The Long Wait for Tomorrow Page 23

  Cheers erupted around the room.

  Patrick frowned through the disruption.

  There’s no air bubbles, his angels whispered frantically. She’s not really drinking.

  “Here’s a thought …” Jenna sauntered over to Edmund. “And I’d like to ask our resident genius what he thinks.”

  “Yeah, genius!” some girl cried out.

  “If someone traveled back through time …,” Jenna postulated, swaying aggressively. “And if that person found themselves doing some weird-ass shit like …” Jenna burped. “Like maybe if they screwed their own mother or something … If the time traveler didn’t disappear right then and there, wouldn’t that mean he was always, without knowing it, his own father? Edmund, what say you?”

  “I say …” Edmund put his arm around Jenna, under orders from Jose Cuervo, joining her in storm-tossed motions. “I’d say that if Kelly were doing something like that … Well, that means it’s all happened already, hasn’t it?”

  The jury of drunk athletes let loose with deep ooooohs.

  “It’s already happened!” Jenna declared, slinking toward Patrick.

  Her steps were drunk and wavering, but her eyes were suddenly serious. Piercing, the look of someone doing all she could to send an SOS across a crowded room.

  “Already happened,” she repeated, stepping close to Patrick. “It would mean that Kelly is only doing what he was supposed to do. What he was meant to do, sexy.” Jenna reached around and grabbed Patrick’s ass, pressing her body against his. “Don’t feel bad, baby. Kelly’s a goddamn nutjob, that doesn’t mean you can’t step up.”

  Jenna took the back of Patrick’s head and drew him in for a deep kiss.

  The leftover traces of vodka burned Patrick’s lips, mournful realizations that this was how he would be forced to remember their first kiss. He closed his eyes, unable to be swept away with the staged motions of Jenna’s tongue.

  “Look at that slut!” Cody’s voice called out in the darkness, pleased as punch. “Look!”

  Jenna slid her lips across Patrick’s cheek, began chewing on his earlobe.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Jenna whispered through her mouthful of cartilage. “Patrick, we’ve got to get out of here before Kelly shows up. Cody’s got it in Edmund’s head that this is all Kelly’s fault.”

  Patrick stared over Jenna’s shoulder, saw Edmund watching with curiosity. Whatever enraged euphoria had previously gripped him, it was gone now. Already receding, beginning to stew. Maybe thinking just how sweet that bang-bang would sound, watching Kelly’s blood redecorate the beige walls an oily red.

  But if Kelly dies, Patrick’s angels screamed in a frustrated chorus, then how does he ever manage to come back after twenty more years on this sorry planet?

  Patrick squeezed his eyes shut, screaming back to his angels, There is no such thing as TIME TRAVEL! It just couldn’t be REAL!

  You know what is real? Patrick’s angels whispered. Edmund’s gun is real, my friend.

  Jenna drew away, slipping once again into her promiscuous role.

  Eyelids drooping as she plopped onto the bed.

  Patrick didn’t know how much longer she would be able to keep this up. Didn’t know how much longer he could pretend to be just another bystander. Under the cover of his own broken face, he scanned the room for possibilities. The room was lined with large bodies, grinning faces gathered like spectators at a ritual killing.

  The only thing standing between him and the door was Zack.

  Two hundred and forty pounds of Zack.

  Cody’s own personal Patrick Saint.

  A distraction, something to distract them all …

  All five million of them, his angels despaired.

  “Hey, Pat …” Jenna leaned back on the bed, absolute vixen. She slid her hand along the comforter, licking her lips. “Why don’t you come join me?”

  Through the rumbling approval of his jailors, Patrick knew that she had the same idea.

  He felt his bile rise, disgusted with the vile stares, grins that seemed razor sharp.

  “What do you say, boys?” she called out. “Who wants to see me do Patrick?”

  The crowd roared with enthusiasm.

  Patrick couldn’t play along, looking about wildly at the surrounding mob. Beers raised like torches, a slow chant rising over the blast of rap music.

