The Summer Man

Chapter ELEVEN





Amanda waited around the pier for three days, morning to night, telling herself she was just avoiding Peter, but mostly wanting to see Eric again…and for three days, she’d sat and smoked and picked apart their too-brief conversation from the Klatch, remembering that smile of his. Having no close girlfriends to talk with—she’d been kind of tight with this one girl all through junior high, but she had moved two years ago and they’d lost touch—Amanda had spent those long, idling hours reading and posing on one of the park benches, her sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose, a cigarette always burning so she could do the French inhale thing that looked really cool. She’d told Devon about meeting Eric, of course, but had quickly grown bored with his graphically sexual innuendos and relentless teasing. It was weird, but ever since the picnic, things had been a little strained between them. Like he was disappointed or something but was trying not to show it. Trying too hard, maybe.

She hadn’t told Devon—hadn’t told anyone—about what had happened with Peter, with him hitting on her. She knew Devon, knew he’d push her to go to the cops or Willie T at the high school to get Peter busted. Which he deserved, totally, but she couldn’t bring herself to admit that she couldn’t handle things herself. Plus, she thought her mom would kick Peter out on his ass if she told…but maybe not. Lately, Grace had been really into Peter, God only knew why. Amanda didn’t want to think about it. She’d just keep away from him, make sure they were never alone together. In a few more months, she and Devon would have their own apartment and real lives in the city, and her mother never needed to know that anything had almost happened. Which it hadn’t.

Amanda found out about the murders at Le Poisson on Wednesday night, when her mom came home from work with the news. She’d called Devon immediately, and they’d agreed to meet early on Thursday, which sort of messed up her plans of hanging around the pier all day, but she was starting to think that the mysterious Eric hadn’t been as cool as he’d seemed, initially. She was interested, but she wasn’t going to wait by the phone, so to speak, even if she didn’t have anything better to do. The murders, at least, were a distraction.

She and Devon exchanged details on the walk down the hill Thursday morning, what little they’d heard and overheard. Annie Thomas and Sadie Truman, dead. And Josh Waites, alive but mutilated. He’d worked at Truman’s deli and had been totally hot; she and Devon had both thought he was slamming. If the rumors were true, Rick Truman had cut off Josh’s dick and served it to his dinner customers, along with most of his wife’s guts.

Even before they got to the bottom of the hill, they could see the news vans lining up on Bayside and overdressed reporter types wandering around, setting up shots, tapping on laptops while camera guys moved equipment around. Devon pointed out a man who just had to be Tim Bishop off channel five, talking on a cell phone with a scowl on his icky-tan face. They had to wait in line at the Klatch forever for some guy to buy like ten lattes, and the woman after him ordered six more, both of them all wired up with phone gear and carrying iPads. A well-dressed, overly made-up woman with a notepad approached them outside after they got their coffee, a determined smile on her face, and Devon said, “…because she was a paparazzi whore,” kind of loud before she even opened her mouth, which made Amanda almost snort coffee out her nose. The woman kept right on walking. It was funny, but also surreal and unpleasant, seeing all the reporters and cameras around, knowing why they were there.

They walked toward the old middle school, back up the hill and west. During the summer, town kids used to gather on the school’s playground, passing time under the giant wooden play structure in the heat of the day. A lot of kids still did, over at the new school—but the old site, right by Kehoe, was where the stoners hung out now, pretty much year-round. The vast basement was mostly open to the air, half-filled with broken chunks of concrete, but it was partially covered and mostly empty at one corner, creating a shady cave that could hold a dozen kids comfortably…if you didn’t mind perching on a pile of rocks, inhaling the mold smell along with your drugs. Amanda got high there every now and again—seemed like there was always someone with a soda can pipe and time to kill hanging out in the basement—but she didn’t like to linger. Too dirty and spidery.

