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  As I was pulling on my dark blue, long sleeve T-shirt for the party my dad came into my room. He sat on the bed. He examined some of my fantasy castle posters critically. He pointed to one and said he liked it.

  I put my change, wallet, and keys in my pants pockets. I got my letterman’s jacket out of the closet. I faced my dad.

  He cleared his throat. “Roger,” he said, “I know this has been difficult for you. It’s been hard on us too. I just want you to know that we’ll be here for you. We don’t understand yet, but everything will be all right.”

  He came over to me and put an awkward arm half around my shoulders.

  “Thanks, Dad, I appreciate it.”

  At the front door, my mom met me and gave me a big hug. “I love you,” she said.

  I gave her a dry kiss on the cheek.

  I found myself whistling as I started the car.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Saturday 8:30 P.M.

  Bert’s house was on the far eastern side of the city. The driveway was at least a mile long. I’d been on it in the daylight once. It was beautiful. The road to the mansion curved among low hills on the right and lemon groves on the left. Pepper and giant jacaranda trees lined the road and met overhead and created a shaded avenue. The full moon cast enough light so that the road’s curves and shadows made an eerie path.

  The Blaire mansion was something right out of the movie Psycho only this monstrosity was maybe a zillion times as big and way more modern on the inside. Knowing Bert, I wouldn’t have been surprised to find roomfuls of familial skeletons skulking about the place.

  The mansion was a warren of rooms. Sometimes it seemed a hallway would be leading nowhere but then you’d wind up in a solarium filled with plants. Supposedly, Bert had his own little hideaway, just beyond a weirdly shaped set of rooms on the top floor.

  When I drove up, cars had completely filled the parking spaces around the five-car garage. Vehicles crammed the tennis courts. I found a spot beyond the stables and walked back to the front door.

  Laughter and noise rocked the house. Near the door, I found Jack and Darlene who had arrived only a few minutes before.

  Entering the house, it looked like a half a million kids had crammed themselves inside already. We found space in a corner less crowded than most. We had to shout to be heard over the music.

  Jack said, “I stopped by school this afternoon to watch the freshman basketball team.”

  “I already got the score,” I said.

  He began laughing uproariously. Darlene joined in.

  “You gonna tell me the joke or laugh all night?” I asked.

  “I paid a visit to the locker room,” Jack said. “You know coach keeps his dirty polyester shorts in one of those big canvas hampers.”

  I nodded.

  “I poured Super Glue all over them,” Jack said. “I made sure I got gobs of shit all over.”

  “You touched his shorts?” I asked.

  “Don’t be gross,” Jack said. “I used a hockey stick to stir.”

  I laughed with them. I could just see Delahanty’s face when he found them.

  “The bin was only half full,” Jack said. “He’s probably still got a million other pairs at home. Still, it’s my way of getting even for trying to screw you out of a career. Maybe we can’t stop him, but we can do this much.”

  I didn’t mention how useless his gesture probably was. I thanked him, and it was funny.

  We exchanged outrage about Delahanty’s threats, my failed phone call to the gay group, and discussed options about what to do, each more unrealistic than the next. We exhausted that topic then gossiped about who was dating who, who had what new car, teachers we disliked, the latest music videos. Then I circulated around the party a little bit. I wanted to question Bert. I ran into him as he came out of a pantry. He swung a huge bowl of chips in my direction.

  His eyes focused on me. My guess was that he was ripped on some kind of recreational chemical.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I’m on the paper,” I said.

  “But I don’t like you.”

  “It’s mutual.”

  He smiled benignly and muttered, “That’s nice.” The bowl of chips he was holding tipped and spilled on the ground. He grinned goofily at them for a minute, then shoved at a few with his foot. “That’s why they created maids.” Chips crunched under his feet as he wandered off.

  I saw him a few more times, but he must have put his intake on full, because each time, he seemed more wasted.

  Most of the kids reacted to me pretty normally. No one went berserk and screamed, “Get away! Get away!” I figured this was a step in the right direction.

