33. I blame the death of David Bloom on...

Yesterday

I tried calling Nora that night. She didn't answer, so I left a message on her machine: "I feel awful about what happened. Look, there are no excuses. What I did was stupid. I've been playing that game my whole life. Without you, it's the one thing I have that makes me special, so I don't blame you for kicking me out. I'm sure you will do fine at graduation tomorrow. Congratulations on being valedictorian. I'm sorry I didn't get to hear you practice your speech yesterday. I'm sure it's great. I love you."

I felt a little better after that, but I still mined up deep veins of self-pity every time I let my mind wander. I told myself it would be better for Nora if I wasn't around; she didn't need me in her life. It was all for the best. I went to sleep feeling as depressed and lost as I ever had.

Sound and fury woke me at four in the morning. I rolled over and peered out my small window in time to see a car colliding with Mr. Gimble's trailer. Mass smashing mass, chassis splitting chassis in rapid action, gas splashing. Maniacal music of plate glass crashing, plastic cracking, both vehicles splitting apart, axles clashing. The car's remaining headlight rolled to a stop against a tree near the landlord's abandoned trailer. I jumped out of bed and was out the door in moments, running over the wet grass in bare feet to the car to see if anyone was injured.

Except, that was my car. The little blue box didn't deserve this: used as a weapon against Mr. Gimble's property, azure aluminum exterior peeled back like soda cans after target practice. I dashed around to the other side, jumping over the detached, torn bumper, but found no sign of life. The door was open and I searched the area, peering into the darkness. No trace of Emily or anyone else.

No sign of life inside the car, either, except for a pack of cigarettes on the floorboard of the driver's side. I took them, wondering if they were Emily's. Two cigs remained; and one had something written on it. Change is constant. Steven's calling card, left there to gloat. Typical.

"What the hell did you do?" Dad's voice was a brutal growl.

"Nothing. I was asleep, I just ran out here."

His eyes narrowed, arms folded, posture screaming disbelief.

"Seriously!" I demanded. "Look at my clothes, I don't even have shoes on. Besides, I haven't seen this car in months."

"You're lying, somehow," he said. "I'm gonna call the police and report this. But I know you're lying somehow. You told me it got stolen. Who is gonna steal a car then drive it back to the owner's property? You're guilty somehow." More accusations.

Well, partially true. I looked at Mr. Gimble's trailer, which was mostly empty since the landlord had gotten out of prison. A microwave had flown out, open and dirty with burnt-on sauces, cord dangling uselessly on the lawn—little box refrigerator, toaster, shelf full of silverware spread out on the grass. I didn't know where Mr. Gimble moved to after his apartment burned down, but no one had seen his fat face around Broadway since his arrest.

"Look at this shit!" Dad exclaimed, pulling the shattered remains of a liquor bottle from the car. "Are you drunk?"

I stared at him, exasperated. "Do I look drunk, dad? It's four in the morning. I was sleeping like five feet away from you all night."

We both stopped and stared into the broken remains of the landlord's trailer, one corner ripped completely off, exposing its torso like some desiccated road kill.

"Least it hit the right trailer," I said.

"You shut up," Dad accused, anger lacing his voice. "I know you had something to do with this, and I don't want to hear you making light of it."

"Whatever," I mumbled.

"What'd you say?" he threatened.

I ignored him, walking back to the trailer and getting dressed to the sounds of policemen and tow trucks. By now, most of our neighbors had formed a circle around the scene of the accident, sipping coffee and speculating as to what happened.

A few minutes before my walk to school, the phone rang. I answered.

"Hello?" I asked.

"Hello, Jacob." Steven's voice.

"You did this," I said immediately. No way was his calling a coincidence.

"Emily is surprisingly easy to steal from. But that's beside the point, really. It looks like you did it. I mean, like you said, your dad called the cops on Emily. How are you gonna explain how your stolen car ended up crashed into your neighbor's trailer? Framing someone is an interesting concept," Steven said, exposing the lies I've had to tell for Eureka, abusing his personal knowledge of me.

"You're insane. What if you killed someone?"