It was still early—well, almost eleven, but early for going to the middle school—but there were already six or seven people sitting in the basement’s cool shade, most gathered around Cam Trent and her boyfriend, Greg. Cam’s mother was on the PD, and Cam was therefore a total pothead and slutbag, but she also knew everything about everything that went on in town.

“Hey,” Devon said, as they climbed down the carefully placed slabs of broken concrete that made up the stairs. They shuffled past the piles of rubble at the basement’s entry, joining the group. There were a couple of candles burning in the corner, as usual, fighting with the thickest of the darkness, although you could mostly see by sunlight filtering in.

“Oh, look, the hag and her fag,” Cam said.

“Yeah, sorry we’re late, we were both f*cking your dad,” Devon said, and got a few laughs. Missy and Keith were there, and they made room. There were a few grease monkeys hanging out, and two of them took off, one of them muttering darkly, glaring at Devon as they exited. Most of the car guys hated Devon because he was gay, and because he was always making jokes about crankshafts and pumping pistons, shit like that. No great loss.

Greg was loading a fat bowl, which made the rounds while Cam recounted what she’d heard—nothing they didn’t already know, except that Rick Truman was locked in a psych ward for observation. Amanda wasn’t planning to smoke—she hadn’t had any more weird dreams or anything, and she wasn’t hip on inviting any—but when the pipe came to her, she gave a big internal shrug and lit up, unable to resist. It had been, like, two weeks. And that whole conversation with Bob Sayers had put things in perspective; something had happened to her, for real, but it was like that story about his brother. Onetime deal.

They settled in, listening as theories about the town’s sudden bloodlust were introduced. Keith put out the idea that Mr. Billings and Rick Truman were buddies who’d made some kind of psycho suicide pact, only Rick had chickened at the last minute. Cam said she’d read this stuff on the net about how this one murder in Scotland set off like five more in a month, a few years back. Devon told the story about all those kids in Japan or somewhere who’d committed suicide by jumping into a volcano back in the thirties. Like, a couple/three hundred of them, over a period of months. Liz Shannon, who was a total hippie flake, went on about the moon being in Scorpio or some such shit for a few minutes, but she was an idiot, just a voice droning in the dim, nasty basement. It was cool and quiet, and Amanda’s coffee was just the right temperature, tepid and creamy and not too sweet, and she lit a cigarette and felt herself relaxing as Liz prattled on. Amanda made a big deal out of not having any close friends, but she felt accepted, mostly. Everyone here knew her mom was an alkie, they knew she listened to weird music and kept a journal and liked to wear safety pins on everything, and no one really gave a shit. Most of them, anyway. That was cool, it was like, like community, they were all connected because they all lived and worked in the same space…

She took a deep breath, realizing how high she was. It had been awhile, and Greg always had awesome shit. His brother dealt.

“Astrology’s a load,” someone said. Greg Taner; he had his arm around Cam and his tone was mostly good-natured. Greg was on the football team, but he wasn’t one of the Dicks. Just kind of a dork. With good pot.

“Didn’t you ever see any of those shows where, like, everyone in a class gets their own private astrology printout, and they go on and on about how true it is, and then the professor tells ’em they have their neighbor’s printout?” Greg asked. “You know what I’m talking about?”

A couple of people laughed, and Liz shook her head. Even in the dim light, Amanda could see that she was blushing. “I got my chart done, and there’s all kinds of stuff in there that’s, like, totally specific.”

Devon chimed in. “Let me guess—you’re loyal and honest, you hate to be uncomfortable, you avoid conflict…”

Greg snorted, a big, dumb grin on his face. “You like rainy days and walking on the beach.”

“You believe in it, right?” Liz asked, looking at Amanda.

“What?” Amanda stared at her, her brain taking a second to catch up. “Do I believe in astrology?”