  “FIGHT, FIGHT, OUTTA SIGHT! KILL, PANTHERS, KILL!”

  Even the girls, straight out of Girls Gone Wild.

  The only holdout was Edmund, who stood by, drunk and impassive. Staring into nothingness, backstage to a life flashing before his eyes.

  “You can stop this, Edmund,” Patrick pleaded. Wasn’t able to get through, didn’t get anything other than that lost, remote stare. “There’s a part of you that knows you can’t do what you’re thinking of doing, Edmund, you know they’re just using you—”

  “Patrick!” Cody shouted.

  Patrick looked over, saw Cody’s lips pulled back in a lecherous grin.

  “Don’t be such a pussy,” he said. “Just go on and fuck the bitch.”

  And so Patrick’s angels became demons.

  There might have been a scream. In that moment, Patrick was almost certain something had torn from his body, bursting through his chest, slinging him across the room, and sending his hands around Cody’s neck.

  It didn’t last.

  For all his diabolical wishes, Patrick didn’t have a chance to get his licks in. He found himself surrounded, torn away by Cody’s willing teammates. Eager to blow off a little steam. They threw him to the ground, and Patrick prepared himself for a deadly thrashing. Vague hopes that the sudden slowness he was experiencing would give Jenna the chance to bolt for the door. Refusing to believe that it was Jenna he was seeing, leaping ferociously onto the nearest running back. Breaking character, screaming for them to stop.

  It was only then that Patrick noticed he was well past the first in a series of blows meant to land him in the emergency room. Maybe he’d gotten lucky so far, hurried fists falling short of a direct hit. No telling how long that would last.

  His angels went into shock, rocking back and forth.

  Humming the comforting melody of his favorite Coltrane tune: “I Wish I Knew.”

  And though there was no real clarity in the events that followed, one of his angels did manage to break free from the shock and awe. A single angel who witnessed the whole thing.

  A single angel who heard the door to the room burst open.

  A single angel who saw Kelly elbow Zack in the face. The blurry outline of a Kelly-shaped figure, mad with panic. Crazy, some might say, and most would remember. Not within any rational scheme of perception, but most would remember the unhinged eyes of an already broken madman.

  Few would see what that one angel saw.

  The face of a sad and desperate nobody, finally deciding exactly where all that rage belonged. Woodchuck features contorting, blinded by a life of obscurity and hideous derision. Reaching behind him, under his oversized tweed jacket, the closest thing he could find to fit the occasion. A flash of black steel, brandished by a floppy, inexperienced, fifteen-year-old hand.

  And one of those fists finally made direct contact.

  Busting up against Patrick’s skull, sending everything into a vibrating blur.

  But that one angel held on.

  Saw Kelly rushing forward.

  Reclaiming his past as a dynamite football player.

  Charging at full steam.

  Head down, as they always said.

  Arms wrapping around Edmund, both of them careering toward the skyline of a city doing all it could to develop into a thriving, competitive metropolis.

  It must have taken some kind of force to break that glass.

  And the blood-curdling shriek would have been preferable to the grotesque silence that followed.

  That one lone angel saw it all before drawing back to join the rest.

  And Patrick lost consciousness am
id the howling chaos in his head.

  irst, there was sunlight.

  A whole lot of afternoon delight for so late in the night, pouring through the leaves of springtime trees. Kaleidoscope wedges tumbling in the breeze, through the luminous fog now starting to lift. Bright curtain pulling back to reveal the wide expanse of lawn in front of Jefferson Elementary.

  Children dotted the space like sheep, holding on to brightly colored lunch boxes. Cheap book bags bouncing off their backs as they trotted alongside their parents, recounting their day with high-pitched excitement.

  Cars rolled by along the residential street, crawling well below the speed limit.

  From a nearby parking lot, a fleet of yellow school buses came to life, engines grinding.

  Patrick reached up to rub his eyes and felt something bump against his chin.

  He blinked, face to face with a lunch box sporting rosy-cheeked cartoons.

  Pokémon, Patrick thought lazily. I’m holding a Pokémon lunch box in my hand.

