patterns on the wall. But my mind was like a TV with the picture slipping. One sceneafter another, no focus, just sliding and sliding and sliding past my closed eyes. Was it the same person who left the towels yesterday and the note this morning? It had to be. No way was it Mrs. Rand. Could it possibly be Otis, the way Alex thought? I looked across at Alex’s bed. He’d made it carefully before he left, straightened the cover, plumped the pillows. Mom hates beds not made. Alex knows that. Alex is always kissing up to her. That would be his bed from now on, if he got what he wanted. I’d have to share my room, listen to him grinding and gnashing every night for the rest of my life. And worse. He’d always know my secret.
I sat up. Wait a minute. When I’d come up here, after finding the note, Alex was sleeping like a baby. Not a sound from him. Not a gnash or a grind. Strange. I’d never heard him be quiet when he slept. Maybe he’d been awake, and faking it. Why? Could he have been the one who left the note? Easy enough to do. I was gone. Write it. Slip downstairs.
I sat still as a lizard, every muscle tensed.
My ring binder!
I jumped off the bed.
My notebook was there on my desk in plain sight, plastered over with Star Trek stickers. There were pieces of torn paper stuck in a lot of the rings. But I rip stuff out often. I got the “TELL” note from under the pile of magazines and went page by page, trying to match the edges the way Alex had said we should do with Otis. There was no match. I closed the notebook, relieved. Anyway, why would Alex do such a thing? I knew why. So he could be my buddy. So he could be my one true friend. So we could be brothers. So I’d want him to stay. But Alex hadn’t written the note. I didn’t think so. But I’d be watching him.
I lay down on the bed and picked up a magazine. Mom and Dad would be talking to Mr. and Mrs. Genero now, about the funeral. The lines on the magazine ran into each other.
I got up again, got Pauline’s flip-flop from my pocket and carried it downstairs.
The phone rang. My grandmother’s voice on the machine. “I’m just calling to see how Brodie is.” Impossible to pick up that phone and talk toher. Too hard. Too awful. I’d never be able to tell her. I stood there and I knew there was no use thinking about telling anymore. I wasn’t going to. I’d keep this inside me forever.
I went out the back door, the flip-flop slippery in my hand. Maybe I was sweating. Mom’s trowel lay on the back step beside her gardening boots. I took it and walked to the hedge that’s covered with climbing honeysuckle and overgrown with scented geraniums. The flip-flop wasn’t big. I remembered Pauline’s little square feet, and I began fiercely to dig. I went down about twelve inches, put the flip-flop in the hole, covered it with soil. The sickening smell of honeysuckle and geranium wafted toward me. I found an oval rock, smooth and pretty as a pigeon’s egg, and set it to mark the place, and right then it was as if I’d buried Pauline.
Dad would have known what to say over the little grave, but I didn’t. It felt right, though. What was Raoul’s word? It was a kind of closure.
When I turned, I saw Raoul standing by the back gate.
My heart leaped into my throat. How longhad he been there? What had he seen?
“Hi, Brodie,” he said. His hair gleamed dark and slick in the sunlight. His uniform had fresh creases in it. I swallowed hard. The trowel in my hand felt as big as a spade.
“Doing a bit of gardening?” Raoul asked.
“Sort of.”
He smiled. “Glad to see you’re feeling better.”
I knocked the dirt off the trowel on the step, set it down and wiped my hands on my jeans.
“I rang the front doorbell,” Raoul said. “And then I took a chance and walked round here to make sure. Are your mom and dad out?”
I nodded.
“Well, I just wanted to check on something, so I guess I might as well do it. Then I won’t have to bother you
I sat up. Wait a minute. When I’d come up here, after finding the note, Alex was sleeping like a baby. Not a sound from him. Not a gnash or a grind. Strange. I’d never heard him be quiet when he slept. Maybe he’d been awake, and faking it. Why? Could he have been the one who left the note? Easy enough to do. I was gone. Write it. Slip downstairs.
I sat still as a lizard, every muscle tensed.
My ring binder!
I jumped off the bed.
My notebook was there on my desk in plain sight, plastered over with Star Trek stickers. There were pieces of torn paper stuck in a lot of the rings. But I rip stuff out often. I got the “TELL” note from under the pile of magazines and went page by page, trying to match the edges the way Alex had said we should do with Otis. There was no match. I closed the notebook, relieved. Anyway, why would Alex do such a thing? I knew why. So he could be my buddy. So he could be my one true friend. So we could be brothers. So I’d want him to stay. But Alex hadn’t written the note. I didn’t think so. But I’d be watching him.
I lay down on the bed and picked up a magazine. Mom and Dad would be talking to Mr. and Mrs. Genero now, about the funeral. The lines on the magazine ran into each other.
I got up again, got Pauline’s flip-flop from my pocket and carried it downstairs.
The phone rang. My grandmother’s voice on the machine. “I’m just calling to see how Brodie is.” Impossible to pick up that phone and talk toher. Too hard. Too awful. I’d never be able to tell her. I stood there and I knew there was no use thinking about telling anymore. I wasn’t going to. I’d keep this inside me forever.
I went out the back door, the flip-flop slippery in my hand. Maybe I was sweating. Mom’s trowel lay on the back step beside her gardening boots. I took it and walked to the hedge that’s covered with climbing honeysuckle and overgrown with scented geraniums. The flip-flop wasn’t big. I remembered Pauline’s little square feet, and I began fiercely to dig. I went down about twelve inches, put the flip-flop in the hole, covered it with soil. The sickening smell of honeysuckle and geranium wafted toward me. I found an oval rock, smooth and pretty as a pigeon’s egg, and set it to mark the place, and right then it was as if I’d buried Pauline.
Dad would have known what to say over the little grave, but I didn’t. It felt right, though. What was Raoul’s word? It was a kind of closure.
When I turned, I saw Raoul standing by the back gate.
My heart leaped into my throat. How longhad he been there? What had he seen?
“Hi, Brodie,” he said. His hair gleamed dark and slick in the sunlight. His uniform had fresh creases in it. I swallowed hard. The trowel in my hand felt as big as a spade.
“Doing a bit of gardening?” Raoul asked.
“Sort of.”
He smiled. “Glad to see you’re feeling better.”
I knocked the dirt off the trowel on the step, set it down and wiped my hands on my jeans.
“I rang the front doorbell,” Raoul said. “And then I took a chance and walked round here to make sure. Are your mom and dad out?”
I nodded.
“Well, I just wanted to check on something, so I guess I might as well do it. Then I won’t have to bother you
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