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September 28 – October 4
The week after it happened, Casey’s parents kept him home from school. The Herrington campus was overrun by cops, FBI and reporters, and there wasn’t much education going on anyway. And Casey needed the week to understand how it was going to be.
Casey would have no unsupervised computer access. He could use the phone only if one of his parents was in the room, and only if they knew who he was calling. When he did return to school, he would be taken there and picked up by his mother. He would watch only the television shows his parents approved of, and they would inspect all of his reading for objectionable influences. He would have no contact with the other kids who had been involved in that night.
Casey’s mother bought a book about raising troubled kids. The book’s author had gotten a standing ovation on Oprah. It recommended placing an “endangered adolescent” (a phrase that made Casey feel like something in a Discovery Channel documentary) on a point system. Disciplinary violations carried points from the lowest (not cleaning up his room) to the highest (drug use, drinking, etc.). He could also earn “Honor Points” for particular displays of good behavior, such as an outstanding report card. Casey’s progress would be monitored during regularly scheduled family meetings.
What do you get for saving the world? Casey wondered dryly when his mother put the point chart up in the kitchen. How many points for that?
Casey’s father got out his toolbox and removed the door from Casey’s room. He could earn it back by accumulating a certain number of Honor Points.
I’ve become an Afterschool Special, Casey thought as he surveyed his denuded, doorless room.
Twice a week, on Mondays and Wednesdays, Casey would go and see his new doctor, a psychiatrist who specialized in adolescents. She wasn’t quite the Oprah lady, but she was Ivy League-educated and had practiced her specialty with great success for a number of years in the suburbs of Washington, D.C. In fact, it had been one of the FBI agents who questioned Casey who had recommended the doctor to his parents. Casey’s parents considered it a real stroke of luck that the doctor had recently relocated to Herrington to enjoy the simple pleasures of small-town life.
Monday, October 5
Casey’s return to school was uneventful. If anything, he was slightly better off than before, because most of the student body now gave him a wide berth.
He tried to hook up with Stan or Stokely all day, but had no luck. At the request of their parents, their class schedules had been re-arranged so that they did not share the same classes or free study periods any longer.
Casey found that the lock had been taken off his locker. According to Herrington’s Zero Tolerance drug policy, any student who had been caught using, dealing or under the influence of drugs while on school grounds lost the privilege of keeping his locker locked for the remainder of the school year.
At the end of the day, Casey went to put his books in his locker and found that it had been filled with shaving cream.
Casey stood there staring at it for a few minutes. Kids passing behind him were snickering.
So nothing much had changed, after all.
Tuesday, October 6
On Tuesday, Casey was heading for his locker after his last class. He saw Eddie McIvey and Gabe Santora strolling away down the hall, and was glad he had missed them.
But when Casey opened his locker, he saw that they hadn’t missed him. The boys had left him a gift of jockstraps. Used ones.
Creative motherfuckers, Casey thought, and started cleaning it up.
Wednesday, October 7
On Wednesday, Casey’s locker was full of garbage from the cafeteria. He finally decided to report it to the principal’s office. He didn’t expect them to do anything, but he hoped they would understand why he needed his lock back.
Of course, Miss Drake was gone. Mrs. Olson had been named the acting principal until the school board could find a permanent replacement. She listened to Casey’s story implacably, then denied his request for a lock.
“It’s school policy, Casey,” she said. “I can’t make an exception for one student.” She eyed him coldly and added, “If Principal Drake were here, I’m sure she would agree with me.”
_____
Casey had his semi-weekly shrink appointment that afternoon. He had no idea what he was going to talk to her about. He had only one story to tell, and that was the same one he’d told the cops, the FBI, his parents.
Aliens took over our school, then the whole town, but we stopped them by killing their queen.
Casey’s doctor ran her practice out of an office in the ground floor of a gingerbread Victorian on High Street. The office was charmingly cluttered, in a way that Casey assumed was meant to feel welcoming, almost maternal. Casey was not charmed. He found the room suffocating and weirdly artificial, as if the things in it were not cherished possessions collected over the years, but just a bunch of pillows and knick-knacks she’d thrown together for effect. Props.
The shrink was not alone in the office when Casey came arrived. A man that Casey had not seen before was sitting on the chintz sofa in front of the bay window.
“Casey, this is a colleague of mine. Dr. Davis. He’s going to sit in on today’s session, if that’s all right with you.”
Casey looked the man up and down. He didn’t look much like a doctor, especially not like a shrink. His own shrink liked to wear earthy, comfortable clothes, the kind that said Come on in and talk to me. Dr. Davis was wearing the sort of dark gray suit Casey would have expected to see on a stockbroker…or an undertaker. He looked like a guy who lived in a suit, right down to the crisp white shirt and subdued tie. His shoes were black, impeccably shined. Casey had never seen anyone with such shiny shoes, and he wondered if Dr. Davis had one of those electric shoe buffers.
Dr. Davis stuck out his hand. “Hello, Casey,” he said, and gave him a professional smile, as sharp as his suit. His eyes were a pale, icy blue.
Casey shook his hand briefly. “Why do you want to sit in? Are you writing a book on crazy kids or something?”
Dr. Davis and Casey’s doctor both laughed, but it was Casey’s doctor who answered. “Casey, Dr. Davis is a colleague and an old friend of mine. He’s helped a lot of kids just like you, and I think he’d be very interested in your story.”