  He heard a voice to his left ask: “Where’s Mrs. Sheldon?”

  Patrick looked down and saw Casey standing next to him. His Redskins shirt hung just above the knees, green shorts barely peeking out from beneath. Eyelashes batting away at clumps of thick black hair, courtesy of his mother. Hands held out as he tossed a football to himself.

  One last catch before looking up and repeating his question: “Where’s Mrs. Sheldon?”

  “I don’t know,” Patrick heard himself say. Heard someone else say, this wasn’t his voice. Wasn’t his body, he was almost sure of it. Not sure enough to actually check, though, and his mind accepted it with mushy approval. “What time is it?”

  Casey looked down at his watch, squinting. “It’s three-forty.”

  “How much is it until four?” Patrick asked with an encouraging smile.

  “Twenty, duh.”

  “You’re getting smart.”

  “Nobody’s smarter than Mrs. Parker.”

  Patrick couldn’t remember the name. “Who’s that?”

  “My teacher, duh …” Casey rolled his eyes. “Anybody home?”

  “I don’t know,” Patrick said, trying to focus. “I think I’m supposed to be in a room.”

  “You’re weird.”

  “I think I’m supposed to be in a hotel room.”

  “You’re so weird,” Casey amended, turning to the sound of three loud honks. “Hey, look!”

  Patrick saw a gray car stuck in the middle of the road. Through the open windows, he saw two children. One in the backseat, one in the front, waving and crying out for them to get over there.

  Without thinking, Patrick picked up Casey’s book bag and fastened it onto his back. Reached out and took hold of his brother’s hand, trying to account for how soft and small those fingers felt.

  By the time they got to the car, the back door was already open.

  Patrick sent his brother in first, then slid in, closing the door behind him.

  “I thought I told you to wait for us at the side entrance,” Mrs. Sheldon scolded from the front seat.

  From where he sat, Patrick could just make out a quarter-profile of orange foundation and gray hair, all up in a bun. He glanced into the rearview mirror, saw nothing but a series of deep creases along a large forehead.

  Patrick giggled.

  “It’s not funny, mister,” Mrs. Sheldon admonished as she pulled away from the school. “We were waiting back there this whole time.”

  “Patrick’s going to get in trouble!” came a singsong voice from the front seat.

  Patrick couldn’t see who it was, wondered why he was having so much trouble remembering. With the car picking up speed, he turned and fastened his safety belt. Caught sight of the world blurring past the open window, unable to see the road from his vantage point. The wind rushed in, gale force throughout the car.

  This is fun, Patrick thought, before feeling his brother tug at his sleeve.

  “Do you know what we did in class today?” Casey asked.

  “Nope,” Patrick replied, felt the car go over a few ugly bumps.

  “We got a new hamster!” Casey held out his hands, cupped them together, as though trying to re-create the fuzzy little beast. “He’s small and brown. And do you know what his name is?”

  Patrick smiled. “No.”

  “Mr. Ears!” Casey cackled, eyes alight. “Mr. Ears!”

  “That’s a funny name.”

  “It’s just silly,” Casey explained.

  “Did you get to play with him?” Patrick asked.

  “Not yet … but do you know what we saw him do today?”

  Patrick heard the sound of a cell phone going off somewhere in the car. He heard Mrs. Sheldon say the d-word, and saw her hand reaching between the front seats, into her purse.

  “I said, do you know what we saw him do today?” Casey repeated.

  “No,” Patrick said, putting an arm around his brother.

  “We saw him run in his wheel!” Casey raised his voice, competing with the ongoing sound of the phone, even as Mrs. Sheldon continued to rattle around, looking to put a stop to the whole thing. “He got onto it, and started running! Real fast! But he didn’t get anywhere! The whole thing kept going round and round and round! It was so silly! And I finally had to ask him—”

  “—where do you think you’re going?” Patrick finished in perfect unison with his little brother as the car picked up speed, and seconds neared the brink of extinction before he managed to add: “I love you, Casey.”

