With Dad heading off to work, I sit on the lumpy couch, turn on the television, and watch the news while I eat my breakfast in silence.
Yusef's photo lingers on the screen. He wears a light blue t-shirt that shows off his collarbone. His black curls are in this squarish haircut. He has high cheekbones and a stern look on his face.
But despite his medium-brown complexion, I can see the acne scars on his large forehead. I lower my greasy fork and devour my bacon strips. I can't take out what the newswoman says to me, but I see my classmates decorating the school fences with mementos, teddy bears, and reassuring words.
Those who didn't know Yusef would either stand awkwardly behind his grieving friends or spend five minutes trying to hog the camera for themselves. And people call me a selfish asshole.
Setting my empty plate on the floor, I pick up the remote and hit the FORWARD button. I skip the bullshit tears and the uncomfortable monologue until I push the PLAY button. The newswoman's segment cuts to an announcement from the police department.
Lou Kensington, Oregon's Favorite Detective, stands in front of the wooden podium. He wears an expensive gray suit and a pair of black loafers. His black hair is combed to the side. Gathering his papers, Lou adjusts the black microphone and clears his throat.
"Good morning," he begins in a mournful tone. "My name is Lou Kensington, and I am here to express my condolences to the families of these victims."
I slouch on the couch cushion. Bacon crumbs fall from the corners of my mouth and onto the hardened floor.
"This act of injustice is common," the decorated detective continues.
"Every week, an innocent boy like Yusef Walters or a single mother like Nora Jones has been ripped away from the arms of loving families and friends. But what strikes me as barbaric is how this monster can roam free without facing the percussions of his actions."
The shuttering of the cameras continues. Kensington picks up the papers off the podium, but rather than reading them aloud, he holds them close to his chest and stares at the camera.
"If any of you know anything about the serial killer," he continues. "Please speak up. If not, he will continue to hunt until there are none of us left."
Kensington closes his eyes and reopens them.
"If you have kids, never leave them out of your sight," he advises. "Look after your families; take care of your neighbors and friends. And, if the information you gave us is useful and sufficient, this police department will reward you with fifteen million dollars. "
I drop my jaw. The remote slips from my fingers until I quickly catch it with my left hand.
Holy shit. Fifteen-million dollars?
A giddy smile appears on my face as I imagine all the debts, bills, and Stanley's disgusting face wiped clean from my mind. I look at Andie, who is wiping the dishes dry with a white towel. Her straight, black hair drapes over her right eye.
I think about her days at Berkley University and her job at the bookstore, until an idea pops inside my head: what if I can get that money?
It's a bit of a stretch, but if I can gather enough information on the killer, then I can pay all the bills, take care of Andie's student loans, and finally quit that fucking movie theater job. Placing my fork on my plate, I rush upstairs to get dressed.
Andie stops cleaning the dishes and barks at me to come back downstairs, but I am too excited. I take off my black T-shirt and hurry into my closet. Ollie's stepdad's auto shop probably doesn't open until nine o'clock, but if I move quickly, then I can talk to him about my brilliant plan.
******
"I think that's a stupid plan," Ollie snorts, lowering his McDonald's breakfast sandwich.
He wears an oversized Grandpa sweater. His wide denim jeans cloak his worn-out Doc Martens. Tucking his pink hair into his black beanie, Ollie slides his hands inside his pockets and then leans his back against the graffitied walls of our warehouse.
Big Daddy Kane pours out of his headphones that are hanging around his neck. Ollie makes sure the jack is plugged into his Walkman before he turns to me.
"Come on!" I groan. "What the hell do you mean it's a bad idea? If we get the information-"
"How the hell are you going to do that?" Ollie raises his left eyebrow. "You don't know anything about the killer."
I irritably fold my arms. "Don't you want to go to Philadelphia?"
"Honestly, I want to go to New York. Maybe rent an apartment somewhere in Brooklyn."
"So why back out of the reward money when you can just-"
"No fucking way."
Taking a deep breath, I express a tired sigh and lean beside Ollie, who happily finishes his sandwich. He scoops the melted cheese off of the yellow wrapper with his finger and swallows it wholeheartedly.
"I know you want to help Yusef's family and all—" Ollie starts to say.