“Yeah. You had a premonition, right? So you know there’s more to this universe than the things we can see and touch. The stars have things to tell us, if we—”

“No, I don’t f*cking believe in f*cking astrology,” Amanda said, too loud, and just about everyone laughed, and she glanced over at Greg because he laughed really funny, kind of loony—and she read things in his face, in the blurry dark that shadowed his face. She didn’t see—she just knew, watching him laugh, knew things about him that she hadn’t known before. She knew he ate frozen waffles almost every morning, drenched and sopping with imitation maple syrup. She knew he and Cam were f*cking, and he liked to do it doggie-style the most, because he loved the way she flipped her hair over her shoulder when he pounded into her, and she knew that Cam was the third girl he’d ever been with, and the only one he thought had a good body. She knew he was going to enlist in the marines in the next month or so, shortly after a knockdown fight with his old man about…about…

“You saw something, didn’t you? You said you did, at Pam’s, everyone said you did,” Liz said, a whining, pleading sound in her voice, and Amanda looked at her and saw that beneath that tousled blonde face, Liz thought about killing herself often, regularly, and she had a cat named Duchess, and she wanted to cry now because everyone was laughing, but she would push it down, push it down, she wouldn’t cry in front of them, she wouldn’t.

Amanda didn’t panic, because she was high, and because the awareness seemed natural and wasn’t accompanied by visuals, and because knowing that Liz wanted to kill herself made her feel f*cking awful, and it seemed important that she not say the wrong thing. Everyone was watching; she knew she should be funny and mean, but she didn’t want Liz to have to…to hurt like she did.

“What everyone says doesn’t matter,” she said, and smiled, made it as sincere as she could manage, aware that she was tripping but it was all good, she could deal, she would deal. “We all believe in something. Whatever floats your boat, right?”

Liz smiled uncertainly, and Amanda also knew that the wannabe hippie girl was going to lose her virginity and get pregnant on the same night, sometime in the summer because there was the smell of cut grass, outside, she’s outside and she doesn’t love him but she hopes he’ll like her now and it hurts, stings, kind of, but she doesn’t say so, she doesn’t want to ruin anything—

“I gotta get out of here,” Amanda said, and dropped her coffee and stood up. She couldn’t deal, after all, and she didn’t want to make a scene like at Pam’s, but she couldn’t stay, didn’t want to sit and know all these things, and why the f*ck did she get high, what was she thinking? A half dozen faces turned to her, all looking up and some of them smiling, some of them not, and Cam and Greg laughed but she didn’t look at them. She forced a grin and said, “Need some fresh air, bitches,” not looking at any of them, making their faces just ovals in the dark. She didn’t want to know any more. She grabbed her bag and turned and stumbled back toward the sunlight, up the mud-caked steps and into the ruined field where she’d once gone to school. It had gotten hot out, and the sun had washed the colors from the world. She walked quickly back to the nearest street, the little dead-end Eleanor. There were only a handful of houses across from the wrecked demolition site, and she found herself staring at the one near the corner, the small blue Cape Cod, the one with the perfect lawn and the roses. Dick Calvin lived there, but he’d probably be dead soon. Within a week or two, because lately he couldn’t stop thinking about…about…

Almost got it like with Greg; if I concentrate, I could I bet I could—

“Shit shit shit,” she whispered, and there were footsteps behind her. Devon, of course. She turned, not sure how to explain what had happened, not sure what to do—should she go to the hospital or something, should she lie down, drink water, go back to bed? She was freaking, big-time—and she saw Devon’s anxious face and knew that he felt a little put out with her theatrics, and he was worried…and she also knew that some men were going to beat him up and throw him into the bay and he was going to drown. She could see his pale, bloated face in the morning light as he floated out from under the old ferry pier, his pretty eyes fixed and staring and terrible, his hair shifting gently in the lap of the cold water.

He grabbed her, which was good because she’d started not to be able to breathe, and even as she felt his fingers wrap around her arms, she was falling, her legs going weak. Devon dropped with her, supporting her weight to the ground, and she took a few deep, whooping breaths and started to cry.

“The f*ck, Devon,” she wailed, and held on tight, seriously afraid for her sanity.





