“What it sounds like. A man sticks to his course. Doesn’t change it when things get rough, or when people try to throw stuff at him that’s gonna get in his way.”
Ben heard Mr. Falso’s voice in his head, talking about pulleys and clamps and footholds, and retreating when you’ve gone too far. His anger stirred.
“If they know you’re fighting it, they’re gonna watch to see if you take it. Even if they’re not the suspicious types, the doctor’s gonna tell them they have to.” Kyle’s voice dropped an octave. “This is what you’re gonna do. Use your tongue and push it down so that it’s between your bottom lip and your teeth. When you leave for school, you can pick it out and toss it, preferably somewhere outside, in the grass or a bush. Some of it will have melted against your gums. Make sure you got a water bottle with you and swish some water around in your mouth, then spit it out. Even a little can have an effect: you gotta get the residue out.”
“Okay.”
“Have you spoken with anyone else about this?”
“The Zoloft?”
“Mr. Cillo’s grabby hands.”
Ben thought of his parents, with their logic and their worry and their tent-hugs. And their barely hidden distrust of Frank Cillo. “Not to anyone who will repeat it.”
“Good. Stop talking about it. You need to catch the old man completely off guard. When you confront him, you’ll know by his pure reaction whether or not he’s telling the truth.”
“What if he tries to, you know? What if he slugs me or something?”
“Is that what you’re afraid of? Or are you afraid of what you might do?”
Ben winced. How had Kyle known how much rage he felt toward Mr. Cillo? That he wasn’t afraid of the man’s hammy fists or his Popeye arms, or the fact that he used to box, knuckles scarred and the nose to prove it. That this skinny kid, the son of a disgraced accountant, had become so convinced that Mr. Cillo had driven his daughters to suicide that he fantasized about pummeling him? Did Kyle know that his hate for Mr. Cillo had started before, for cloistering his perfect daughter, the girl next door, who should have been so easy to reach, but might as well have lived on the moon?
This was a town better off with no old men.
“Afraid of what I might do,” Ben replied.
“Then you can’t take the pills,” Kyle said firmly. “You need every ounce of smarts and strength you can get.”
Kyle was far from stoned. Ben let his rage ebb away, let the calm rationality of Kyle’s voice settle him. With his hot cheek cool against the granite, Ben studied Kyle, whose hair fell away, leaving his misshapen ear exposed. It was funny. Usually when Ben talked to Kyle, he had to make eye contact, let Kyle watch his lips while he overenunciated everything.
“You hear me, Ben? Don’t do it.”
“I won’t take the pills,” Ben said, his voice husky.
“Glad I was able to help. And I won’t even charge you for the session.” Kyle popped a piece of grass in his mouth, chewing up at the sky, his jaw working happily.
Ben knew what was different: Kyle was hearing him fine. He rose too quickly, about to say as much, and everything went awash in white. Ben gripped the sides of the bench as his eyes cleared, and his fingers slipped into ridges of etching. The letters felt sharp and new. He brushed his fingers over them, the curve of a C, the long, tall l’s, the unmistakable o. Ben leaned over the side and snapped up. The grass between him and Kyle was lush and brighter than the rest, with seams traveling south in neat rows.
Fresh sod covered the urns that contained the ashes of two sisters.
Ben choked out the words. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Kyle plucked the blade from his lips and tossed it to the side. He gathered up his legs crisscross like a gangly Buddha. He smiled. “Chill, bro.”
Ben scrambled off the bench as though it was burning hot. He paced. “Why. Are. We. Here?”
“You need to relax.”
“I will not relax!” Ben threw up his hands. “You—led me here. You didn’t even say anything. I shouldn’t have been lying on that bench; it’s disrespectful!”
Kyle waggled his hair at the ground like a dog. “You couldn’t be more wrong. See, the girls touched people in different ways. When Mira touched you through those scraps of paper she left behind, she gave you what you needed. A kind of spark that made you restless, gave you purpose. Something to believe in. Me, I got healing.” Kyle’s lips curled up and his nose dipped down. “And it keeps getting better and better, the more I stay close to them.”
“Mira touched you?” sputtered Ben.
“Not Mira,” said Kyle. “Francesca.”
*
If something went wrong, Ben would press nine to speed-dial Kyle’s number.
He hooked his thumbs under his backpack straps. In the front pocket was the original envelope containing the notes that Mira had left him, along with a nunchaku, which Ben didn’t know how to use, but a baseball bat wouldn’t fit in the pack, and the nunchaku fit nicely, and he had nothing else. Since his old phone was prone to dying fast, he’d bought an old-school tape recorder with a prominent button he could feel deep in his bag, and little tapes behind a plastic window that would whir quietly, recording Mr. Cillo’s confession.
Ben had written and memorized a script meant to catch Mr. Cillo off guard, like Kyle advised. Enough questions to make it clear to Mr. Cillo that Ben knew his dirty little secret, without saying it outright. Ben would know by the look on the man’s face. He would pretend to be selling lacrosse calendars. Only costs a dollar, sir! Gets you coupons to the carwash, dry cleaners, you name it! Support the team! The final touch was a money bag stuffed under his arm.