“Just like me?” Casey asked. “Are there a lot of kids out there who have been attacked by aliens?”
Dr. Davis smiled and Casey’s doctor answered for him again. “No, Casey. But there are an awful lot of kids who have convinced themselves that something is real, even when they know it can’t be. It doesn’t mean they’re ‘crazy.’ It just means that they need to find out where all of that’s coming from. And Dr. Davis here helps them do that.”
“Ah. Right,” Casey said. He shifted in his chair. Dr. Davis’ shoes winked at him.
Casey’s doctor started off the day’s session by asking him to talk about his relationship with the other kids in school. There wasn’t much to tell, since his “relationships” had mostly revolved around avoiding the other kids in school. From time to time, Casey glanced at Dr. Davis. He was writing something on his pad, but the loopy motion of his pen made Casey suspect he was doodling. Every now and then, Dr. Davis would look out the window, as if he were bored.
Casey’s shrink said, “Why don’t you tell me about Zeke Tyler?” and Casey saw a slight movement in the corner of his eye, Dr. Davis straightening the legal pad on his lap.
“Zeke is…I didn’t really know anything about Zeke until…he was just this guy at school. Everyone kind of knew who he was, but he didn’t run with a crowd or anything.”
“Bit of a loner?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess you could say that. But people looked up to him—not the way they looked up to the guys on the football team. I think people were a little afraid of him.”
“But none of you were afraid of going to his house that day?”
“We didn’t know where else to go. Zeke…he was the safest person to be with.”
“Why do you say that, Casey?”
“Because he had…” … taken out Mr. Furlong, Casey almost said, and then checked himself. “…he had the scat.”
“And you were all going to get high on it, right? That’s why you went back to Zeke’s house?”
“No,” Casey said impatiently. “I’ve told you, we knew the scat would work on them. That it would kill them.”
“How did you know that?” Dr. Davis asked abruptly.
Casey looked at Dr. Davis. “We tested it.”
“On what…or whom?”
“We had a specimen…a larva or something.” He turned back to his doctor. “Look, I’ve told you all of this before.”
“Where did you get this specimen?” Dr. Davis asked.
Casey thought back to that day—Zeke with the paper cutter, Mr. Furlong’s fingers flying off, the fat slugs squirming across the floor. Mr. Furlong, dead, with a pen jammed in his eye. Himself, scooping up the slug in a specimen jar, sitting in the back of Zeke’s car with it on his lap.
“I found it,” Casey answered. “On the football field. The day before.”
“How did you know the scat would kill it?”
“We found out by accident.”
“What sort of accident?”
“We spilled some on it.”
“How did it react?”
“It shriveled up. It just…dried up.”
“Did Zeke tell you what was in this scat?”
“Caffeine, I think…but I don’t know what else.”
“And did this scat produce the same reaction in a human host?”
Casey’s heart started pounding. He had never told anyone about Mr. Furlong or Principal Drake, none of them had. A sudden thought came to Casey, clear as daylight: He believes me. He knows it’s true. But Casey was surprised by how unwelcome this realization was. Dr. Davis did not seem like a man for confiding in. Casey suddenly wanted to talk about anything, anything at all, except Zeke Tyler and scat and what had happened that day.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Casey said slowly.
“Did the scat produce the same reaction in an infected human host?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t try it on any people.”
“Except yourselves, right? Did all of you take it?”
“Yes.”
“Not Marybeth?”
“No.”
“Because she was the queen. So she couldn’t have taken it. Or could she have taken a lower dosage and tolerated it somehow?”
“No…I…I don’t know. I thought she dumped it out. She tricked us.”
“And Mr. Tyler…Zeke…took this scat, too?”
“Yes.”
“And showed no averse reaction?”
“No, he just twea…got high, like the rest of us.”
“And yet he’d been alone with Marybeth at the school. Was there no possibility of infection? Could he have been infected by the time you got to his house?”
Casey gaped at him, dumbstruck. “How do you know that? About Zeke and Marybeth?”
Dr. Davis sat back in the sofa and smiled, slowly and without charm. “Just a hunch, Casey. That’s all.” A long, silent moment spun out between them.
Casey turned to his doctor. “I want to talk about something else.”
“Why is that, Casey?” his doctor asked. “The only way to get to the source of these delusions is to talk about them.”
“Then I want him to leave.”
“Dr. Davis is here to help you, just like I am.”
“My parents hired you, not this guy.”
“Your parents hired me and it’s my professional recommendation that Dr. Davis can help.”
Casey felt trapped, cornered by them. “He leaves or I do,” he finally said, a little desperately.
“Why are you getting so agitated, Casey?”
“I’m not, I just…I don’t want to talk to him.”
Casey’s doctor fixed him with a look, then bent her head and wrote something on her pad. The brass ship’s-clock on her mantle chimed the quarter-hour.
She looked up and smiled at Dr. Davis. “I’m terribly sorry for asking you to come all this way, Bill.”
Dr. Davis stood up. “No trouble at all. It’s been a very interesting session. It was nice meeting you, Casey,” he said and put his hand out again. Casey shook it quickly. Dr. Davis looked down at him, his face unreadable, and Casey tucked his hand under his arm and turned away.
_____
Casey had been having nightmares since it had happened. In some of them, his skin boiled with parasites, in others, his parents’ faces split open to reveal fanged monstrosities. Sometimes he just dreamt about running in the dark, hopelessly slamming into unseen walls while some giant, wet thing bubbled and hissed behind him, always closer. That night he dreamt about Dr. Davis.