  I began to feel a little more relaxed. I saw the three guys from the football team from yesterday at lunch, but they ignored me, and I didn’t go out of my way to get into their space. I didn’t see Frank Boyer, although the rumor flew that he would show up. He had crashed the last two Bert Blaire parties.

  I hung out and talked to kids for about an hour then thought I’d go looking for Darlene and Jack.I passed through the living room while looking for them. The lights were down low and the couches, chairs, and floor were filled with people making out. Steve sat on the edge of the crowd by himself on a low chair. He looked forlorn and out of place. I’d seen him once or twice that night, mostly in a corner sipping from a can of pop. I’d approached him once, but he’d hurried off.

  I wandered out by the swimming pool, which had been drained for the winter. Around ten I went in to use the washroom.

  I decided to give confronting Bert one more try. Maybe under the influence, he’d be indiscreet and blab. I hadn’t gotten any answers out of him when he was sober. Nobody I asked on the first floor had seen him in hours. Somebody suggested he’d gone to the third floor. You could make a circle of the house in the hall on the second floor, and I wasted a few minutes wandering in the semi-dark before finding a narrow set of stairs that led to the third floor. They ended in a wide hallway filled with statues of gargoyles and saints. I couldn’t tell if they were a collector’s dream or just junk. The hallway split in either direction. I turned right and followed it to a dead end with neither kids around nor sounds from behind the doors. I returned to the stairs I’d come up and took the passage to the left.

  Within a few feet, the corridor narrowed. Dark wood paneling lined the walls floor to ceiling. Three carpeted steps led down and then the hall turned sharply to the right. Someone had plastered framed psychedelic posters from the sixties all over these walls. I noted genuine black lights hanging at a variety of angles up and down the hall.

  I turned a last corner. The dim light showed a massive wooden door. Through it, I could hear faint sounds of heavy metal music.

  I knocked, but no one answered. I twisted the knob and opened the door a crack. A blast of earsplitting noise hit me. I peered inside.

  I saw a wavering candle and two couples making out on a couch. I stepped into the room and closed the door behind me. On a mirror on a coffee table in the center of the room, a mound of white powder stood next to several lines of coke. A guy with a razor blade looked up from where he worked on another line and shouted, “Want some?”

  Because the music was so loud, I was forced to bellow, “No, thanks.” Then I yelled, “Where’s Bert?”

  He pointed to a door behind him. I eased through it and entered a series of short halls with more doorways, then went up and down short flights of steps, until I ended in a turret room. It must have been at the very top of the house. The windows showed a night sky through gauze curtains. In the middle was a round bed. Against one wall was a stone fireplace. Old rocking chairs sat around the room. Each had a teenager in various states of stupor.

  I heard raucous laughter coming from a balcony. I exited some French doors and found myself on an outcropping as big as my bedroom. One half of balcony rested on the roof of the house, the other half hung out into space. Four people leaned against a black metal rai
ling. Bert and his friends cackled merrily and carried on. They seemed to be in the last stages of drugs or drink. No one noticed me because, as far as I could figure, they were intensely occupied with taunting and daring Bert to balance on the rail.

  He jumped onto the six-inch-wide thin piece of metal, swept his arms out, and began prancing down the rail. He swayed, caught his balance several times, and then began to tip. He fell face first, landing with his body straddling the rail. He let out an ooofff and gasped and giggled.

  The landing must have hurt his nuts, just not enough as far as I was concerned. Bert attempted to dismount, but he began to slip sideways and outward. All of his friends shrieked and hooted. Bert shouted for help. They laughed harder.

  I leapt forward as Bert began to lose his grip. I caught him by his belt and left leg. As I did, I stared down into over fifty feet of black velvet nothingness.

  I hauled him up. One of his friends flung a feeble, drunken punch at me and giggled. “Let him go.”

