Black Chuck Page 2

  Réal snatched his jean jacket from the floor and left, slamming the front door and running across the field. When he’d gotten away from the rows of wooden houses full of little Nans, he bent and yelled, “Fuck!” as long and loud as he could with his fists balled up and the tendons jumping on his neck, the sound coming out of him all animal. But it hadn’t emptied the feeling from his gut.

  That night he drove the Buick too fast, music too loud, blood still hot. He’d half wanted to go over to Evie’s and yell some more, but he didn’t go. It was none of his business. He wished he didn’t even know.

  A baby. Even the word sounded weird and helpless.

  He’d finally ran his rage down at the empty dockyards. Sitting on the hood of his car at the river’s edge, he’d watched the full moon rise. The liquid white cooled his blood, till at last he was calm. Then he drove home slow, falling into bed without even remembering it.

  That night, dreams of awful violence had sat on his chest. He fought with Shaun over and over. Wrenching his gray T-shirt in his fist. Shoving his shoulder into Shaun’s chest, knocking the air out. Smashing up against the wall, picture frames scattering. The taste of blood in his teeth, all tinny.

  Nobody thought anything about it, Shaun not being at school the next day. It happened a lot, with his nan being so old. And nobody asked Réal about the purple under his eyes, ’cause that happened a lot too. But then another whole day passed and still no Shaun, so Réal had crossed that field after supper, after sundown, to go say sorry.

  And he’d folded to his knees just outside the arc light, one hand over his mouth, wide eyes flicking over the meat.

  Fuck.

  Parts of Shaun looked eaten. Mostly the gut, with its pearly blue tangle of tripe and fat. Not much fat on him, Ré thought. Not much of a meal.

  His own gut lurched. He kicked away from the floodlight, back into the scrub of the field, and he puked. Chunks of chewed hamburger, bloody red tomato sauce. Again he puked. Gasping for air, he kicked in the dusty ground to get a foothold, he bolted back across the field, away from what he’d seen.

  Back in his room, he found his plaid shirt balled under the bed, the front dried brown. The same. Shaun’s torn gray T-shirt was the same. He drew breath fast and shallow. His heart skittered. Shaun was his best friend. Blood on his sleeves. More than just a busted nose. He looked down at his jeans, his shoes—flecks of brown and rust on those too.

  He ran a hand over his mouth and a rubbery, gray piece of puked-up meat came away on his fingers. He stared at it, helpless. The taste of blood in his teeth.

  He started to cry, and he didn’t stop till his face hurt like hell and he could hardly breathe at all.

  He’d told no one what he’d seen.

  It was another whole day before the kids went through that field.

  And now, people who’d never once given a real rat’s about Shaun were squawking and hopping like crows on roadkill. Girls he’d never talked to cooed over his corpse like he was some lost puppy they’d secretly always loved—which probably was true, Réal thought, rolling his eyes. Shaun had that effect on girls.

  Réal’s ears pricked when he overheard Tracey Weatherall tell a small crowd that Shaun used to holler hey, girl at her in the parking lot, long arms hanging out the window of his car, blond hair shining in the sun. She said, “He only seemed like a burnout if you didn’t know him. Really, he was sweet.”

  “Ew, seriously?” another stuck-up girl said.

  “Well, it’s not like I dated him!” Tracey backpedaled with a laugh.

  Réal tasted vomit in his mouth all over again.

  He eyed Tracey as he pulled books from his locker. She was hot, in a boring way. In a thin-tanned-perfect-white-girl kind of way. Shaun probably had hollered at her. Probably slept with her, too, ’cause, well, he was Shaun. But she was popcorn. No way in hell did she know him.

  He slammed his locker door and shoved off in the other direction, leaving the roadkill behind.

  It had been two days since they’d found his best friend’s half eaten body.

  There was a memorial in the gym that afternoon—the last place Réal wanted to be, but the others were going. Sunny had insisted. For Evie’s sake, she’d said—although he suspected it was really just for Sunny’s. She liked calling the shots. Liked the world to spin on her fingers.