It was a strange nightmare, because nothing really happened, especially not compared to the gory horror of the others. Casey was hiding under a bed. It was not his own room, he didn’t know where he was. He didn’t even know why he was hiding, but then he heard the door open. Footsteps crossed the room. Casey held his breath. Go away go away go away. Please please please make him go away, he thought. Then the shoes came into view, black, impeccably shined. Casey could see his own terrified face reflected in them. One black shoe took a step backwards, and Dr. Davis’ face appeared, split by a wolfish grin. “ There you are!” he said, and then Casey woke up, frantically clutching at his sheets, his heart pounding hard enough to nauseate him.
An hour later, Casey still could not get back to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, a choking sense of panic swelled in his chest. I’m freaking out, he thought. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I am crazy.
Casey’s real doctor had written out prescriptions for sleeplessness and anxiety. Casey had only taken the Ambien once—he had slept for ten hours, right through his alarm, and he hadn’t taken it again. He had never taken the Xanax at all. Even if he wanted any medication now, he would have had to wake up his mother for it, and he didn’t want to do that. They were already watching his every move; it wouldn’t help matters to wake them up at three a.m. because he was having a panic attack.
Casey got up and padded downstairs in the dark. He opened the pantry door and felt around on the backs of the shelves until he found what he was looking for. The previous Christmas, his uncle had brought over an expensive bottle of scotch. Casey’s parents weren’t big drinkers, and they had only opened the bottle and had a quick toast to the holiday. Casey had been allowed to have a drink too, and he remembered how warm and relaxing it had been.
He opened the bottle and took a short swig. It burned on the way down, but pleasantly, carrying memories of Christmas and better times. Casey leaned his head against the pantry door, closed his eyes, and sighed.
Casey stoppered the bottle and was putting it back on the shelf when the kitchen light came on.
“So now it’s drinking, too?” his mother said.
“Mom…”
“Save it,” she said curtly. “Go back to bed. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”
As he went up the stairs, Casey could hear his mother pouring the scotch down the sink.
Guess I won’t be getting my door back anytime soon, he thought.
Thursday, October 8
On Thursday, Casey saw Stokely, for the first time since the police station.
He was on his way to an afterschool meeting of the newspaper, and she was at her locker.
“Stokes,” he said. She turned around and smiled, and he felt happy for the first time almost two weeks.
“How are you doing,” she asked.
“Oh, not bad, for someone living in Alcatraz.”
Stokely laughed. “I’m not even in jail, I’m just invisible. My mother doesn’t even talk to me unless she has to. How’s the shrink?”
“She doesn’t believe me. No one does.”
“Casey,” Stokely said. “Did you really think anyone would?”
“No, but…I’m not going to act like we were just a bunch of dumb kids who got jacked up and trashed the school.”
“Delilah did.”
“That’s Delilah. It’s not me. Something happened here, Stokely. Something huge. And everyone wants to sweep it under the rug.”
“We have no proof, Casey. Nothing.” Stokely leaned close to him. “We’re lucky that we’re not facing murder charges.”
“I know,” Casey said with resignation. “I know.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Okay. I’ll try to call you. Maybe you’ll get some time off for good behavior.”
“Yeah right,” Casey said, and started to walk away.
Stokely said, “Casey,” and when he turned, she put her arms around him. “Hang in there, okay? It’ll get better.”
“Yeah,” he said, and suddenly felt like crying. “Okay. You too.”
_____
At the beginning of the newspaper meeting, the new Editor in Chief informed Casey that they had found another staff photographer. Somehow, Casey was not surprised.
_____
Casey left the newspaper office and went to his locker. When he opened it, it was empty. Even the things he’d taped up on the door-—his class schedule, some song lyrics, a few of his favorite black-and-white photographs—-were gone. The only thing in his locker was a glow-in-the dark novelty alien doll, all spindly limbs and bulbous head. A piece of string was looped around its neck, and the other end of the string was taped to the locker’s roof. A HI MY NAME IS nametag was stuck to its chest, and someone had scrawled “Casey” on the tag in green magic marker.
Casey tore the doll out of the locker and slammed it shut so hard that it bounced back open.
The boys’ locker room had been demolished, so the football team was using the old field house instead. The field house had been the locker room for the school before the new sports wing had been built in the early 1980s with the help of a hefty donation from local businesses. It was a shitty situation. The football team hated being relegated to the dilapidated filed house, and the stoners hated having lost the place they’d go to get high every day.
Casey yanked open the field house door. Three of them were in there, three of Herrington’s finest, rolling joints on one of the trestle benches. Casey recognized that asshole Eddie, the one they called “Meat,” but he didn’t know the names of the other two. He’d never kept up on the Herrington High All-Stars.
Casey threw the doll hard and it flew across the room and bounced off of Eddie’s head. He said, “The fuck…?” and all three of them turned around.
“I want my fucking books back,” Casey said.
Eddie stood up. “What the fuck are you talking about, freak?”
“My books. You emptied out my locker. You’ve been fucking with it all week. Joke’s over, asshole.”
“What did you call me?”
“Asshole. Now give me my fucking books back.”
The three of them were around him, in a semi-circle. Casey had been so furious that he hadn’t even seen them advance. He stood his ground. For a minute, he actually thought it would work.