Karen got six separate calls the night of the killings at Le Poisson, five of them from friends and neighbors looking to pass along details. Sarah drank wine and listened to her sister exclaim over the unfolding story, relieved that Tommy was home and safe. She briefly considered going upstairs to tell him—she thought it might be a good idea if he heard about it from her first—but decided morning would be soon enough. Particularly after the sixth call, which was a cancellation for the following week. A semicelebrity couple, some radio DJ and his new bride, had been planning to take their honeymoon in Port Isley and had booked a week at Karen’s house. The man called to say that the killings would be big news for a while, and he and his wife were looking for something a little quieter. Karen had bitched for two hours straight, and Sarah had gotten more than a little tipsy, providing encouragement and support, agreeing that the world was going to hell. Despite the grim circumstances, it had been nice to connect with her sister. And nice not to be the one in need, for a change.

The next morning after breakfast there was another cancellation—and calls from two different news channels asking if Karen would comment about the killings. Sarah sat in the kitchen nursing her hangover—too much red wine gave her a bitch of a headache the day after—and listened to Karen start up again, a rehash of her rant the night before as she put away pastries and stored quiche from the morning brunch. She needed the income, was counting on it, she wasn’t in the red, by any means, but most of what Byron had left her had been put back into Big Blue, and she didn’t want to dip into the savings account…

“I mean, what kind of people, you know?”

Sarah blinked and played back the last bit of conversation. Something about the gall of the media, to drive away her business and then call to get her opinion on the matter.

“I totally agree,” she said. “I’m sorry, I’m all out of focus.”

Karen gave her a half smile. “You do look like shit,” she said, keeping her voice low. Both of the couples currently staying at Big Blue had gone out after brunch, but Karen had apparently gotten used to keeping her voice down since opening the house.

“Thanks so much,” Sarah said, and took another sip of coffee. There was a clatter on the back stairs; Tommy bounded into the kitchen a minute later. She just had time to register that he was fully dressed—his hair still askew from sleep, but his shoes tied and he was wearing a clean shirt—before he scooped up a cheese Danish and plopped down next to her. Usually, he slopped around in his pajamas until noon.

“Did you hear about the murders?” he asked. Casually.

Sarah raised her eyebrows. “You heard about them?”

Tommy poured a half glass of orange juice. “Yeah, last night. Some people were talking about it on the trade channel. This morning, too. There are already a bunch of news vans in town.”

He took a sip of juice and looked at Sarah. “Jeff and some other kids are going to go down to where the reporters are, to see if they can get interviewed. Can I go?”

Some people were talking about it. Jeff Halliway, thank you again. Sarah glanced at Karen and saw that her sister was staying out of it; Karen picked up a bottle of wood polish and a roll of paper towels and headed back into the dining room.

“You want to get interviewed?” she asked, stalling.

“Nah. I just thought it’d be something to do,” he said, and hooked his finger into the center of the Danish, pulling out the cheese part. “It sounds like half the town is already down there.”

Sarah hesitated. He was old enough to ride his bike to and from the park at home and regularly hung out with his friends after school. He was only twelve, but tall for his age, and smart about being safe. On the other hand, Port Isley wasn’t really familiar territory, and twelve was so very young…

And people were murdered, don’t forget. It wasn’t a field trip to the library. Port Isley was having a run of bad luck, no question, and while the events of the past two weeks didn’t seem connected, she wasn’t feeling encouraged about the sanity of the vacation town’s residents.

“I’ll be back before lunch,” he added.

He’s not a baby anymore, she thought, and sighed. She supposed she should be happy he was getting some outside time.

“Take the cell,” she said. “Call me when you get where you’re going. And sunblock before you leave. Especially your nose and the back of your neck.”

“OK.” Tommy drank off his juice and stood up, smiling at her. The smile was sweet and full of good humor, and she wondered at how unpredictable kids could be. A week ago, he was all wide-eyed wonder at the prospect of a murder scene. Now it was business as usual…and his sudden nonchalance struck her with a clear glimpse of the young man he was becoming. As always, the recognition was a mixed bag—pride, mostly, but there was some nostalgic sadness in it, too, and vague anxiety for the upcoming teens.