"I'm not stupid. I knew that place was empty. Just aim it, jam a stick between the gas and dash, not rocket science. I mean, we're all about changing identities, right? Well, let's see how you like these changes."

"You're full of shit," I said. "Get this over with and get to the point. I'm so sick of you trying to impress me with your insanity. I get it, you're an evil genius. Let it rest."

"Today, at ten. Come to the water tower instead of graduation."

"Then you're after the wrong guy. I tagged David yesterday. You're on your own, Steven—" He hung up; my words fought over airspace with a dial tone. I slammed down the receiver, pissed, trying to decide if I should actually go to the water tower.

On my way out, a policeman questioned me about the car. I told him the same story I'd given my father. "Look, I'm graduating from high school today. Can I please go?" I asked him.

The dark-skinned officer's eyes brightened at the mention of the graduation. "Well, congratulations. You should be all right; I got confirmation, this car was reported stolen in early January. Plus, we found a two-by-four in the car, probably to jam the accelerator. You know if the owner of that trailer had any enemies?"

I laughed, despite myself. "Ask any of the neighbors, they can fill you in. But yeah, he had enemies: everyone, especially the birds."

My curiosity got the best of me in the end. I was sick of being tormented by Steven, and I wanted to meet him face-to-face. I knew I could take him in a fight, and that's exactly what I intended on doing. Enough of this rumor-mill bullshit, you know?

So at around ten that morning, when Steven asked me to meet him, I went to the water tower outside of the Kingwood football field. I got there late, wanting to make Steven wait. I figured I waited too late; I turned to leave—then I saw something fall out of the sky. And the sound - I heard it. The worst sound in the world. It took me a minute to pinpoint what it was—and I saw the clothes on the ground. I started running, and the closer I got, the more it looked like David. I didn't even notice that someone else was coming down the ladder...I fell, I..." I stopped and sniffed.

Universes collided as Mr. Aschen leans in.

"Who was it, Jacob?"

"Who else could it be? Let me ask you something, Mr. Aschen. That whole spiel you gave me about David being a narcissist and how narcissists can't process shame—who else did you tell that to?"

Mr. Aschen leans back, looking offended at my suggestion. "No one," he says.

"Are you positive? Are you sure you didn't tell that to any other kids from Broadway? Maybe someone you thought needed to be set free from David's hold, just like you did with me?"

"I mean, I...maybe in passing, I might have said something. What are you getting at?"

"I'm saying, I think you told Steven the same thing. I think you armed him against David, taught him how to get under his skin."

The color drains from Mr. Aschen's face. "Steven. It fits, I think. Are you sure that's who you saw?"

"Like I said, he had on a mask. But, he was the right size. The right build."

"And you think he drove your car into Mr. Gimble's trailer in an attempt to frame you?"

"He called me and took credit, that's all I can say for sure. I didn't see who set this up. But since you asked me, here's what I think happened: Steven wanted to be It. That would be this ultimate victory for him, to take the game away from David and then start his own group. Maybe take the credit for it. First, he tried to convince me to tag him with that debacle in History class. Then, maybe he knew about Emily coming to Nora's and figured I'd tagged her; when he found out she wasn't It either, he took her car and came back after me. That morning after he wrecked the car, I talked to him on the phone and told him David was It. I think he went after David next, and that's when things got out of control. Or, maybe he already knew David was It, and he only wanted me at the water tower so he could frame me for murder."

Mr. Aschen leans back, left hand clutching his jaw, as though he must hold his mouth in place. "Maybe Steven wants it to look like you killed David. If you suspected Steven, why didn't you just tell me?"

"I don't have any proof. If I just told you, it wouldn't mean anything. Besides, I may be angry at Steven, Mr. Aschen, but I don't want him to go to prison. At least, not unless I'm sure."

The door to the interview room flies open. A familiar face appears: the detective. In his hands, a plastic grocery bag - can't tell what's inside. He enters the room fully and closes the door behind him, then leans down until he's inches from my nose.

"When you came in here, you had a pack of cigarettes. You're telling me you pulled those cigarettes out of your car after it was stolen?" he asks, sour breath hot on my cheeks, the smell of bismuth syrup and hot sauce.

