“But what’s the point?” I asked him. “I mean, what were you trying to get across with that poem? Why that man? Why that place?”
He blinked at me, examining my expression, my body language. We were in a very subtle standoff, each of us trying to figure out how much the other knew, what the other wanted, and who was winning.
“The point is to find the next clue,” he said with mock innocence. “Did you find it?”
“I did.”
“And?” Chew, chew, chew. He washed down what was clearly too much food with a big swallow of milk, then made a show of letting out a belch. I ignored his little display.
“I haven’t started thinking about it yet,” I said. “I have class.”
“And a missing friend.”
“Right.”
The refrigerator dumped some ice cubes into the bucket, and again, the sound made both of us jump, then laugh a little. It was becoming a joke between us.
“I’m curious,” I said. “How did you get to that house to plant the next clue? And where did you get that key?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he said. It was somewhat less obnoxious than it sounds. Luke had a great deal of superficial charm; his beauty and the wattage of his smile were disarming. I had to remember not to put down my guard.
“You’re not going to tell me?” I said.
“When we get to the end, I’ll tell you everything.” He gave me a sweet, warm glance, and patted my hand as though he were the caregiver and I his terribly slow charge.
“What if I don’t want to play anymore?” I said, somewhat more petulantly than I had intended.
“But you do,” he said. He released another belch. “You really do.”
I think it was clear then who had the upper hand. He had hooked me into his game, and I had no choice but to play. I found myself thinking about that dirt on his tires, his knowledge of Beck, the clues that grazed the edge of my secrets. What did he know about me? Or was it all in my imagination? Was he, after all, just a lonely kid playing a game with the closest thing he had to a friend? Carl Jung believed in a dark side, a self we pressed down and tried to hide. He held that whatever we dislike, whatever unsettles or disturbs in others only does so because we are repressing similar qualities. That theory made a kind of sense here.
He brought his plate and glass over to the sink and washed them, placing them neatly in the rack as was his habit.
When he turned back to me, he cocked his head to one side. “How did you get here? We still have your bike.”
I thought about lying, telling him that I’d taken a cab. But I decided that it was a silly thing to do, giving him more power than he deserved. “I got a ride,” I said.
“From?” he asked a bit peevishly. There was a sudden change to him, an odd stiffness to his frame that I hadn’t seen before, a stillness to his face.
“From a professor,” I said.
“What’s his name?”
“What do you care?” I asked. I didn’t like his tone or the way he was looking at me. I found myself thinking about last night, the small form I thought I’d seen disappearing into the trees. It couldn’t have been him. Rachel would never have allowed him out that late. Could he have snuck out? Was he following me? The thought was more worrisome than I can say.
“You won’t tell me?” he said.
“Why is it an issue, Luke? I got a ride from my professor, who also happens to be my adviser and friend. It’s none of your business who he is.”
I didn’t want to say Langdon’s name in front of him. I didn’t even know why.
“Is he your boyfriend, too?” he asked nastily. “Do you fuck him?”
“Luke!” I said. I felt like he’d slapped me.
“My mother would have come to get you,” he said. His body had literally gone rigid, his arms sticking out. I rose to my feet. I did not want to remain seated. The air was electric with his coming rage, a steep drop in the psychic barometric pressure.
“Who is it?” he said, his voice rising. “What’s his name?”
The ridiculousness of this situation struck me, and I realized that Langdon was right. I had empowered him by playing this game with him. He thought we were friends, that we were equals. He’d developed some attachment or fantasy about me, and he was acting out of that place.
“Take a deep breath,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Calm down.”
He came at me quickly, until he was right in my face. I held my ground, but kept my eyes down. I knew where he was, shot through with impotent rage. I’d been there myself as a child. I remember how it’s a hurricane inside, a terrible roar that drowns out all reasonable thought, everything around you. All you are is anger and sadness, and it’s a loop that feeds on itself. You go deeper and deeper, with nothing to draw you back to reality. Remember, I have problems, too.
“Who is he?” His face was right in mine. I could smell the cheddar on his breath.
“We can’t talk about this until you calm down,” I said.
“Did you tell him about our game?” he asked. But this time it was a shriek; he backed me against the wall with it. “Did you?”
“We can’t talk about this until you calm down,” I said again.
He released a kind of anguished cry that was more despair than anything else, and I heard all the notes of my own childhood in it. I wasn’t afraid of him. He couldn’t hurt me, not in a fair fight. Instead of coming at me, he stormed up the stairs screaming, pounding on the walls as he went, slamming doors down the hall-his mother’s room, the bathroom, the empty guest room. Then from the sound of it, he was trashing his room upstairs. I followed slowly, creeping up one step at a time.
“You weren’t supposed to tell anyone,” he was wailing. “It’s our game.”
There was a succession of heavy thuds, then a loud crack. The television hitting the floor maybe? I stood outside the door. I could see that the locks were loose in their settings, and that the doorknob was a bit wobbly. What happened here at night after I went home?
Then, from inside, more shouting, “Who is he? Who is he? Who is he?”
I sat at the top of the landing and waited for him to burn himself out. But he didn’t, not for more than an hour. And that’s how Rachel found us when she came home, Luke screaming in his room, me sitting on the top step, my head resting against the wall.
She made me a cup of tea while Luke, obviously aware that we were downstairs talking, had taken to pounding on the floor of his room. The glasses in the cabinets were rattling. What a fucking brat he was. I mean, seriously.
“I’m surprised this didn’t happen sooner,” she said. “It’s funny. I was just looking at my calendar and thinking that you’d been with us a month. That’s the longest anyone has ever lasted with him, by like three weeks.”
“It’s partially my fault,” I said.
“No,” she answered firmly. She raised a palm at me. “Don’t say that. Luke is responsible for his own behavior. It took me years to accept that.”
I told her about the game we’d been playing, about the clues he left, his scary poems. She didn’t seem surprised, just nodded and made affirming noises as I told her everything.
“He’s so good at reeling people in,” she said. She gave a little laugh and a shake of her head.
“Stop talking about me!” he screamed from upstairs. More pounding ensued.
She put down my mug and sat across from me. “He knows exactly what to say and do to hook people into his games. They tell me he manipulates the children at school, that he promises them treats if they misbehave at a certain time. A Snickers bar for a meltdown at twelve thirty-four or something like that.”
That was not the picture he painted of himself at school. I thought he was being bullied, pushed around because he was smart and small. I could relate to that, someone being rejected because there was something strange and different about him. I guess he knew that somehow.