He was gone a moment later, back up the stairs, and Sarah strongly considered going back to bed for a little while. She could see if Karen needed anything and then crawl back under the covers, flip through one of the courtroom thrillers she’d picked up at the bookstore the other day and just drift…

The kitchen phone rang, the noise startlingly loud. Sarah waited for the second ring, hoping Karen would bustle back in, but no luck. She actually groaned as she pushed herself out of her chair, vaguely remembering how she could drink like a fish when she was in college and still go jogging the next day. Getting older wasn’t much fun.

She cleared her throat, picked up on the third ring. “Good morning, Big Blue,” she said, trying to sound cheerful.

“Karen?” The voice was doubtful. The voice was that of her ex-husband, Tommy’s father. Sarah closed her eyes.

“No, it’s me,” she said. “What’s up?”

Jack breathed into the phone, a sound she recognized instantly and found intensely annoying. It was his hesitant, I’m-not-sure-how-to-say-this breathing.

“Your sister’s little town is all over the news this morning,” he said, and did his little breath thing again, a pause, a measured exhale through the nose. “I wanted to see how you were. How Tommy is.”

Sarah waited for the ache to settle in, or the anger. It was always one or the other when they spoke.

“We’re fine,” Sarah said, sitting back in her chair. “Karen’s had a couple of cancellations, and there’s a lot of morbid gossip going around, but I suppose that’s to be expected. Small town and all. Tommy’s curious, but he doesn’t seem anxious. To me, anyway. He’s actually out with some friends, but he’ll be back for lunch. If you want to call back.”

“Ah…OK,” he said, and did he sound a bit disappointed, perhaps, that she wasn’t reacting the way he’d come to expect? She expected to feel happy, realizing that she’d thwarted him somehow, denying him his ego stroke…and again, nothing. She felt like he was Tommy’s father and deserved her civility for that, but she owed him nothing else. Not her friendship, certainly, after how he’d behaved. And not her…her engagement.

I don’t have to care about him anymore, she thought, and realized that it was already a done deal. Karen walked back into the kitchen, raised her eyebrows at her. Sarah shook her head, smiling a little.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Jack asked. “You sound…different. Distant.”

“I’m great,” she said. “Should I tell Tommy you’re going to call? I know he wants to talk about his visit next week. He’s excited about watching fireworks from the boat.”

“Sure, fine. You’re still bringing him on the thirtieth, right?”

“Right.”

“We’re really looking forward to having him,” Jack said.

She felt a slight sourness at his casual use of we, but only because she thought he was probably lying. From Tommy’s reports and her own brief observations, Sarah suspected that Vanessa had no idea how to interact with her new husband’s son—and, in fact, resented having to share Jack with anyone else.

“I’ll tell him you’ll call,” Sarah said. “Listen, I should run. Karen needs help with the dishes.”

“Oh, sure,” Jack said. “OK. I just wanted to tell you, if you need anything, or you think the environment up there is getting too…well, stressful, and you want to bring Tommy sooner…”

“I’ll keep it in mind. Really, we’re good.”

“OK.” His disappointment was obvious now, and she wondered how she hadn’t ever noticed before, that he liked knowing she was still a mess because of him, or at least expected as much. “I guess I’ll let you go…”

“Thanks, Jack. Bye.”

She hit the hang up and looked over at Karen, feeling shockingly OK with her relationship to her ex…and more than a little confused by how suddenly this OK-ness had come. It was where she wanted to be, where she’d hoped that time would eventually take her, but she hadn’t even come close to this kind of acceptance in the months following the dissolution of her marriage. She’d faked it pretty well, even convincing herself, at times, but this was different. This was…this was permanent.

“You feel all right?” Karen asked.