Eddie came up to him and smacked him in the shoulder, hard enough to rock Casey back on his feet. “What are you gonna do, freak? Huh? You gonna shoot me?” He smacked Casey on the other shoulder, and Casey took a stumbling step backwards. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? Shoot people? Shoot teachers? Big shot, huh? Get your picture in the papers, you little shit?”
“I didn’t shoot anybody,” Casey said, and they laughed.
“Yeah, right,” Eddie said. “You know, it’s always guys like you. The little freaks and fags and losers. You like to fuck things up for everybody else, don’t you? No fucking pride.”
“Just give me my books back,” Casey said wearily.
Eddie ignored Casey and kept walking towards him until he was backed up against the lockers. “No pride in your school. Your team Your town. You don’t care about anything except your own ass.”
Casey stared up at Eddie, suddenly possessed by the desire to laugh hysterically. He didn’t care about his school? About his town? Casey couldn’t help himself. He barked out a laugh and shook his head.
“You are such a fucking asshole, Meat. Guess that’s why you’re always talking shit, right?”
Afterwards, Casey couldn’t remember if the three guys had said anything to each other or if they had just started wailing away. Casey suspected it was the latter. Guys like that had a low-grade telepathy when it came to things like beating the shit out of someone.
Beating the shit out of someone, now there was a horribly vivid phrase. Somewhere in the middle of it, Casey wondered how hard you’d have to hit someone to make shit come out of them. He wondered if that would happen to him.
Casey knew he’d gotten a few licks in himself, because someone said “Ow!” and then, “You little fucker!” But by that point, him getting off a good shot was about as effective as a sandbag at holding back the ocean.
In the end, they just got bored and left. Casey’s head was ringing but he thought he heard Eddie say, “There you go, faggot.”
Am I a freak or a faggot, make up your mind, Casey thought, but considered it best to keep that to himself.
Casey pushed himself up until he was sitting against the lockers. He squinted at his watch. It was almost four o’clock. That meant he would be late for his mother’s pick-up, and being late was a violation.
“Shit,” Casey said. He tried to stand up, but his stomach muscles groaned in protest and the locker room bucked and spun around him. He sat down heavily on the floor, waiting for it to stop.
He heard the field house door open. Oh good, Round Two, he thought.
“Casey, shit!” he heard, and it was Stan.
“Hey, Stan…you’re not on the football team anymore,” Casey muttered thickly, and then remembered Stan was on the track team now. Stan’s counselor had thought it was important for him to stay involved in sports.
“What happened, Casey? Who did this?”
“I’m late…my mom…”
“Okay…okay,” Stan said. “Come on, let’s get outta here. Let’s go to the office.”
Stan helped him up and Casey took a few shuffling steps forward. The motion was too much for his stomach. He managed to choke out, “Stan…” before he threw up on the field house floor.
They beat the puke out of me, anyway, Casey thought.
Stan helped him clean up and then took him to the principal’s office. Casey’s mother was in there with Mrs. Olson; she had come in to look for Casey when he hadn’t been at the curb for his pick-up. They had been paging Casey over the PA system.
There was a brief scene when Casey’s mother thought Stan had beaten him up. Even after she accepted that it hadn’t been Stan, she still looked at him suspiciously.
Casey didn’t tell them who had done it. He said he didn’t know, that it had been some guys in the field house. He thought they’d been juniors, maybe. Mrs. Olson promised Casey’s mother that she’d get to the bottom of it, but when she looked at Casey, her face said she was glad it had happened, that she thought Casey had deserved it. You should be behind bars anyway, Mrs. Olson’s face said.
_____
There was a family meeting at the Connor house that night. Along with the violation for being late, he had a violation for fighting, which carried more points.
“It wasn’t my fault,” he protested, as much as his pounding head would allow. “Those guys cleaned out my locker. They’ve been at me all week.”
“Not your fault,” his father said. “Nothing is ever your fault, is it, Casey? Was Principal Drake ‘not your fault?’ Hm? Miss Burke?”
“Frank,” his mother said. “Not now.”
He glanced at her and then turned his attention back to Casey, putting his hands on either side of Casey’s chair and leaning into his face. “What the hell is wrong with you, Casey? Drugs? Booze? Are you going schizo, is that it? What is it, Casey?”
“Nothing,” Casey answered. “Except that you don’t believe me. No one believes me.”
His father straightened up, disgusted.
“Go to your room,” he said.
_____
His parents’ discussion floated up the stairs. If Casey had still had a door, he could have closed it. If he’d still had a radio or CD player, he could have blocked out their voices.
“Every goddamn day it’s something else,” his father said. “Now he’s getting his ass kicked on top of it.”
I’ve been getting my ass kicked for the past ten years, Casey thought dismally. You just never noticed.
“Frank, he said those boys had been picking on him all week.”
“Right, and why the hell shouldn’t they? Kids aren’t stupid. They know. They know something’s wrong with him. Kids see that, they go after that.”
Thanks, Dad.
“There’s never been anything wrong with Casey until now. He was a good student, his teachers liked him…”
“Oh bullshit, we should have seen this coming. He’s never had any goddamn friends. And when he finally starts hanging out with someone, who does he go for? That Tyler kid. Dealing dope out of his garage. Carrying guns to school. Great.”
Casey put his pillow over his ears so he wouldn’t have to hear the rest. But his father’s words floated in his head: that Tyler kid, and suddenly, he wanted to see Zeke. Casey wondered how hard that would be.
