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what happened there.
What are you saying? That there are guys in long black coats waiting to
shoot up the school? I had shifted into parental overdrive.
No, no, jeez, no, God, don t go all hyper on me. All I m saying is just
because we moved out of the city doesn t mean that there aren t still weird
people in my school. There s weird people wherever you go. Just cause we ve
moved doesn t mean we re never going to run into crazy people again. It s
really no different out here than anyplace else, at least from that point of
view. But you don t have people willing to be eccentric.
Okay, you ve lost me. We ve got weird, but we don t have eccentric.
I mean, like, remember my friend Jan? The one with the boots, and the tears
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in her stockings, and the orange skirts?
And the thing in her tongue?
Yeah. Like, she barely rated a second glance at my old school, but if you
moved her out here, where everyone s wearing their Abercrombie & Fitch, they d
think she was totally strange.
Shewas totally strange.
Yeah, but that s the point. She kind of was, but no one noticed? You could
do that downtown, and no one really thought about it. Out here, there s this
suburban thing, where you have to be borderline normal all the time.
In some inexplicable way, I knew what she was talking about.
That s why, for example, Paul wants to get a tattoo, Angie said. So he can
be just a little edgy out here.
Paul wants a tattoo?
Angie glanced at me, realizing she d broken a confidence. He didn t tell
you?
No. Not yet.
You didn t hear it from me, but he s thinking about it. There s a place, in
the plaza, that ll do them.
He can t get a tattoo. He s not even sixteen yet. They wouldn t do it.
Angie rolled her eyes. We were almost to the school. Is there more? I
asked.
Angie was quiet.
Haven t you made any friends here?
Angie shifted her chin around, a nod in disguise. Not really. I had friends
at Bannerman, like Krista, and Molly, and Denny, but I had to leave them
because it wasn tsafe there, we had to move to a neighborhood where everything
would beokay . There was a mocking tone. Well, so what if there was a
flasher and a few hookers or some needles on the sidewalk? At least it was
interesting.
You know you re welcome to have your friends out here any time you want, I
offered. Invite them on Friday or Saturday, do a sleepover thing in the
basement.
Angie looked at me as though I d just stepped out of an episode ofOzzie and
Harriet . God, Dad, I m not five. And, like, they just can t wait to come
outhere.
I stopped the car out front of the school. I hate this place, Angie said,
slipping out the door and closing it behind her.
i swung by kenny s hobbyshop to see whether a model I d ordered, of the
dropship the Marines use to fly from the mother ship to the planet s surface
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in the movieAliens, had come in. I could have phoned, but going in person to
check gave me an excuse to wander the shop and see whether any other new
things had arrived. Kenny catered to a variety of hobbyists model railroaders,
slot car fans, fliers of radio-control airplanes but his selection of
SF-related kits was fairly extensive for a full-range hobby store.
My model hadn t shown up. Maybe next week, said Kenny, who was leaning over
the counter, mini-screwdriver in hand, trying to reattach a wheel to a metal
reproduction of an old Ford Thunderbird. You ever wonder, Kenny asked, not
taking his eyes from his work, why men have nipples?
I thought about that for a moment. Not about the question itself, but at the
sorts of things that preoccupied Kenny. Not really.
Kenny bit his lip and held his breath, not wanting the tiny screw to slip
from its hole. It just doesn t make any sense at all. They don t do anything,
they serve no purpose. Then: How s the house?
Shower s still leaking into the ceiling in the kitchen, drywall s falling
into the kitchen. The tub taps drip, the wind whistles sometimes around the
sliding glass doors. The caulking around our bedroom window is useless. I
don t even bother to take down the ladder. I m squeezing caulking in every
couple of weeks.
There s another guy, lives in your neighborhood, says he s had trouble with
his windows, and wiring problems, you know? Breakers popping, that kind of
thing.
We haven t had that. Yet.
I asked Kenny if he had the latest issue ofSci-Fi & Fantasy Models, which he
didn t, so I said I d see him later and got back in the car.
Driving home, my thoughts turned to Angie. Our problems with shoddy house
construction were minor compared to hers. Her world was falling apart. Paul
had adapted to our move out here much better. He made friends more easily,
didn t place a lot of demands on them. As long as they were interested in
playing video games and didn t have any moral qualms about sneaking into
movies that they weren t supposed to see, that was good enough for him. He d
even struck up that semi-friendship with Earl, developed an interest in
gardening and landscaping. Not that things were perfect with Paul. His marks
were lousy. School bored him. There was that upcoming appointment with his
science teacher. And now, there was this new development about Paul wanting to
get a tattoo.
He and I would have to talk.
Maybe, I thought as I drove through the streets of Valley Forest Estates, I d
made a terrible mistake. I d dragged us out here out of fear and delivered us
into mediocrity. And then I shook my head and decided that my initial
instincts had been right the recent corner store robbery downtown reinforced
my decision. Just because the suburban architecture was bland didn t mean our
lives had to be. We still had our interests and our passions no matter where
we lived. We didn t have to give those up just because we no longer lived
downtown.
The evidence that we were safer here than downtown was still overwhelming,
and I had that thought in mind when our house came into view and I spotted the
unmarked police car parked at the curb out front.
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did you see anyone elsenear the creek before you found Mr. Spender s body?
His name was Flint. Detective Flint. Short, squat, in an ill-fitting suit,
wearing a hat like you d expect to see on Lee Marvin back in the 1960s. He was
sitting across from me at the kitchen table, and he d turned down my offer of
coffee. His hands were busy making notes in a small reporter s pad.
Uh, no, I didn t see anyone, I said.
Not coming out of the woods as you were going in, headed for the creek?
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