, Michael sniffed at it, then wrinkled his nose. “Oh, gross.”

Adrian shifted from his right foot to his left. “I go on scavenger hunts. Like, I search for things that people lost or threw out or whatever. Sometimes you can find some really neat stuff.”

“Find the other sneaker and you’ve got a pair. Good for you.” Michael dropped the shoe, then produced a spiral-bound notepad from within the backpack. He opened it and thumbed through the pages until something caught his eye. He paused and scrutinized the page as a look of surprise overtook him. “Jesus,” he said, his voice slightly more reverent now. It was rare to hear him speak in such a respectful fashion. “Did you draw these?”

“Yeah,” Adrian said.

“Are you kidding me? Man, these are great.” Michael tossed the book over to me, and it landed in my lap. “Take a look at those drawings. That’s some serious shit.”

They were pencil drawings of various muscle-bound superheroes swinging punches at each other while others wielded swords or prepared to fire an arrow from a bow. “Yeah, these are really great.”

“Let me see,” Scott said, and both he and Peter scrambled over to peer at Adrian’s sketch pad. “Wow. Those are cool. Did you trace them or something?”

“No.”

“Did you copy them from a book?” Peter asked.

“No.”

“Did you make these characters up?” said Peter. “Like, from your head?”

“Some of them,” said Adrian. “Some others are characters from comic books. But I changed them around and gave them different uniforms or different weapons or whatever.”

“You think you could draw Bugs Bunny?” Scott said.

Adrian shrugged. “Sure. That’s easy.”

“Dude,” Michael said, dropping to his knees and placing his hands together in a parody of prayer. “Do you think you could draw naked chicks as good as you draw those superheroes?”

“I guess,” Adrian said. “I never tried.”

Michael looked impressed. “If I could draw like that, I’d draw nothing but naked chicks.”

“I’m shocked,” Peter commented.

Everyone laughed.

Michael pointed to the notebook. “Let’s see you draw one up right now. Give her huge titties. And make the nipples really detailed.”

“Nipples,” Adrian said, staring at Michael.

“Yeah, man, you know.” He cupped a pair of invisible breasts.

“I’m not sure I know what they look like,” Adrian confessed.

Michael froze, his hands still groping invisible breasts, and Scott’s mouth hung open.

“Draw Michael’s face,” I suggested. “He’s the biggest boob we know.”

The five of us spent the rest of the afternoon pitching rocks onto the center of the frozen pond, telling jokes, and bitching about school. For the most part Adrian remained quiet, although I got the impression he was enjoying himself, too.

Later, as the sky darkened and the streetlights came on, we gathered our backpacks.

Scott clapped Adrian on the back hard enough to send the boy’s glasses askew on his face. “I’m going to set up a marathon of Friday the 13th movies for us to watch. Trust me, man. You’ll thank me for it.”

On Solomon’s Bend Road, we went our separate ways. Adrian and I bundled across the road toward the intersection of Point and Counterpoint.

“Your friends are funny,” he said.

“They’re cool, yeah,” I said.

“What did Michael mean when he said I was hoping to make the Piper’s top ten list? Who’s the Piper?”

“Oh, that’s just the name the newspapers gave to the guy who’s supposedly responsible for grabbing all those kids and killing that girl.”

Adrian stopped walking.

“What?” I said.

“Are you messing with me?”

“I don’t . . .” And that was when it occurred to me that he probably knew nothing about what had been going on. So I told him about William Demorest, Jeffrey Connor, and Bethany Frost. I told him about Aaron Ransom, too, and what I had seen firsthand on New Year’s Eve. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard anything in school about him.”

Adrian shrugged and said, “No one really talks to me at school.”

“Yeah, but you haven’t even heard his name?”