  Bert gasped and stumbled as I helped him to his feet. He swayed a moment, finally realized it was me, and said, “Is this the faggot?”

  I let him go. He tottered for a second. His eyes rolled up into his head. His body slumped to the floor. I made sure he was breathing then walked out. If I’d been another minute later, he might have fallen to his death. I didn’t know how I felt about him possibly dying and that frightened me.

  Downstairs I stopped in the bathroom. When I came out, Steve stood by the door. We nodded to each other. Tonight he wore stiff-as-new, very tight blue jeans, a white cotton long sleeve crew neck T-shirt, and gym shoes. He was very handsome. Why hadn’t I noticed that before? I felt more than a simple stirring of interest.

  He looked at me from behind his black horn-rimmed glasses. I noticed his eyes were brown. He glanced away, scuttled into the washroom, and closed the door. I meandered into the kitchen to get another soda.

  I was rooting through the refrigerator when I heard someone enter the room. I turned and saw Steve leaning in the doorway. I could hear the thudding bass from the speakers in the living room, and the squeals and murmurs of teenagers in the game room in the basement.

  Steve walked over to the refrigerator while I tried to hack some ice from a glob somebody had left in the sink.

  I wanted to talk with him in a quiet spot. He was pretty brave and awfully smart for doing that comic strip and not getting caught. I wanted to ask him out on a date, and I even thought maybe making out with him at a party like this would be great, like the straight couples were doing, although maybe in a more private place.

  I heard thumping footsteps from upstairs. Seconds later a trio of kids crowded into the kitchen. One of the new guys tried to drag me into a drunken conversation.

  I disentangled myself from the clumping teenagers and hurried after Steve. He was crossing the patio and moved out of the light while I was still forty feet away. He turned the corner of the house.

  A minute later I entered deep shadows with only occasional sprinkles of light. Steve had disappeared. I couldn’t tell if he’d gone back into the house or strode off into the darkness. I gave up on finding him.

  I returned inside. Half an hour later, I found Darlene and Jack. We hung out for a while, but I was still sore with my aches and pains, and it had been an emotional week.

  I’d been bold enough to show up, and I’d had no problems, but I didn’t want to push my luck. I was ready to go. I got into the car, set the iPod to Frank Morgan, pressed play, turned on the ignition, and drove away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Sunday 12:07 A.M.

  In the dark I took the curves slowly. As I rounded a sharp bend, my headlights picked up a car blocking the road so I hit the brakes. I glanced back. A dim figure now stood behind my car. A male voice next to the driver’s window said, “Try anything, and I’ll bust through the windshield and you.”

  It was one of Boyer’s buddies holding a crowbar.

  I rammed the gearshift lever into reverse. I wasn’t quick enough. Before I could move the car, the windshield exploded. I floored the car, which was the wrong thing to do, because while it shot backwards, I wasn’t able to aim it well. Within seconds I was in the small ditch along the side of the road. The rains yesterday and this morning had turned the ruts on the sides of the roads out here into nasty, car-trapping quagmires.

  My back tires whirred and dug themselves in deeper.

  Two guys converged on the car. My headlights illuminated them enough to make out the grim looks on their faces.

  I jammed the locks on the doors closed, although that was a little ludicrous with pieces of the windshield scattered all over my lap and the front seat.

  “Out of the car,” one of them commanded.

  I tried rocking the car back and forth. The wheels dug deeper into the dirt. Seconds later I realized it was useless trying to get the car free.

  How was I going to run with the stupid walking cast? I had to try.

  I swung the door open, prepared to run, but the guy closest slammed the door back at me as I tried to thrust it at him. He jammed my hand between the door and frame and squeezed hard. It hurt like hell.

  The other guy bashed in the passenger side window, opened the door, and shoved the crowbar into my back.

  I fought, twisted, squirmed, and shoved against them, but it was useless.

  Seconds later they yanked me out of the car. My foot in the walking cast squished into mud. The other hit dry dirt. One of the guys shut off the car and pulled the keys from the ignition.