"I want to help my family, not Yusef's!"
Taking a deep breath, I exhale white smoke through my nose and shut my eyes.
"I want Matt to pick something that he loves," I said quietly. "I want Andie to go back to college and finish her degree. And if the money is legit, my mom and dad can go on a romantic vacation together, you know?"
Opening my eyes, I smile at Ollie and hand the cigarette to him. "You could even get your mom to leave your shitty stepdad."
Ollie stretches his dark beanie on his forehead and plucks the cigarette from my fingers.
"I don't think she'll dump him," he says. "Even though she can't stand the bastard, my mom believes that he'll change his attitude and love us just as much as she loves him."
Blowing smoke through his crusty mouth, Ollie wanders towards me and sits on the dusty floor.
"You know what the worst part is?" he snorts. "My mom wants to have a fucking baby with him."
He holds out the cigarette for me, but I let him keep it.
"A baby?" I repeat. "Are you serious?"
"Uh, yeah." Ollie nods angrily. "She even told me about it during breakfast."
"Fuck."
Ollie removes his beanie from his head and then scratches his bold pink hair. His mouth clutches the cigarette. He rests his sweaty forehead against his kneecaps; his dark brown roots study me.
My soft red, buttoned-up sweater drapes over my white t-shirt and vintage overalls like curtains. Matt's combat boots covered my feet. Fixing the dark sunglasses in front of my eyes, I ask Ollie what he is going to do.
"I don't know, KitKat," he says glumly. "A part of me wants to pack my shit and go to New York, but the other wants me to get Mom out of that fucking house."
Ollie lifts his forehead from his kneecaps and darts his eyes back to me.
"Are you sure that money is legit? Because finding the guy who murdered ten people is dangerous and stupid!"
"Well, I don't want to work at the theater for the rest of my life!" I argue. "And you don't want to work for your stepdad! Speaking of which, aren't you going to work at the auto shop? I rode my bike over there, and I didn't see you."
Ollie drapes his arms behind his head. "That's because I quit my job."
"You did what?"
"Yeah, I am getting a job at the record shop. The pay sucks, but at least I am five thousand miles away from that bastard. Plus, I've always wanted to work there."
"Come on, don't you want to earn a little bit more money?"
"Yeah-"
"Then help me find the killer."
Ollie tosses his cigarette on the floor. He pulls himself off the ground and tells me that he will think about it.
"Seriously?" I moan. "You'll think about it?"
"Yeah, I am," Ollie responds irritably. "In the meantime, don't you have to make up a paper or something?"
Searing heat burned my cheeks. "Fuck you."
"Well, that answers my question."
Rolling my eyes, I follow Ollie outside of the warehouse until I see his stepdad stepping out of his red pickup truck. Ollie freezes. He squeezes his backpack straps so tightly that his knuckles turn this weird shade of white.
I focus my attention on my bike, two inches from the entrance. If I am fast enough, I can grab my bike and convince my best friend to get on the fucking handlebars.
Grabbing his wrist, I try to get Ollie to come with me, but he yanks it from my hand and then urgently tells me to leave.
"What?" I murmur in disbelief. "The hell are you talking about-"
"Leave right now."
I am reluctant. I walk over to my bike and climb on top of the seat. Though my hands remain steady, I can't help but look at Ollie, who is shutting his eyes. His stepfather looms over him like a giant. The breeze makes his leather-brown coat dance. He wears a bold orange cashmere sweater and a long pair of khaki pants. White, chalky powder dusts his sneakers as his stepfather marches up to Ollie.
The autumnal haze of my suspicion begins to crystallize. Fear pumps dark blood through my veins and sharpens all my senses. I watch them get into a heated argument until the old bastard grabs Ollie by his hair and forces him into the truck.
Tightening my handlebars, I ride my bike toward the truck, but Ollie's stepdad starts the vehicle and drives away.
*****
About ten minutes later, I received a message from my pager. Andie wants me to go to the library and pick out The Count of Monte Cristo. Why she is forcing me to do it is beyond my comprehension, but since my dad left her in charge, I have no choice.
I rode my bike over to the library on Sandy Boulevard, took the book off the wooden shelf, and spent my damn morning reading the fucking book from cover to cover.
