Page 24 of The Ghostwriter

I’d hoped Lydia would say no. To volunteer to stay behind with me. We could have spent the evening pretending to do homework, waiting for my parents to go to bed so we could watch Saturday night television and make out on the couch.

For a second, I thought she was going to.No thanks, I’ll keep Vince company.But instead she’d turned to me and asked, “Do you mind?”

Everyone had been looking at me. Lydia, waiting for me to saySure, no problem.But I saw the way Poppy’s hands froze, her gaze rising from her new Super 8 camera—barely a week old and already she was rarely without it—where she’d been loading a fresh roll of film. I noticed the way Danny’s eyes had danced in anticipation, waiting for me to have one of my famous explosions.

My father’s voice startles me from my thoughts. “Shut the refrigerator door. Do you think I’m made of money?”

I turn from the open refrigerator to see him standing in the doorway of the kitchen, an empty beer can in his hand. “And quit your moping.” He tosses the can into the trash and exits again.

I let go of the fridge handle and the door eases closed. The window over the sink is black, and I imagine the bright light of the bonfire, the high school kids gathering, parking their cars along the side of the highway and walking, some carrying beer, others concealing joints in their pockets. That the party is at Mr. Stewart’s house is another thing that’s worrying me.

Lydia is obsessed with running track and won’t stop talking about the private coaching sessions he’s giving her for free.Mr. Stewart says I need to do extra training sessions on the weekends.OrMr. Stewart says I’ve shaved an eighth of a second off my split times.Whatever split times are.

All the other kids are obsessed with him as well; the cool, young PE teacher everyone hopes to get. The one kids can relate to. Talk to. Walking around campus in his shorts and T-shirt, kids following him like an entourage. It’s all I can do not to throw up.

Even Danny had been enamored for a while. When he was twelve, he’d joined Mr. Stewart’s outdoor survival class that went into the woods on the weekends, learning how to dig a hole to shit in, or how to skin a rat to roast over an open fire. “You should look into doing Mr. Stewart’s survival class,” my father had suggested earlier this year, after I’d gotten into trouble at school yet again. “Channel some of that energy into the outdoors.”

“I’d rather eat glass,” I’d countered.

“No one is stopping you,” Danny said.

I’d lunged at him, but he’d leapt out of reach at the last minute, glanced at our mother whose back was toward us, and given me the finger before slamming through the back door.

“Vincent, honey, moping in the kitchen isn’t going to make this any easier,” my mother calls from the living room. “Why don’t you do something productive? Maybe write a book report.”

I glance out the window toward the neighboring yard. The one that will soon belong to Mr. Stewart. This bonfire is to celebrate one last night at his old house, out on Route 33, before he moves to town. Into the house right next door. Poppy is over the moon, but the last thing I want is a teacher for a neighbor. I get enough of them at school.

I open the fridge again, grab a Coke, and make my way back to my room. I set the unopened soda on my desk and flip through Danny’s albums. Pink Floyd. The Grateful Dead. Led Zeppelin. I pull Danny’sfavorite Hendrix album from its sleeve and put it on the turntable, setting the needle to “Foxy Lady” and dial the volume up to eight. Looking for something that will take my mind off the image of the three of them leaving me behind.

“Keep an eye on Lydia,” I’d said to Poppy.

She’d looked back, teasing. “You want me to spy on her for you?” She held her camera up. “I’m sure she’d love me to follow her around.Smile for the camera, Lydia! Vince wants to make sure you’re behaving.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I’d said. But in fact, that was exactly what I’d wanted. Proof that Lydia was mine. And that everyone at the party knew it.

Danny was driving and Lydia had followed him to the car, sliding into the front seat. Poppy got into the back and aimed her camera at me, standing on the porch. But before she could get any footage of the loser who’d had to stay behind, I turned and walked inside. Not wanting the camera to catch the expression I knew was on my face. The one that’s still there, as Hendrix wails about a woman who belonged only to him.

It’s jealousy. Fury. Rage.

Take your pick.

Chapter 11

I have my father’s old photo albums open on the dining room table—the ones Jack and I used to pore over, trying to imagine Poppy and Danny into existence—when my father comes downstairs looking for me. I’d finished the chapter about Danny and the dead cat and sent it off to Neil yesterday. I’ve been checking my email obsessively ever since, hoping to get word that I’m on the right track.

“Aren’t we working today?” my father asks. Then he looks worried. “What day is it?”

“Tuesday,” I tell him. “I thought we’d have more room down here.”

He hesitates when he sees what I have in front of me.

Most people have a set of stories—tried and true anecdotes they return to again and again. Moments—big or small, happy or sad—that have rooted inside of them, for whatever reason. I’ve found that it’s best to let them talk themselves out, before I begin shifting the lens to either the left or the right. To the spaces around those landmarks.

He sits in his usual chair, and I slide mine closer to his, pulling oneof the albums with me and opening it to the first page, showing a photograph of Danny standing in front of an army-green tent. He looks to be about twelve and he’s grinning, holding a hunting knife.

My father leans closer, studying the image. “I’d forgotten how bright his smile was. How much energy he had.”

He turns the page, and we see Poppy, perched on her bed, posters of Olivia Newton-John and Donny Osmond on the wall behind her. “Looks like Poppy had all the typical preteen obsessions everyone else had in the ’70s,” I say.

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