Free Wicked Cruel by Rich Wallace Page B

also excited. Bainer is out there somewhere—cyberspace or afterlife or maybe just over in Europe. But he’s had his eye on me all week, and I’ve had enough of it.
    This is my city; I’ve never lived anywhere else. I’m not going to be driven out of town—or out of my mind—by some annoying kid who hasn’t been around for eighteen months. (Not in the flesh anyway.)
    I cross Main before I get downtown and cut through the edge of the college. There are lots of people over by the student center and walking the paths, and an Aerosmith song is blasting from an open dorm window. I stay in the shadows, scuffing through leaves and acorns.
    I pass the rows of off-campus houses and head for Bainer’s. There are sounds in the distance—students talking on a porch, an airplane overhead, traffic on Main Street—but I feel cut off from the town back here, a good block away from any signs of life. The air is clear and cold.
    I walk slowly across the lawn, and the wind lifts a few leaves into the air. Something scurries through the brush over by the empty warehouse—a cat or a possum maybe.
    I put a hand inside the windowsill, place my foot against the stone foundation, and haul myself up. I step to the floor as gently as I can, trying to avoid making any sound.
    Then I breathe. My heart is racing. I wait for my eyes to adjust and my nerves to steady. I slide my back down the wall and take a seat.
    There’s nothing to see down here, but I sit for ten minutes, letting the house get used to me, allowing the energy to settle.
    I don’t even need the flashlight, but I take it with me as I cross the living room and tiptoe up the stairs. What will I do up here? Try to talk to Bainer? Just sit and wait until something happens?
    I catch my breath sharply—the attic door is open. I know we didn’t leave it like that.
    I edge up to it and flick on the flashlight, since the hallway going up is pitch dark.
    “God!” I jump back.
    The tiny samurai is on the first step, facing me. Two stepsfarther up is the Batman, its right arm raised as if it’s pointing to the attic. Doc is waiting on the next-to-last step.
    Somebody’s been here, I guess.
    I poke my head into Bainer’s room, but it’s empty, so I take a deep breath and slowly climb the attic stairs.
    The attic is a big open space—no partitions or rooms, just bare floorboards and exposed beams overhead.
    Something flutters down from the ceiling and I jump. A bat? No. I shine the flashlight and see that photo of Bainer, the one that was tacked to the wall in his bedroom the other night. I can’t bring myself to reach down and pick it up.
    The light catches a cardboard box in the corner, covered with dust. I step toward it and swallow.
    The box is square, about two feet high and wide.
LORNE THINGS
is scrawled on the flap in black marker.
    I unfold the top, holding the flashlight in my armpit. Then I pull out a handful of papers and set them on the floor.
    His report card from fifth grade, all Bs and Cs. A couple of school photos. A sealed envelope with
Mr. and Mrs. Bainer
handwritten on the outside.
    I hesitate, then carefully tear open the envelope. Inside is a note from our fifth-grade teacher.
    Mrs. Graham has informed me that you’ve decided not to take advantage of the counseling that was offered to Lorne. I urge you to reconsider. Lorne is a bright boy, but he has extreme difficulty fitting in with his classmates. Some sessions with a psychologist could do him a world of good and help him adjust.
    Sincerely,
Gloria Munson
    The next paper is a simple list in Bainer’s handwriting:
Invite to birthday
. There are four of us on the list. Me and three people I don’t even recognize. Maybe from his church or something.
    I never got that invitation. Probably nobody did.
    Why did they leave all this stuff behind? Maybe it was too painful to take.
    And here’s the script he wrote for that comedy routine that never happened. It has some reasonably funny jokes.
    Me: How come your