“I think I should drink more often,” Sarah said, shaking her head, which still throbbed ever so slightly. All things considered, she felt amazing.





Devon and Amanda walked to Devon’s house, where, at Devon’s insistence, Amanda took one of his uncle’s muscle relaxants, drank a glass of water, and curled up on the couch in the den. On the way to his home, she continued to “see” things—get feelings about houses and the people inside—but she was so upset it all blurred together. Which she welcomed. It was the closest she could come to blocking the knowledge that kept coming at her.

After Devon had buzzed around her for a few minutes, getting her a blanket, offering food, she started to calm down. By the time he perched himself on the arm of the couch by her feet, she felt like it—the episode, the whatever-it-was—was over. She felt exhausted, like she hadn’t slept for a week. Devon folded his arms tightly and studied her, and all she felt looking back at him was what she could see on his face—confusion and worry.

Thank f*cking God. She didn’t see him beaten and dead and floating by the pier…but she had seen it, and she had to decide what to tell him. All she’d been able to get out on their dizzying journey to his house was that she was losing her mind.

“Can you talk about it yet?” Devon asked.

Amanda sat up a little, crossing her own arms. “I started having all these psychic flashes,” she said. “I started…knowing things, in the basement. I knew about Greg’s life, and Liz’s, all this stuff I didn’t know.”

“Like what?”

“Like…I knew all these details.”

Devon nodded slowly. “Like…”

“Greg eats waffles for breakfast. And he likes f*cking Cam doggie style. And Liz has a cat named, uh, Duchess. And she thinks about killing herself, like, a lot.”

Devon smiled. “Doggie style, huh? I would’ve pegged them for missionary.”

“The Lawn King on Eleanor, the old guy? He’s going to kill himself.”

Devon nodded again, his smile fading. “You got high, right?” “Yeah,” she said. “I think that set it off, or something.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “I thought I was losing my mind. Everywhere I looked, I saw—I knew all these things about people. And I—”

She faltered, thinking about the one thing she actually had seen. She took another deep breath; she’d just tell him, say the words…and then she saw the look on his face. The very wary look.

“You don’t believe me?”

“No, I do,” he said. “You definitely…you were flipped out, no question. I just—I thought after we talked with that reporter, you were saying how he was totally right, how you must have just had a bad dream about Brian Glover and the Dicks and your subconscious made it seem like the same kind of thing…”

“I know,” Amanda said. “But today, just now, I’m telling you, I knew stuff.”

“But you were high…right?”

Amanda sat up straighter, hugging herself tighter. “I was high at Pam’s party, too.”

“Right, you were…” He trailed off, still looking at her with that expression, a careful arrangement of his features. “I’m just trying to figure this out, is all.”

The pain was a dull knife, turning in her gut. “You think I’m imagining all this?”

“Seriously, you had a psychic flash at the party,” he said. “But the stuff since then, you were asleep or you were stoned. I’m not saying it didn’t happen, I’m saying that maybe…maybe, like, your neurotransmitters got f*cked up a little, after what happened, and now when you’re stressed or whatever…”

He left the obvious unstated, and maybe what he was saying had some validity, but she had to defend herself.

“Maybe I was wrong about the rape, but the feelings I was having—” she started.

“Feelings,” he interrupted. “You feel that Greg and Cam do it doggie-style, you feel that the Lawn King wants to off himself. You didn’t see anything.”

“Devon, when you came out after me, I saw that you were getting frustrated with me—with my theatrics.” She used the word that she’d seen in his face and watched him react now, his eyebrows going up. “You were excited because something had f*cking happened, and you were worried, and you were thinking that I needed to get over myself.

“And I saw you…” She shook her head, not even sure what tense to use. “I knew that there are these men, and they’re going to beat you up and throw you in the bay. I saw you, in the water. I saw it.”

“What men? I was in the bay?”

Amanda nodded, and the anger that had inspired her to blurt it all out like that fell apart. Her quavering voice, when she spoke, reflected her dismay. “I think you’re going to—I think they’re going to kill you.”