"Yeah. I don't smoke," I said.

"Then why'd you take them?"

"I figured they were Steven's," I answered. "I don't think he would ever do something clever and not take credit for it. Like Mr. Aschen might say, the guy is fixated on ego fulfillment."

He reaches into the plastic grocery sack and retrieves a smaller sandwich bag with the pack of cigarettes inside. "These look familiar?" the detective asks.

"Yeah, those are the cigarettes I got out of the car."

He pulls yet another small plastic bag from the satchel.

"We arrested Steven two hours ago. We found these in his pocket. Same handwriting on them." He presents the second plastic bag, an identical pack of cigarettes within. "And finally, the kicker."

A third package is presented. Within, a cigarette butt. One word scrawled on it: Hell. The rest is burnt away.

"This was found near David's body. We're gonna run DNA on all these. If you're lying, we'll know."

"That's fine," I say. "I've never smoked a cigarette in my life. Too expensive."

The detective sighs. "Until the DNA comes back, I'm prone to believe you. This is the closest thing to physical evidence we've got right now. What do you think?" he asks Mr. Aschen.

My counselor's legs are crossed and clenching each other tightly, as though this is the only way he can keep from jumping up. "I believe Jacob. What did Steven say?"

"Steven lawyered up, first thing."

Mr. Aschen nods knowingly then lifts his hands, as if to say what now?

The detective scratches at his balding head. "Listen," he addresses me. "Don't think about leaving Kingwood. Just because I'm not arresting you today, doesn't mean this is over. Just means it's Steven's turn."

"Then I don't have anything to worry about," I say. "Because I didn't do it."

The detective grunts. "We'll see. For now, our focus has shifted. I'll have someone escort you out. Thanks for your stay; I hope you found the accommodations hospitable."

I shake my head, dazed from a lack of sleep and the events of the day—too confused and conflicted to make sense of it all. I'm let out of the room and through the maze that is the police station and given my shoes and wallet back.

I end up on the front steps, wondering what the hell is next for me. I don't have to wonder long—the one person who cannot deny me, much like I couldn't deny David, is there waiting for me.

Nora is leaning on her car, which is parked on the street. I make a mental promise to treat her better than David did me.

"Hey," I say, walking up to her. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"I could turn around," she offers. "Turn around and go home."

"Please don't," I respond.

"Maybe I should." She's angry, I can tell. That's a good thing; if she's angry, there's still hope.

"You missed graduation," she says. "I rocked the speech."

"I heard the whole thing. I was a few hundred yards away, with David. I mean, David's body."

"I heard about that. What happened?"

"No idea," I say. "They think Steven did it. Don't know why."

Nora clucks her tongue and opens her door. "Are you okay?" she asks. "Weren't you and David friends?"

"We were when we were kids. It was weird, yeah. I need to sleep. I'll be all right eventually, though."

She looks concerned for a moment, then recovers and hides it.

I open the passenger door; we crouch into her car and she begins driving away from the police station.

"And all this—I mean, David dying—this has nothing to do with Emily coming over yesterday?" she asks. "With Steven trying to frame you?"

"Absolutely nothing," I say.

"You're lying. I want you to open up to me, Jacob," Nora says as she drives in the direction of my trailer.

"Let me sleep. Then I'll tell you everything. Please, I promise. I just spent like thirty hours in an interrogation room with a detective."

"Did you ever get Emily off your lawn?" I ask.

"It took a while. We actually sat down and talked for a few minutes."

"Oh, really?" I'm afraid of the outcome.

"She made me think about giving you another chance. It was her fault, wasn't it? Not yours?"

"She's a little crazy."

"I'll say," Nora agrees.

She seems satisfied with this. Nora is becoming easier to placate; maybe she's getting used to the fact my life isn't going to be normal. I can only hope.

Nora's right about one thing, though. I lied.

I lied about a few things. Small lies, only; I told as much truth as possible. I don't want to underestimate Mr. Aschen and the detective, like I'm sure Steven will. I don't have his ego.

The first lie? Steven didn't invite me to the water tower at ten that morning; David did.