Friday, October 9
Casey was so sore in the morning he could hardly get out of bed. He looked at himself in the mirror and grimaced over his face, but it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as his entire midsection. He looked as if a truck had run over him. The guys had been smart, keeping the blows where they wouldn’t show. Casey took a long, hot shower, hoping it would loosen him up, but even the water hurt like hell.
Casey’s father had already left for work, but his mother saw him wince when he sat down stiffly at the kitchen table for breakfast. She made him lift up his shirt.
“It’s nothing,” Casey said. “It looks worse than it is.”
Casey’s mother went on a ten-minute tirade about broken ribs and not keeping secrets and what’s-gotten-into-you-Casey. Casey shut his eyes and mechanically ate his breakfast. His mother called the school and told them he wouldn’t be in that day. She called Casey’s doctor—-his real doctor-—and made an appointment.
Casey and his mother spent the rest of the morning at County Medical Center. X-rays showed that there were no fractures to his ribs or other serious damage. They were sent away with a prescription for muscle relaxant, and Casey took one as soon as they got home, grateful to get some relief from the pain and from his mother. The medication knocked him out, and he fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
It was almost four o’clock in the afternoon when Casey woke up. It had been a gray autumn day, but now it was darker, edging towards dusk. Casey could hear light rain on his bedroom window.
His mother was sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking his hair. He felt warmly secure, as he had when he was a little kid and had stayed home sick from school, and his mother would bring him lunch in bed and play board games with him.
“Hey, Mom,” he said and smiled.
“How do you feel, Casey?” she asked.
“Okay. Not bad.”
“Do you want something to eat?”
“No, I’m okay.”
“Why don’t I make you some hot chocolate?”
Casey’s mother made great hot chocolate—from scratch, with real cocoa, none of that Swiss Miss stuff. “Sure,” he said.
Casey lay in bed and listened to his mother in the kitchen. The rain pattered against the roof. A gust of wind shook the oak tree outside, sending a flurry of red and orange leaves past his window. Everything will be okay, Casey thought.
His mother brought the hot chocolate. She turned on the desk lamp and helped him sit up in bed. She sat with him and talked about ordinary things, about school and his upcoming SAT exams.
When Casey was almost finished with the chocolate, his mother put her hand on his arm and said, “Please tell me what happened that night, Casey. I won’t hate you…or be angry. Only please, please, tell me the truth.”
Casey gripped his cup and looked squarely into his mother’s eyes. “I have told you the truth, Mom. I’ve told everyone the truth.”
His mother bit her lip. For a moment, her hand tightened on his arm. Casey could see tears come up into her eyes before she stood up and walked out of the room.
Casey sat with his cup in his lap, absent-mindedly swirling the cocoa sludge at its bottom. It looked like something that belonged in a toilet. He put the cup on his nightstand, lay down, and pulled the covers over his head.
Saturday, October 10
The Saturday of Columbus Day weekend was Herrington High’s annual Community Spirit Day. Herrington’s best and brightest volunteered to work on community service projects all over town-—painting nursing home dayrooms, cleaning up neighborhood playgrounds, decorating the lightposts on Main Street with cornhusks and pumpkins. The planning for this year’s Community Spirit Day had started right after the beginning of the new school year, and as usual, Delilah had been the team leader. These were the sorts of activities that Delilah had loved, the finishing touches on an already brilliant high school transcript.
Casey’s name had been on the volunteer list since September. He had been expected to go and take pictures for the school newspaper and yearbook, and he had seldom missed out on an opportunity to hang around with Delilah. A month later, it seemed almost impossible to Casey that being in Delilah’s company had ever been so important.
Delilah was gone now, of course, sequestered in some boarding school. Casey’s photographic services were no longer needed, either. But his parents didn’t know that.
When his mother dropped him off in front of the school at 8:00 in the morning, she looked so happy over Casey being involved in a wholesome school activity that Casey was stung with guilt.
“You’re sure you’ll be okay?” she asked. “Those bruises don’t hurt?”
“No, Mom, I’ll be fine. I’m just taking pictures anyway. No hard work.”
“Okay, honey. I’ll be here to pick you up at four o’clock.”
“Sure, Mom.”
“Have fun today, Casey,” she said. She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m proud of you, sweetheart.”
Casey felt like crap, but he had been planning this since Thursday night, and was set on it. He started walking towards the yellow schoolbuses that were lined up to take the kids to their various work sites. His mother tooted the horn as she pulled away. Casey turned and waved. When he was certain that she was gone, he turned around and started walking towards the bus stop.
_____
Public transportation in the Herrington area was not exactly extensive. It took Casey an hour and a half and three bus changes to get to the Marion County Jail. He told them he was Zeke’s little brother, then stood there sweating, wondering if they wouldn’t let him in, if anyone there would remember his picture on the news.
Apparently, the cops at Marion County had short memories. He scrawled a fake name, “John Tyler,” in the logbook. No one asked him for ID.
Thank God for civil servants, Casey thought.
Casey had never been inside a jail, and didn’t know what to expect. He wondered if he’d have to talk to Zeke on a telephone, with bulletproof glass between them.
A cop brought him into the visiting room, which was fairly unimpressive from a correctional standpoint. There was a long table, with dividers built into it so that visitors and inmates could have a little privacy. Blue plastic chairs were arranged on either side. No telephones. No glass. It looked like the study carrels in the school library.
Most of the carrels were occupied. Casey sat in a free chair and waited. He picked at his fingernails.