Devon looked incredulous. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” she said. She suspected it was because of him being gay, but she didn’t know. She wanted to be as clear as possible.

“You saw it—saw me—like you did Lisa Meyer?”

He leaned closer and spoke in his serious voice. “Amanda, this isn’t a joke, or a, a f*cked-up goth fantasy or something, is it?”

She felt her eyes well up anew. “No, it’s not.”

She saw confusion and fear and anger cross his face, imagined she could feel his internal struggle—had his best friend cracked up, or was she turning psychic, or was she a selfish, crazy pothead bitch? She waited, and when he finally spoke, his voice trembled almost as badly as hers had. To her almost infinite relief, in spite of what they were talking about, because it meant they were still friends. “Smoke break?”

“Oh, f*ck yes,” she said, and meant it so fiercely that it was funny, and they both laughed a little as they stood up. But the good feeling didn’t last, and by the time they lit up, standing in the narrow shade of Devon’s back porch next to a butt-filled coffee can, Amanda’s stomach hurt again, and she didn’t know what she the f*ck she was going to do.





Thanks to a surprise “family” getaway, Eric had been stuck on a f*cking sailboat for three days, listening to Dad f*ck Miss Big Tits, and the whole boring, annoying time, he’d been thinking about Amanda. Soft-skinned, green-eyed Amanda. It was almost weird, how much he was thinking about her, and the second Dad docked late Thursday morning, Eric started looking. She said she hung out by the pier, but he thought she meant the old one down on the crappier part of the waterfront, not the marina. He headed that direction and spent a couple of hours sitting on a bench, smoking and watching boats far out across the bay, rereading his battered copy of The Basketball Diaries. He texted some of his friends back home and heard from one of his crew that a chick they knew had OD’d, so that was something, but no news otherwise. Eventually he got hungry and decided to head home, swinging by the coffee shop on the way for a hopeful look inside, but no luck. There were news vans parked all over the place, which was mildly interesting, but not enough to actually pursue. He got himself an iced coffee and a poppy-seed muffin and started up the hill…and fate put her in his path. He was just over halfway home when he glanced down one of the side streets and saw Amanda walking into a house, leaning on some guy’s arm. He wasn’t sure, but it looked like the same guy who’d been with her at the picnic, who Eric assumed was gay—he dressed totally gay and did that kind of pose thing that gay guys did when they were standing around, a hip thrust out, an angled wrist. Not that Eric had anything against fags. The way he saw it, just because he wasn’t into dick didn’t mean no one else should be. Live and let live.

They disappeared inside the house, and Eric parked himself on the curb at the corner, where he could see her when she came out. He had smokes and sustenance and a book to read, and partial shade from a stone fence; he would wait. What he wanted, what he always looked for in a girl, was an adventure, a crazy adventure he could fall in love with for a while. Amanda was his type, and she was built like Marilyn Monroe to boot, which kicked ass over some of the skin-and-bone Emos he’d f*cked back home.

About two hours later, she walked back outside by herself. She was wearing a knee-length black skirt and a plain gray shirt and had black jungle boots on. She put on sunglasses and started in his direction, and he felt his heart thud happily in his chest. He liked looking at her, watching her move. He liked knowing that she was totally unaware that he was watching her or that they were about to meet again.

“Hey,” he called out when she neared the corner opposite where he was sitting. The shade had totally enveloped him, and she lowered her head and took off her sunglasses as she walked across to meet him.

“Amanda, right?” he said, and stood up, pocketing the book.

She’d pushed the sunglasses back in place, and he couldn’t see her eyes, but he could see that her nose was red and she wasn’t wearing makeup. She wasn’t smiling, either.

“Where you going?”

“Home,” she said.

“Can I walk with you?”

She hesitated, tilting her head slightly as though studying him. “Ah, yeah, I guess.”