  I hoped that another kid from the party would leave and see me and help, but no headlights approached from either direction. The police were extremely unlikely to patrol this private drive.

  The two of them trussed me with their belts, looped together and tightened around my upper arms and shoulders. Once I was tied, one held the crowbar like a baseball bat, ready for me to make a move. The other drove their car off the road. They left my vehicle sitting where it was, stuck under a tree.

  In the darkness, you couldn’t tell the windshield was broken. The kids leaving the party who might drive by would most likely assume it was a couple of teenagers stopping to rush off into the brush to have a few beers or have sex outdoors.

  They left my feet free so I could walk between them, up a ragged dirt path that led farther up onto the hill on the right. Each kept a tight grip on my upper arm next to them. Having my feet free left me with the possibility of making a break for it, happily hopping to freedom?

  Neither of them had a flashlight, so we made slow progress. We walked maybe a quarter mile then came to a clearing on a small plateau. The hill continued to rise twenty feet from where we stopped.

  Boyer’s guffaws boomed out from a circle of light at the far end of the clearing.

  “We got him,” one of the guys next to me called.

  Boyer swaggered forward with a flashlight and shone it in my face. He stuck his nose a couple inches from mine and let go peal after peal of harsh laughter. Boyer and his buddies reeked of sweat and beer.

  Finally Boyer stopped his raucous bleating and said, “Well, we got another one.”

  I found out what he meant when he swung the flashlight to where he’d been standing originally. I saw Steve tied to a tree. All he had on were his white Jockey shorts. In the following silence, I could hear Steve whimper.

  They shoved me closer to Steve who looked up at us. In the dim light I could see that he had mud splotches on his chest, legs, arms, and abdomen. One eye had puffed closed, blood oozed from several wounds, patches of skin were red and rubbed raw.

  “Thought you might be coming this way,” Boyer said. “We sort of planned on this when we found out you were at the party. Can’t believe you had the nerve to show up. Figured we’d have a little surprise for you. One of the guys watched you getting ready to leave and raced back here.” He laughed again, a great horsey, billowing sound.

  With the tip of his black leather boot, Boyer prodded Steve in
the stomach. “We’d just begun with our little plaything,” Boyer said. “He’s an extra bit of a bonus. We found him wandering in the orange groves a little bit ago. Skinny little thing, not big and muscular like you, but maybe we’ll warm up with him. You can watch us play with him and get all turned on.”

  One of the guys who escorted me up the hill, tossed Boyer a set of car keys. “We took these off him.”

  Boyer stuffed them into his jeans. “He won’t be needing these ever again.”

  I kept quiet, hoping for an opening to attack or somehow stop them, to stay alive. Even if I could, I didn’t want to just run away. I had to try saving Steve too.

  Boyer did look strange with a great gash of white bandage across the bridge of his nose. I wanted a chance to mash my fist into such a vulnerable spot.

  Boyer proceeded to do a seemingly endless riff of bragging and blustering about how macho he was, how much he would have fun with us, how happy he’d be when he got me bent over for his pleasure. My fear and desperation grew as he strutted and swaggered around the clearing. The flashlight beam cast eerie, ragged fractures of light throughout the scene.

  None of the seemingly ubiquitous helicopters that seemed to interrupt any quiet Southern California evening chose to pass overhead at this moment when they might have done some good.

  Boyer untied Steve, and with one hand grabbed him by the hair and with the other yanked at the back of his underwear and dragged him into the center of the clearing. Steve’s body shivered, from the cool night air and mortal terror. The poor guy kept mumbling, “Don’t hurt me. Please, don’t hurt me. Please, let me go.”

  Boyer shone the flashlight in Steve’s face where tear stained cheeks glowed gray in the dim light. His glasses were crooked, the left lens smashed, the frame bent.

  Up close Steve’s damaged and bruised body looked like the beaten carcass of a dying animal. More than ever I wanted Boyer to pay for being so cruel.