  Réal and Shaun had grown up together. They’d met Alex in junior high. And in sophomore year, Sunny had swooped down, landing on Alex and making them a quartet.

  Scary Sunny. Tall, skinny like a wishbone. Long, straight black hair. Hot. Definitely not popcorn. She knew it, too, with her serious dark eyes and a mouth that could turn you into a snake without saying a word. She was the only Korean goth he’d ever met, and everything was a fucking hurricane with her.

  And somehow, like this was some darkest timeline slash twilight zone, she’d wound up with Alex Janes. Of all the guys! Not tall, good-looking skater Shaun, who only had to holler hey, girl out a car window to get laid, but skinny-legged stoner Alex Janes, son of bikers, grandson of bikers. Nearly three years later, Réal still couldn’t figure that one out.

  As he pushed through the crowded hall, every third person seemed to eye Réal strangely. He just glared back, irritated, till he remembered his two black eyes going green around the edges. Irish sunglasses, he thought, almost smiling.

  A familiar shape floated down the hall from the other direction, and guilt flew through his gut when he saw her. He ducked into the collar of his jean jacket, heart tapping up under his ribs.

  Evie Hawley. The final fifth. The last piece of their puzzle of friends. She’d been Shaun’s girl for almost a year, but she was so quiet Réal still hardly knew a thing about her. She was just dark hair, big eyes, pretty laugh—nothing like Shaun’s usual prey.

  There was a word Ré had thought of the first time he saw her sitting in Shaun’s car, hair half hiding her face. Fragile, maybe, or insubstantial. Or barely there. But he couldn’t remember that word now.

  He turned a corner, taking the stairs two at a time and leaving her behind.

  Alex whistled under his breath. “This is so messed.”

  Réal grunted in agreement. There were no pictures hung in the gym. Like Shaun’s wiseass grin and shitty tattoos would be in bad taste at his own memorial.

  He looked around for the girls and found them two rows back, Sunny’s arm around Evie, who sat stiff as a cat that didn’t want to be touched. Réal turned back to face the principal. “Shaun Henry-Deacon was one of our own,” she was saying. “He was just like you and me.”

  Someone coughed “Bullshit!” loud enough for everyone to hear, and a din of laughter broke out.

  The principal only spoke louder into the mic. “He may not have been a model student. He may have even rubbed some of us the wrong way. But these are often the kids who need our care the most.” She glanced at the teachers flanking her in folding chairs, some nodding slowly as they looked down at their hands.

  Hypocrites, Réal thought.

  “He was not honor roll, or star athlete, or class president…”

  Alex muttered, “A pain in their necks, more like.” Réal nudged him with his elbow, and both boys half smiled.

  “…but he was special,” she went on. “He was ours. And as a Northerner, he represents each and every one of us at North Cold Water Collegiate. This tragic event stands as a lesson—”

  “Say no to drugs!” the same wiseass cracked. A laugh rose up but was choked out fast.

  “Mister McKellar, what is wrong with you? One of your classmates has died!” the principal barked, fist landing like a gavel on her podium.

  After a red-faced pause, she went on. “As you all know, the police are investigating this incident, and we have promised to cooperate fully. If anyone in this school is found to be working against that promise, there will be consequences. As well,” she added hurriedly, “grief counseling will be available to any students who need to talk about their feelings.”

&
nbsp; Kids started snickering about feelings. Some outright laughed.

  Réal’s knee bounced as he tapped his heel against the bleachers. “Ostie d’crisse,” he swore. “These idiots don’t even know what dead means.” A cold finger ran up his spine. It means having your guts dragged from the bowl of your belly across a field in the middle of the night.

  “Yeah,” Alex agreed. “It’s not like losing your damn wallet.”

  And then McKellar made another wisecrack.

  “Goddammit!” the principal spat into the mic, and the whole room laughed.

  Réal stood up.

  He walked down the bleacher row and grabbed McKellar’s shirt collar. He popped him once, hard and fast in the ear with a cut fist, not waiting for the kid to get scared first.