I lift up off the seat and pull my wallet from its place in my back pocket. Hidden deep within the furthest recess, in a compartment hidden from unfamiliar eyes, was a sheet of paper folded into neat squares. I pull the white slip from its place. I'm lucky the police hadn't noticed this. I can't bear to let it go.

There's only one word and a signature on the page.

Eureka.

-David Bloom

David Bloom's suicide note. It'd been pinned to his chest, flapping furiously in the wind like some flip-book animation, every frame the same dismal message. I'd skipped my own graduation to meet him at the tower.

The blue bars of the narrow ladder were rough under my hands; I death-gripped each rung, taking deep breaths to steady myself as I climbed up after David. I tried to ignore the fact that the treetops were below, rising out of the earth like a pit of spikes to impale me if I fell.

My heart pumped ice-water. Microphone feedback from the graduation's PA system whined behind me. A line of black clouds stood guard of the horizon; the wind blowing from it was strangely cold.

At last I reached the peak; my fingers clutched the rusty aluminum railing that lined the outer rim of the tower. Panic rose; it began with a tremor in my legs and worked its way into my fingertips. A few more deep breaths steadied me. Hundreds of feet in the air with no railing, no safety if I tripped. Just a straight fall to the ground.

When I saw David standing serenely near the far edge, I forgot about the height. Just the two of us, facing each other ten feet below heaven. His arms were outspread, fingertips extended, like he was grabbing handfuls of the cool breeze.

There were only inches between his feet and the edge of the tower. I knew immediately that he planned to jump.

I watched the wind whip brown hair around an exhausted face, eyes squinting into the force of the wind that wailed around us. "You don't have to do this. Things can change," I yelled, words ripped to shreds as they traversed the air between us.

"You think that because I made you think that. I am the devil you know, Jacob. You were right, you were finally right. About Kent, about the girls, about everything. I started this experiment, and it was a stupid thing to do, but I wanted to prove I could. For whatever reason, you guys follow me. And I abused you, and I fucked everyone's lives up. I can either take this all the way, or end things now. I'm It now, and my decision was to take some responsibility for my actions. This is the only thing I can do to try and make things right."

My friend took a small step backward toward the end of the water tower, then hobbled into another, then spun his arms as the final stumble sent him careening over the smooth edge of the construct.

I blame the death of David Bloom on myself.

I stood stupidly in disbelief, lacking the courage to run to him. All I did was pretend he'd looked good doing it. Otherwise I might have told him he was full of himself, that Eureka was bigger than him, that we might play anyway.

That would have hurt him even more. It had to be all David, or none at all.

So, I hadn't been perfectly honest with Mr. Aschen. Steven hadn't been at the tower, only David and me. The rest was true, though. One tiny fabrication—a conclusion I let Mr. Aschen come to on his own.

I'd planted Steven's cigarette there. They wouldn't find my DNA anywhere on it, mine or anyone's. I never put it near my lips. The police, the district attorney, would have to rely on what they had to work with—the handwriting, my story and taped testimony.

Mine against Steven's, anyway. But he'd lie, try to manipulate them, and eventually get caught in it. My story was almost entirely true.

Someone needed to teach Steven how a framing was supposed to work. And if anyone was guilty, anyone other than myself, he'd pushed David the furthest. He'd transformed David's life into something he couldn't walk away from.

I made sure to be arrested. From the moment David died, I knew it was only a matter of time before Steven took advantage of the situation; I had to act first. I mean, Mr. Aschen was right. I can't let people walk all over me anymore: gotta learn to say 'no' sometime.

The streets of Kingwood are wet. I can only hope the rain washed away my fingerprints on the ladder rungs. If not, I always have the suicide note as a trump card. I can always tell them the truth.

I'd just rather not.

Kingwood rolls by; Nora turns onto the familiar slick, black road leading to Broadway. Grackles line it, watching us with interest, respectfully silent for once.

The devil I know. David was such an egomaniac.

Thing is, telling his story to the detective, talking with Mr. Aschen like that—it did clarify things for me. Really put my life into perspective, but probably not the way my counselor would like.

Even after all this, I'm not sure Eureka is a bad idea. Even after trying to squash the game—I realize that was the wrong thing to do. I only wanted