Page 6 of Even in the Dark

Dinner is just as stilted as the first part of the evening, only the Braun’s twelve-year-old daughter, Chloe, shows up as we’re sitting down to eat, having been dropped off by a friend after dance class. Her tween “I am the center of the universe and annoyed by everyone else” attitude adds a whole extra layer to the bizarre vibe. It’s still annoying, but not as weird, at least, as the eggshell walk we’ve all been doing for the past half hour.

“Oh my God, I amstarving!” Chloe drones as she slides into the empty seat beside my father. “We barely even had a water break ’cos we had to rehearse the same part over and over. Melodie K. kept missing her cue, and the recital is in like, two weeks.”

“Are you going to say hi to everyone?” Diane chastises, passing her daughter the bowl of potato salad.

“Hi everyone,” Chloe says, not even bothering to look up as she scoops a heaping spoonful onto her plate.

“So, Dylan,” my dad starts.

I feel Dylan’s arm flex where it brushes against my shoulder. His skin is warm, which surprises me, because everything else about him is so chillingly cold.

“Are you into any sports?”

Dylan meets my dad’s gaze. “Not really.” Still with that monotone voice, just a fraction of a decibel above bored.

“Hold up now,” Phil sets down his fork, and all eyes turn to him. “What about skateboarding? That’s a sport. Not many people have the stamina or skill to pull off that kind of high adrenaline stuff.”

Dylan was skateboarding in a couple of the TV ads he did for Volt,shirtless and flying down a hellishly steep ramp. There were other clips, too: blurred handheld shots of him grinding his board along a cliff-side curb, jumping off a mailbox, whizzing through streets and urban obstacles and gritty back alleys, bare flesh leaning dangerously close to the tarmac with beads of perspiration pulled into sharp focus as they trailed down the pre-requisite closeup pan of his washboard abs.

But seeing him now, it’s hard to imagine that was really him. It’s hard to picture him in motion because there’s something so still about him in real life. Smooth and slow and calculating. Nothing like the razor’s-edge, sweat-dripping, dare-devil from those videos. Also, skateboarding always seemed like a kid thing to me. Little punk middle-school posers wanting to impress girls and each other.

It’s pretty obvious this guy doesn’t care too much about impressing anyone, though. Even with his dad, Dylan doesn’t look to be shooting for “impressive” so much as some bland, minimal form of acceptance.

Chloe scrutinizes him from her end of the table. “Are you any good? Like, can you do tricks and stuff on one of those high ramp things?”

Clearly, she never saw the TV ads.

“A halfpipe,” Dylan corrects. But he doesn’t say anything about how good he is.

“I’d love to see you sometime,” dad chimes in.

But I know he’s already seen him skateboarding; he watched those ads. Which is another one of the topics no one’s touching on this evening. Even though my parents must be as curious as I am for more details on what the whole Voltmodeling thing was about. There’s no way the Brauns weren’t livid when the ads came out and they saw the slogans the company used—blatantly exploitive, boldly using Dylan’s tragedy and the related rumors about him to push the controversial, edgy vibe Voltstrives so hard to convey. Slogans like,“Slay them with your killer looks.”And, “Show off your killer moves.”And,“Unleash your killer instincts.”

“Bring your skateboard over when you come for dinner next week,” dad suggests, smiling eagerly at Dylan. “You can show us a few tricks in the driveway.”

Dylan takes a sip of water. Sets it down in the exact same spot he picked it up from. “Don’t have my board,” he says. “I left it back ho…” his voice trails off. Then his eyes dodge to the side, averting his gaze for the first time all evening.

“Home”is what he was going to say. Before he caught himself. Because to him, clearly, that killer’s house is still his home. Which, obviously,evenherealizes is messed up, based on how quickly he cut himself off.

We all look over at Phil. Well, everyone except Dylan, whose eyes are still lasered on the Alex Colville painting above the rustic wood credenza, his tongue worrying that lip piercing I’m already starting to hate.

It takes a second for Phil to realize we’re all looking at him. It’s sort of heartbreaking to witness his expression as he watches his son, coming to terms with the fact that, despite everything, Dylan still thinks of that psycho’s place as his home. And Godknows how horrible Dylan feels right now. Flailing like this under a microscope in front of an audience.

Phil’s a tough bastard, though. He clears his throat and forces his lips into a convincing semblance of a smile for a kid who, despite being his flesh and blood, is ultimately a complete stranger to him. “We’ll get you another skateboard,” he tells Dylan, all feigned nonchalance and optimism. “I think there’s a store by the mall. We’ll go pick one out this week.”

And Dylan’s a tough bastard, too. Because he meets his father’s gaze head-on when he says, “Nah, it’s fine. I don’t really skate that much anymore.”

“Well,” Phil enthuses, “maybe you’ll feel like taking it up again.”

And for the rest of the main course, we all pretend to be absorbed with our food. The only conversation is my father complimenting Diane on the spinach salad, and mom praising Phil for how perfectly cooked the burgers are. Honestly, the generic table talk makes us sound more like a bad grilling sauce commercial than a real-life casual gathering of people. I think the only non-forced smiles of the evening come from Sadie and Kenz. And Dylan still hasn’t even bothered with a fake one.

Chapter Four

Dylan

Just my luck, my new neighbor is the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.

All women are evil, kid. But the prettiest ones are the worst. You can’t never trust those.

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