  Then he waited, fist pulled back, eyes narrowed.

  The dazed boy looked up at him, blinking blindly. Then he lost it. He scratched at the hand that held his shirt, trying to wrench it off. “What the fuck, Dufresne!” he yelped, eyes going white. “You frickin’ psycho!”

  Réal smiled. Then he punched him. Knuckles met orbital bone with a satisfying crack, and McKellar spat that dumb look right off his face.

  The gym exploded. Kids screamed, scrambling like pins from a strike, McKellar flailing helplessly in Réal’s hands. Réal saw nothing but red, heard nothing but the ringing of a bell as his fist fell again, then again.

  Suddenly there were hands on his arm, hobbling him. He jerked, trying to shake them off, but they wouldn’t shake. He glared over his shoulder at their owner, thinking, You’re next, buddy.

  Evie’s sad, scared eyes looked back at him.

  His jaw clenched so tight it hurt his neck. He tried again to shake her off, but her two hands around his elbow were like a hundred-pound trap.

  His nostrils flared.

  He dropped McKellar, who stumbled back with a cry.

  Ré was tight as a crossbow as Evie pulled him away, down the bleacher stairs. Panicked kids skittered out of their way. Two hundred jaws on the floor, but no one said a word. Not even the teachers stepped in.

  E

  The door clanged shut behind them as Evie pulled Réal out into the parking lot. They got thirty feet before Réal stopped dead. Evie turned to face him, confused.

  “What?” she asked. He’d reared back like a chained dog, looking down at her through his lashes. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  But he said nothing, lips sealed in a tight line.

  She glanced at his wrist in her hand. It was tan-dark, with a worn old watch on a black leather band. The knuckles of his right hand were bloody and swollen around a large silver ring set with black stone. Evie cringed when she saw it, thinking of that poor kid’s face.

  Réal was nearly six feet of muscle. A Rottweiler of a boy. This wasn’t the first fight she’d seen him start, and she’d never seen him lose. He wasn’t called “Psycho Ré” for nothing. He is, she thought, the toughest boy I know. Toughest anyone knows, probably.

  “Come on.” She tugged him again, half scared a teacher would come out that door and make them go back inside, ruining their perfect exit. “Let’s get out of here.”

  And then he spoke. “Evie.” It was a low, warning sound, like he wanted to say more. He didn’t say anything though. Instead, she watched his eyes fall to her belly, then away.

  A wave of shame rushed through her, hot and red. She jutted her chin, heart fluttering up her throat. So he knew. For a second she just stood there, not sure what to do. Then she turned and walked away as fast as she could.

  “Evie, stop,” he called after her. “Come on, girl.”

  He trotted up to her side, grabbing her sleeve, but she yanked away. “What else did Shaun tell you?” she spat over her shoulder.

  “He just told me, that’s all,” Réal said, sidestepping along next to her.

  She laughed harshly. “Did he tell you he wanted to marry me?”

  “Evie, just stop, will you?” His fingers closed on her arm, jerking her around to face him. “He told me what you wanted,” he said. “And I told him you were right—and then he busted my face.” He grinned, just for a second.

  She gaped at him. His nose was back to normal, but dark bruises still circled each eye. Never in a million years would she have thought Réal Dufresne—of all people—would stick up for her, be on her side. Not with this—the last living scrap of his best friend in the world.

  She took a sharp, jagged breath. Then she burst into tears.

  Réal’s face changed instantly, the lines all pointing down. He reached out and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her head. She felt his muscle move against her cheek. His shirt smelled like lemon soap.

  “If you need my help,” he said quietly, “I’m here, okay?”

  She closed her eyes and cried, trying not to think at all. Then she said, “Can you please just not tell anyone else? Not Sunny, not Alex. Nobody.”

  “Yeah. Of course, Ev,” he said. “It’s your business. I don’t even have to know anything about it. Just—whatever you need, I’m here. All right?”

  She swallowed, breath shaking out of her as she held back more tears, and she gripped his cotton T-shirt like she was falling off the edge of the world.