I find an empty table in the center of the bookshelves and sit on one of the vacant chairs. I zip open my backpack. Taking out my failed English paper, I retrieve three black pens when I accidentally bump into someone.
"Shit," I moan. "I am so sorry-"
The words twist inside my throat as I gawk at Nick moving away from me. He isn't wearing his standard nurse uniform. He wears a white, buttoned-up shirt, black pants, and an old pair of Chuck Taylors. His dark hair is in a short afro, while his beard is a bit thicker than Matt's. Scratching the back of his head, Nick gives me a sheepish apology. He is about to say something until he sees the book in my hand.
"What are you reading?" he asks in a curious tone.
I say nothing. I just hide the book behind my back and sit back down in my seat.
"Look, we can talk as equals," Nick begins. "I don't see your classmates coming around here and-"
He catches a glimpse of my failed English assignment sitting in the center of the table, but before I can grab it, Nick snatches the pages with his hand and then holds them up to his face.
"Wow," he whistles. "Have you talked to a tutor or something?"
"Have you finished giving AIDS patients false hope or something?"
"Touché."
Pushing his hair out of his eyes, Nick takes a deep breath and releases a calm sigh.
"Is it okay if we start over?" he inquires. "I don't want to argue with you; I just want to talk."
Nick holds out the three-paged paper to me, but this time, I yank the wrinkled pages from his earnest hand and shove them inside my backpack.
"Okay, so what do you want to talk about?" I groan.
Sighing some more, Nick takes a seat right next to me and shrugs his shoulders.
"I don't know," he says sheepishly. "I guess I'd like to start by getting to know a little bit more about you."
My joking smile disappears.
A college-student-looking nurse wants to spend time with a loser like me. He must be stoned or something, so I tell him that I am not interested.
"You're not interested in having a conversation with me?" Nick says it quietly.
"Not really."
"Can you at least tell me why you didn't go to Yusef's funeral?"
"No one would want me there. Besides, I doubt anyone at that funeral gives a fuck about a dead black kid."
I place the book in the center of the table and then brush my fingers against the smooth paperback cover.
You might think I am overreacting, but this happens more than you think. Every time a black person dies, everyone cries about him on the news. Then, two seconds later, the news will dig up all sorts of dark secrets about the guy and use them to destroy the victim's family.
Does it suck? Yeah, but I didn't build the system. I just live in it.
Nick studies the book I selected from the library.
"The Count of Monte Cristo," he reads. "Geez, I never took you to be a cynic. How old are you, anyway?"
"I'm ninety-six. How about you?"
Pinching his eyebrows, Nick frowns at my sarcasm and then decides to change the subject.
"What was that note all about?" he inquires. "And why did that girl tape it on your back?"
I lift my shoulders and let them fall.
"Come on," Nick urges sternly. "I know it bothers you a lot. Maybe when school opens, we can talk to a teacher."
"So, you want me to drop everything and report to the teachers, who don't get paid enough to care?" I say slowly. "Great idea, Nick, why haven't I thought of that two years ago?"
Nick's expression falls flat. "I am sorry."
"Yeah," I mumble. "Me too."
After smoothing his black tie, Nick tells me that he'll help me with any homework I am struggling with. In exchange, I have to tell him everything about my day.
How my family is doing, the kids at my school, and what I want to be when I grow up. When I ask him why, Nick tells me to believe that there are good people in Portland. That I shouldn't be angry at the world.
"I don't believe that," I snickered in disbelief. "Ollie and my family, sure, but not everyone."
"God does."
"I hate to offend your Southern Baptist Christian beliefs," I insist. "But I don't believe in a God who likes to be praised all the time."
"Come on, Kat-"
"I have to go."
A stunned Nick watches me get up from my chair and yank my backpack off the floor.
"Wait," he stutters. "Where are you-"
"I'm going to go check on a friend," I say quickly. "See if he's okay."
I scoop the paperback book into my hands, hand it to the passing librarian, and follow her over to her desk to get it checked out.
However, as the librarian types something on her computer, I notice Nick placing his head on the wooden table. A loud gurgling erupts from his stomach as Nick grips his white button-up shirt. His dark eyes widened like marbles. He takes a couple of deep breaths before he rises from his chair and leaves the library through the back door.