“How the fuck did you get in here, man?” he heard, and he looked up and there was Zeke.
Casey grinned in spite of himself. “Lied my ass off, how do you think?”
“It’s good to know the Marion County PD will let any psycho wander in off the street and visit dangerous felons.” Zeke sat down and got a look at Casey’s face. “What the hell happened to you?”
Casey shrugged. “A few guys from the team decided to hold practice on my face. No big deal.”
“Trouble just follows you around, doesn’t it, Casey?”
Casey laughed. “Looks that way. It’s good to see you, Zeke.” Zeke looked the same. He was wearing a blue chambray shirt and blue pants. Casey didn’t know what he had expected. Stripes? Leg irons? “I was going to bring you a carton of cigarettes but the guy wouldn’t let me buy any,” Casey said lamely.
“That’s okay, I haven’t worked my way up to the cigarette trade yet. I’m saving it for the State Pen.”
“Do you think…do you really think that’ll happen?” Casey stammered.
“Yeah. I had my preliminary hearing already. I pled guilty. I wasn’t going to shit around with a trial. Though it might have been worth it to make Miss Proffitt have to show up to testify.”
“You might have gotten off. You don’t think so?”
“Nah, they had everything they needed. I got a reduced sentence for the plea, anyway.”
“Well that’s…that’s good, isn’t it?”
“I guess. Still prison, though.”
“Yeah,” Casey said. He looked down at his chewed-up fingers on the table. “I’m sorry, Zeke,” he said.
“What for, man?” Zeke said quietly. “You didn’t do anything.”
“I’m sorry you got stuck with this.”
Zeke leaned back in his chair and sighed. “There’s always got to be a fall guy, Casey. That’s the way the world works. No matter what happens.”
Casey leaned forward and whispered, “What did happen, Zeke? What the hell happened that night?”
Zeke’s eyebrows drew together. “What are you talking about? You don’t know?”
Casey shook his head. “No…I know, at least…I think I know. But Stan acts like it never happened. He’s getting rehabbed for nothing. Even Stokely just clammed up. And everyone’s telling me I’m wrong, that I was stoned, that I’m fucked up, crazy.”
“Hey listen…listen,” Zeke said urgently. “Casey, if you’re still going around telling people what ‘really happened,’ I’ve got news for you. No one wants to hear it. No one’s gonna believe it, not even if you hauled that thing’s corpse out and threw it in front of them.”
“But it’s the truth.”
“Yeah. And to thine own self be true, Casey. Cover your ass with everybody else. Or you’re gonna find yourself on the other side of this table, or worse.”
Casey chewed his lip. He was quiet for such a long time that Zeke asked, “Casey?”
“What if it happens somewhere else?”
“What?”
“What if it happens somewhere else, what if it’s happening somewhere else right now and no one’s stopping it?
“Casey, come on…”
“No! We have to tell people! Do you think she was the only one? The only refugee from an entire planet?”
Zeke huffed out a laugh. “You’ve seen too many movies, Casey.”
“Yeah? You probably would have said the same thing to me a few weeks ago. I was right then. What if I’m right now?”
Zeke stared at Casey. He took a deep breath and looked away. He looked back at Casey, and there was something in his dispassionate expression, a hint of regret, barely perceptible.
“Not our problem, man.”
“Right,” Casey said bitterly. “Not our problem.” He crossed his arms over his chest and put his head down. He wasn’t sure what he had wanted from Zeke, but it hadn’t been this.
He was about to get up to leave when something shiny caught the corner of his eye, on the floor of the carrel next to him. Casey turned his head and looked closer.
The man in the carrel next to him was wearing black shoes, impeccably shined.
For a moment, Casey was frozen to his seat. “No…” he whispered.
“Casey?” Zeke asked.
Casey stood up quickly, his chair toppling over. The man in the next carrel stood up just as quickly, turned his back to Casey and began walking to the door with long strides.
“Hey!” Casey said, and tried to grab him. The man didn’t turn around, and the guard stepped between them.
“You’ll have to sit down, kid,” the guard said.
“But that guy…” Casey said. “That guy…I know that guy.”
“That’s great, but you’ll have to sit down.”
The door was already closing behind the man.
“Casey?” Zeke asked. “What’s going on?” He had stood up, and another guard was already behind Zeke, with his hand on Zeke’s shoulder.
Casey looked at Zeke frantically. “That guy was…he was in my doctor’s office…”
“What?”
Casey nodded rapidly. “…asking questions…about you …and how scat worked and…” He turned to the guard in front of him. “I have to go,” he said. “Let me out.”
“Casey, wait!” Zeke said, and he reached forward, trying to take Casey’s arm, but the guard held him back.
“I’m sorry, Zeke,” Casey said, and ran through the visiting room door.
The man had disappeared. He was not in the outer room, the stairwell, or the lobby. He was not in the parking lot.
Casey was shaking and sweating. He sat down on the steps of the jail to compose himself, then, senselessly, took another turn around the parking lot.
Finally, he went into the jail and tried to get back to see Zeke. They wouldn’t let him in, and he saw that they were looking at him suspiciously.
Casey left before anyone could start asking questions.
“Sorry, Zeke,” he muttered on his way out, and went to wait for the bus back to Herrington.
_____
Casey had nowhere to go. He thought about going to Stokely’s for the rest of the afternoon, but knew that her mother would rat him out. It had started to rain again, so when Casey got off the bus, he went to the Hole in the Wall Café on Main Street and ordered a cheeseburger and coffee. He drank the coffee, but had no appetite.