  As for what came next, someone would just have to tell him about it.

  is first thoughts were of Kelly.

  How much he loved him.

  The crippling, unfortunate love he felt for the best friend he’d known for just a few days now.

  Then there was Jenna, crying images of her playing the whorish cheerleader in a mournful attempt to save them all.

  And somewhere in there, he thought he saw his brother.

  Seven-year-old smile fading fast.

  Cross-fading against a room filled with police officers.

  One in particular was kneeling down, troubled eyes under bushy brows.

  “All you son right?”

  A bright flash of light went off nearby. Patrick blinked. “What?”

  “Are you all right, son?” the officer repeated.

  “Where’s Kelly?”

  “They’re taking him down to the station.”

  Patrick shook his head, edges of the room stretching out like cellophane before returning to the shape of a hallway. He was seated against the wall, face and head a collection of aching knobs.

  “Have I swollen much?” Patrick asked.

  “We got a guy from the EMS who already looked at you,” the officer assured him. “Had to scamper off to take care of a broken arm, but he said you seem fine. Just bruises.”

  “He’s down at the station?” Patrick mumbled, doubling back. “Where’s … what about Edmund?”

  The officer didn’t answer, looked down the hallway.

  Patrick did the same.

  Caught sight of a few of the football players, huddled together.

  Saw Zack talking to Detective Donahue, shaking his head and pointing directly across from where Patrick was sitting. He followed the signs, eyes landing on the entrance to room 2507. Two more uniforms on either side of the door, standing guard.

  Patrick lurched to his feet and staggered forward.

  The guards moved to stop him, but it wasn’t necessary. Patrick stalled out halfway there. Staring through the open doorway. Taking in the small yellow markers sticking out all over the surrounding space like price tags for the visually impaired; large, bold, single-digit numbers printed on each one. A trove of empty bottles still littering the floors and table. And beyond that, a gaping hole in the window opened out into the night. Jagged circumference like large, uneven teeth.

  Patrick could feel the breeze billowing through, smell the humid aftermath of the storm.

&nbs
p; A photographer stepped into view and snapped a flash picture.

  Took a note on a clipboard hanging from his arm.

  All that procedure to piece together a five-second event.

  Then Detective Donahue was by his side, leading Patrick away. There was no resisting. He would be going back under any minute now, Patrick was sure of it. Expecting handcuffs to snap around his wrists just before the world went black.

  “What happened?” Patrick managed.

  “Jenna’s downstairs,” Donahue told him, dismissing the question. They stopped at a set of elevators. “We’ve already talked to her, she told us her version. The short version.”

  Patrick swallowed hard. “I probably shouldn’t talk without a lawyer.”

  “You’re not under arrest. Unless there’s some other crime you’d like to confess to, I can almost guarantee it’ll stay that way….” The elevator arrived, and Donahue helped Patrick in. “In case you’re still worried, though, Jenna called your parents.”

  The doors closed, sent the elevator on its way down.

  Patrick suddenly remembered what happened the last time he was in that elevator.

  “If you’d like to press charges against any of them, you can …,” Donahue told him. “For what they did to your face. If you can specifically identify any of them, that is. But I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “Are you allowed to tell me stuff like this?”

  “No … So if you like, you can press charges against me.” Donahue sighed. “But I wouldn’t recommend it. I’m just giving you two nickels’ worth of free advice.”

  “So why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because this is a real mess as it is … Because Cody’s going to talk about how you jumped him, and the entire football team’s going to have his back. And these aren’t happy times at the DA’s office, either. With the coverage Edmund’s death is going to get, you bring in this extraneous charge, and it’s going to be like Duke Lacrosse all over again—”

  “Wait,” Patrick interrupted. He had been lulled by Donahue’s reasoning tone, right up until he’d mentioned Edmund’s name. “Edmund?”

  “Oh shit …” Donahue shook his head, rubbed one of his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry, Patrick. We’re still trying to sort it out, but Edmund started shooting. Managed to get Cody pretty good, he’s at the hospital now, in critical condition—”