  After a while she calmed, listening to his body. His lungs, his heart, her eyes closed. She thought of that smooth, black river water sliding over the stones so easy. Just knowing its way without even thinking about it.

  She sniffled and pulled away, blinking back fresh tears. He didn’t say anything. He just held her shoulders lightly and looked at her so long she felt like she was swimming in his soft, brown eyes.

  Then the door at the side of the gym banged open, metal on metal.

  At the sound of Sunny’s voice, a shadow fell over Réal, and whatever had just passed between them was gone.

  R

  “Hey, guys,” Sunny said as she walked around them in a circle. She stopped to look at Réal over Evie’s head. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” he answered. He let go of Evie and stepped back. “Just happy that little prick gave me an excuse.”

  Sunny laughed. “Yeah, McKellar is a punk. I don’t think anyone would have stopped you.” She glanced at Evie and shrugged. “I mean, you know what I mean. The teachers weren’t in a hurry to step in.”

  Réal laughed too. Then he let out a long breath. He looked down at Evie, shoving his cut hands into his back pockets. The front of his T-shirt was blotched with tears and snot, but he didn’t care. His eyes darted all over her. You okay? he asked, without saying it out loud.

  Evie blinked up at him, smiling weakly.

  Réal bit his lips together and knit his brow. These few words were the most he and Evie had ever exchanged. She was so quiet—nothing like Sunny, who was all cackle and screech and easy to figure out. Evie was as alien as they came to a guy with four brothers.

  He meant what he’d said though. Whatever she wanted, whatever she needed, he was there. If she wanted to end this baby thing without anyone knowing, fine by him. He’d even pay for it, if she had no money—he didn’t know if these things cost money, but he would if they did, one way or another.

  It was literally the very least he could do, since he’d killed his own best friend.

  3

  E

  Shaun lived down the road from her, way past the edge of town, in a house like hers—too small and beat up for good company. His nan was his legal guardian, but she was too old to really govern him, so he was mostly wild.

  He’d started coming around Evie’s at the end of last summer. The first time, she’d heard the car drive past and a few minutes later roar back again, like somewhere down the road he’d found the courage to knock on her door.

  On that first night, Evie had only felt confused. They weren’t friends. She knew who he was, because everyone did, but he’d never spoken to her before. She’d leaned on the porch railing, watching him as he talked, blond hair spilling across his shoulders, T-shirt all
stretched and faded. He sat on the steps and chucked pebbles across the lawn like he was skipping them on a lake with his big, athletic hands.

  He talked about school, but she got the feeling there was something else. Some other reason he’d turned up like this, out of the blue. Eventually, she just said, “Shaun, what are you doing here?” and it stopped him mid-throw.

  “Shit. I’m sorry,” he said. He looked down at his shoes and laughed self-consciously. “I guess this is kinda weird.”

  “No,” she said. “It’s just, I don’t know, you never even said hi to me before. I didn’t think you knew I existed.”

  “Yeah. Sorry about that,” he said quietly, turning a small pebble in his fingers. “I guess I should go.” He dropped the pebble and stood up. “I’ll see ya at school,” he said, and he left, confusing her even more.

  Three nights later she was washing up dinner plates when she heard a car with a loose muffler cruise past. She turned off the water and listened. Sure enough, a few minutes later that engine came down the road again from the other direction and pulled into her drive.

  She pushed open the screen door and leaned on the jamb. He was staring at his thumbs on the wheel, then he looked up and smiled, caught.

  “Hey,” he said, easing out of the car. “I was just driving past.” He jerked his thumb at the road as he came across the lawn, but she knew his arrival was no coincidence.

  He stopped at the bottom of her steps, resting a foot on the riser and leaning an elbow on his bent knee, his body a question mark. She unhitched herself from the doorjamb, letting the screen door slam behind her, and stood at the top of the steps. They smiled nervously from each end of the little obstacle.

  “You haven’t been at school,” she said.

  He grinned and cocked his head. “I didn’t think you noticed stuff like that.”

  “Well, normally I don’t, but you said you’d see me there, so I looked for you.”