At three o’clock, he started walking back to the school, buttoning his jacket over his camera.
He hung out in the shelter of the school doorway until he saw his mother’s car pull up at four o’clock sharp.
With a look of fake cheer, he ran down the steps and climbed in the car.
“I didn’t see any buses,” his mother said. “Where’s everyone else?”
“It started to rain, so we got back early.”
“You should have called me, instead of standing out in the rain.”
“It was only twenty minutes or so,” he said with a smile. He had never known he could be such a glib liar.
“Did you have a good day?”
“Yeah, it was great. I think I got lots of good pictures.”
“Oh good,” his mother said. “Did you take any of Zeke?”
Casey’s heart stopped, he was sure it did, for at least a minute. He turned to his mother, hoping she had been mistaken, or that he had heard wrong. “Zeke wasn’t there,” Casey said with a dry mouth.
“No, I mean at the jail,” his mother said. She gave him a brittle smile. “Where you went today. After lying to us.”
Casey stared at his mother, and the smile fell from her face. “I don’t think I have to tell you what kind of trouble you’re in, Casey,” she said.
“No,” Casey said. He turned and looked out the rain-slicked window, quietly praying for a car accident, natural disaster, or anything that would keep them from getting home.
_____
His mother was shouting half the time, and in tears the rest.
His father tore apart his room, stripping it of whatever personal possessions he had left, shouting about drugs and felons and Zeke Tyler.
Casey tried to stay calm, but he snapped and demanded to know who Dr. Davis was, what he knew about Marybeth, why he was following him. They said they didn’t know what Casey was talking about. He called them liars.
“Liars?” his father shouted. “ We’re liars? You told us you were going to take goddamn pictures today!” He grabbed Casey’s camera. “You won’t be taking any more pictures, anytime soon, mister.”
“Give me that back!” Casey said. “It’s mine!”
“Nothing around here is yours,” his father said and slammed the camera on the kitchen counter. It made a jangly sound and the lens popped off, in fragments.
“God damn it!” Casey screamed, and things went from bad to worse.
Later, Casey would remember his father grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. He remembered pushing his father away, against the wall. More things were broken.
Casey never saw his mother make the phone call, but then his father was holding him down with his arms behind his back and the shrink was there. Casey was aware that he was screaming by that point, too enraged to stop. Then it was quiet. His mother was holding him, her hand on his forehead, and everything went gray, then black.
Sunday, October 11
It was almost noon when Casey woke up. He felt like he’d taken a big hit of cold medicine. There were cuts on his hands.
“What the hell?” he muttered.
He went to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face, and was so dizzy he had to steady himself against the sink for a few minutes. He put his forehead against the cool mirror and tried to remember what had happened. He remembered Zeke…coming home…fighting with his parents. The doctor.
Casey went downstairs. His parents were in the kitchen. His mother looked up and saw him in the doorway.
“How do you feel, Casey?”
“Did that doctor come over here last night and drug me?”
“Casey…” his mother said.
“Did she?”
“Casey, you were out of control, we were afraid you were going to hurt yourself…”
“Oh my God,” Casey said. He felt sick. “How could you do that to me, Mom?”
“We didn’t know what else to do! Casey, please, try to understand…”
She stood up and reached out to him. Casey slapped her hand away. “Don’t touch me! Don’t ever touch me again!”
“Don’t you raise your hand to your mother!” his father snapped. Casey turned on him.
“And what about you, Dad? You’re so worried that I’m on drugs but it’s okay to have some shrink in here shooting me up? Who is she anyway, that you listen to everything she says? I’ve been your son for sixteen years but you take the word of some woman you just met over mine?”
“Maybe because she’s not giving us some bullshit psycho story about aliens, maybe that’s why.”
“It’s not bullshit!” Casey said desperately. “It’s not! It happened! That doctor, that guy knows it happened!”
“Yeah? None of your new buddies say it did. Even that weird girl changed her story. Why does no one say it happened but you?”
Casey put his hands on his head and squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t know! I don’t know…they’re scared, they’re covering their asses, but it’s true, I swear to God, it’s true!”
“Oh, dear God,” his mother sobbed. “Oh God.”
“Oh, shut up, Mom!” Casey said, and then his father slapped him across the face, hard.
“I don’t care how goddamn crazy you are, you won’t talk to your mother like that. And God help you, if I ever hear you mention those goddamn aliens again, I’ll pound some sanity back into your head, understand?”
Casey put his hand to his mouth and his fingers came away bloody. Eddie had split his lip in the field house on Thursday, and his father had opened it up again. He looked at his father.
“Fuck you, Dad,” he said coldly.
Casey brushed past his father, heading for the front door. He had to get out of that house. He pulled the door open and started down the front walk. It was drizzling out, and Casey realized he was wearing his pajamas and had only socks on his feet. In his mind, something whispered, This is how crazy people act, Casey. Running out of the house in their PJs. But he kept walking. He’d go to Stokely’s, he’d go to Stan’s. He’d go anywhere but here.
He’d made it to the gate when he felt his father’s hand around his upper arm.
“Get back in the house this minute,” his father whispered furiously. “Get back in the house before anyone sees you.”
“Get off of me. I’m leaving.”
“Godammnit, Casey, get back in the house.”
“Get off,” Casey said through gritted teeth, and tried to pull his arm free. Across the street, Mr. Wilkinson had come out to get his paper, and he was standing at the end of his driveway, watching.
