Part 4 (2/2)
”It's a cla.s.s about censors.h.i.+p.”
”Interesting,” he says, but I can tell he means weird.
”When was the last time you saw him?” Rodriguez asks.
”Friday, I guess. In cla.s.s.” Friday night sneaking around in Central Park. ”The Dangerous Words cla.s.s.”
”Did you notice anything about him? Did he seem different?”
”Different?” I ask.
The man nods.
”I didn't really look at him,” I say. ”He's-he was-popular. I'm not. I stay out of his way. I don't think he's ever said a word to me in school. Or me to him.”
”I thought,” says Detective Stein, looking down at me, ”that this school wasn't like that. Isn't this one of those alternative schools where everyone's happy and no one gets beat up at recess?”
”Does that question have anything to do with your investigation?” Yayeko asks.
”I was just wondering, Ms. Shoji,” Stein says. ”I didn't think a hippie school would have popular kids.”
”Wherever there are people,” Yayeko observes, ”there are hierarchies.”
”True enough,” Stein says. ”And Zachary Rubin was high in this school's hierarchy? Is that right, Micah?”
”Very,” I say. ”With students. With teachers. He was good at everything. Especially hoops.”
”Hoops?” Stein says with a smirk to his voice. ”I thought schools like this didn't have much of an athletics program.”
”We don't,” Yayeko says. ”Not compared to more traditional schools. But some of our students are very athletically gifted.”
”Like Zachary?” Stein asks.
”Like Zach,” Yayeko confirms.
”Was he ever mean to you, Micah? Popular kids often are.”
”No.”
”Where are you in the school hierarchy?”
”Not very high.” I prefer being invisible. Not that I am anymore. Thanks to Brandon.
”Micah is one of my star students. She's popular with me,” Yayeko says, and I wish she hadn't. Detective Stein smirks some more.
”Do you think other students resented Zachary's popularity?” Detective Rodriguez asks.
”I don't know,” I say. ”Probably.” Brandon Duncan certainly does. Did.
”You say Zachary was popular,” Rodriguez says. ”Did you like him?”
”Sure,” I say. ”I certainly didn't not like him, you know? He seemed like a nice guy. He never did anything mean to me. Or anyone else that I saw.”
”But some other students have?” Stein asks.
”Have what?” I ask.
”Been mean to you.”
”I can take care of myself,” I say, crossing my arms. I bet Detective Stein was as unpopular as me. More even. I bet being back in high school makes him tense. Even a ”hippie” one like this.
”I'm sure you can,” Stein says. ”And which students have forced you to take care of yourself?”
”No one in particular. I mostly get left alone.”
Stein stares at me. I can tell he doesn't believe it.
”Well, if you think of anything that might help our investigation,” Rodriguez says, glancing up at Stein and then back to me, ”you let us know.”
I nod. ”I will.”
”You can go back to cla.s.s now.”
I don't. I go into the bathroom and hide in one of the stalls until the bell for next period. I don't want to hear any whispering for a while.
BEFORE.
It's true that Zach never spoke to me in school. He didn't look at me either. Not before, anyway. After, he would sometimes catch my eye when he was sure no one else was looking at him or at me. Easy to find a moment when there were no eyes on me, difficult to find one for himself.
We met for the first time in Central Park. Under a bridge hung with icicles. Winter of our junior year. Middle of the day. A weekday. A school day.
I say ”we met” even though we'd been in school together since we were freshmen. We exchanged a few words during the one game of hoops. But we'd been in cla.s.ses ever since without so much as saying hi, how you doin'. He spoke to the cool kids. I spoke to no one, not even my teachers-except Yayeko-if I could avoid it.
Under the bridge he spoke to me.
”Micah, isn't it?”
I was staring up at the icicles. It was warmer that day and they were dripping. I wondered how long before they fell, which one would be first.
”You like icicles, huh?”
I turned to look at him. I knew who he was from his voice. I am better at voices than faces. His was deep. The kind you want to hear sing or read a sermon. So that you can float away on the words blurred together. It was too deep a voice for a sixteen-year-old boy. It was deeper than my dad's.
This time, I really looked at him. I never had before. I have learned to let my gaze slide over the surface of people without retaining anything or resting anywhere. That way no one calls me ”freak.”
I saw that he was beautiful. Not weedy like he'd been in our freshman year, though still lean. Taller, too. Much taller. I guess we both were.
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