He smiled, but she still didn’t smile back. As they started walking, he registered her body language, tense and closed off, the way she held her shoulders. He’d gotten the impression that she’d dug his line at the coffee place, but maybe he’d read it wrong.

“Are you OK?” he asked.

“Actually, I’m not,” she said.

“What’s wrong?”

“What isn’t,” she snorted, but added a minute later, “I’m probably losing my mind, is all.”

“I like that in a girl,” he said, sincerely.

She sighed but seemed in slightly better humor when she answered, “You’ve got crazy bad timing, you know that? Where’ve you been, anyway?”

Eric scoffed. “My dad’s boat. A surprise sail to the San Juans, so he could take his new bride to her first wine tasting. We just got back this morning.”

“Sounds swell,” she said.

“Sucked.”

“You missed the big news. A guy went nuts and chopped up his wife and fed her to a bunch of people at his restaurant,” she said.

“No shit?” That explained the news vans.

“Nadas shittus,” she said.

“Is that Latin?”

She finally looked at him, a slight smile on her face. “You hassling me? Because I’ve already had a f*cker of a day, and I don’t need to be hassled.”

He couldn’t quite tell if she was kidding, which he liked. They walked for a minute in silence, and he tried again.

“So, you’re losing your mind? How’s that going?”

“Sucks cock,” she said.

“Voices telling you what to do? Obsessive hand washing? Paranoia?”

Her smile was gone. “Psychic flashes, of all things. I always thought they were total bullshit, and then I had a real one—seriously, with witnesses and everything—and now I may be having more of them, or I may just be so freaked-out from the first one that I only think I’m having more.”

He didn’t think she was kidding, now, but played it cool in case she was yanking him. “That’s really interesting,” he said. “So, like, mind-reading, or seeing into the future…?”

She stopped walking for a beat, stared at him, her expression defensive. Whatever she saw in his face, she apparently realized that he wasn’t trying to be an a*shole. “Both, I guess. The first one, I saw a girl get killed. And like two days later, she was dead. Now, though…”

He waited, watching the way she bit at her lower lip, like she was deciding what to say. She was sexy cute.

“Now I don’t know,” she finished, and they started walking again. “I saw a bunch of stuff today, and I don’t know if it’s true or just, like, my brain f*cking with itself.”

“What did you see?”

She frowned behind her dark glasses. “Bad shit,” she said. “My friend, Devon? He thinks maybe I blew a fuse when I saw Lisa getting killed, and now I’m getting all these signals that seem like the same thing but aren’t.”

“What do you think?” he asked.

She hesitated before answering. “I think it was real,” she said, her voice soft. “But if I’m losing it, I would think that, wouldn’t I?”

The conversation was weird but engaging. She wasn’t all simpery or dumb about it, and if she was staging some psycho fantasy play, she should go into acting, because he totally bought it. “Is there any way to, like, test it? I mean, the things you saw or whatever, is it stuff you could check into, to see if it’s true?”

“I don’t know,” she said, and sighed. “Maybe some of it. Nothing was really specific, and the stuff that was—I mean, I thought that this one girl has a cat, and I thought of the cat’s name—I could check on that, but even if it turns out to be true, maybe I knew it before, you know, and just forgot. The other stuff…a guy I know might enlist in the marines. An old man who lives on Eleanor might kill himself. If that happens, I guess…I guess it could all be true.”

She seemed unhappy, and confused, and he suddenly felt really good, really happy that he’d found her, that she was sharing this with him. That she was turning to him for support. It was like they already knew each other.

“Or, you’re crazy,” he said, and smiled at her. “Look at the bright side, right?”

The smile she gave back made his heart thump again, and Eric suddenly felt quite sure that they really had been fated to meet, that there were forces in play, or whatever. If she was a nutjob, that was cool. If she was psychic, even better. Either way, he won. There was no question they’d be f*cking within the week, and the summer wouldn’t be boring anymore, and she was beautiful, a beautiful, strange adventure just waiting to happen.