“That’s it,” his father said. He put his arms around Casey’s waist and picked him up off the ground. Casey caught his breath at the pressure on his still-fresh bruises.
“Dad, Dad, put me down!” he gasped.
“This is how you want it, this is how it’s going to be, Casey,” his father answered.
_____
Casey stayed in his room for the rest of the day. His parents did not come up to see him. He made a listless attempt to do some homework, but English literature and calculus equations seemed hilariously unimportant. By mid-afternoon, Casey gave up and crawled into bed.
Casey was awakened from a muddled dream about Zeke by the sound of crying. His mother, crying, in his parents’ bedroom. He got out of bed and walked down the hallway. It was dark, already past six o’clock.
Casey stood in the dark hallway. His parents’ door was cracked open, and he could hear his mother on the phone, in tears.
“I don’t know,” she said, “What if I’m doing the wrong thing?”
He wondered if she was talking to the shrink, but then he heard her say, “Kathy,” and realized she was talking to Aunt Kathy, her sister.
“It’s that I’m afraid for him,” his mother said. “I’m afraid of him. He’s not even the same person…I know…I know…that’s what his doctor says…”
Casey leaned his forehead against the doorjamb. His mother was silent, listening.
“Okay, Kathy…yes, I’ll call you, of course, no matter what. Thank you…I love you too…bye.”
She hung up the phone. Casey listened to her pull a tissue out of the box.
He thought she would come out, but she didn’t. After a moment, Casey pushed the door open slowly, and stood in the doorway. His mother was sitting on the bed, with her knees drawn up and her face in her hands.
“Mom?” he said.
She looked up. “Casey? I thought you were sleeping.” She wiped her eyes with the tissue.
Casey crossed the room and sat down next to his mother. She put her hand on his, warily.
“What is it, Casey?” she asked.
Casey shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mom. About yesterday, going to the jail...fighting with you and Dad. I don’t…I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Oh…” she said. “Oh, Casey.” She put her arms around him and drew him towards her. Casey buried his head against her shoulder and started to cry.
“Everything’s wrong right now, Mom,” he sobbed. “Everything’s all wrong.”
“I know, Casey, I know,” she said, stroking his hair. “I know, sweetheart. Don’t worry. It’ll be all right. We love you, Casey.”
Casey nodded and put his arms around his mother’s waist. “I know.”
“I don’t understand what’s happening to you, Casey, but I know it’s not your fault. We’re going to help you get better. We’re going to do everything we can.”
“Okay, Mom. Okay. Okay.”
Monday, October 12
School was closed on Monday, for the Columbus Day holiday. Casey did homework in his room and went to his doctor’s appointment.
His doctor knew about him going to see Zeke, but her questions about it were bland, indirect. Mostly, they talked about his parents. She didn’t mention Dr. Davis. Neither did Casey.
When Casey came home from the doctor’s office, the point chart in the kitchen was gone. His parents didn’t say anything about it, and Casey didn’t ask.
Tuesday, October 13
During third period, the voice of the principal’s secretary came over the loudspeaker, summoning Casey to the office. For a moment, it was so much like that day in September when all the kids were called to the nurse’s office that Casey thought, It’s happening all over again, and he wanted to make a run for it. But instead he got up, took his books, and walked out of the classroom, feeling all eyes burning into him.
The secretary gave Casey that look, somewhere between fear and disgust, and told him to go inside. His mother and father were there with Mrs. Olson.
“Hello, Casey,” Mrs. Olson said.
Casey surveyed the three of them. “What’s going on?”
“Why don’t you sit down, Casey?”
“I’m okay. I’ll stand.”
Casey’s father let out an exasperated pah! noise. “Just sit down, for Christ’s sake, Casey.”
Casey looked at him but his father did not return his gaze. Casey sat down stiffly in the seat next to his mother.
“Casey,” Mrs. Olson began, “I’ve been talking with your parents about some of the things that have happened lately and we’ve decided that it would be best, for you, if you took a little time off from school right now.”
Casey’s eyes flicked to his parents and then back to Mrs. Olson. “What do you mean… like a week or something?”
His parents didn’t answer and Mrs. Olson continued. “A little more than that, Casey. We were talking about the rest of the semester.”
“The semester? But that’s…that’s December. I’ve got the SATs at the end of the month, and my AP classes…I can’t miss three months of school. Mom?”
“You could make up the classes, Casey,” his mother said. “We can work something out. What’s important right now is that you be in a more… secure environment. One where you can work out your issues…”
“I don’t have any issues,” Casey interrupted. “ You have issues with me!”
Casey looked at their faces, and realized he had no energy to fight. He slumped in his chair and took a deep breath. “Look, whatever. Just…let me finish up the year, okay? I’m fine here, really. Those guys in the field house…they’re just being jerks. It’ll blow over.”
Casey’s mother put her hand on his arm. “Casey…it’s not just those other boys. This really is for the best. We’ve discussed this with your doctor too…”
“Yeah, I’m sure you did.”
His mother pursed her lips for a minute. “Casey. It’s for the best.”
Casey stared at her for a minute, then sighed and stood up. “Fine. Can I go now?”
“Actually, Casey,” Mrs. Olson said, “you don’t have to go back to class today. Your parents will take you home.”
“So that’s it? I’m out of school?”
“Yes, Casey.”
Casey felt a dull shock, as if someone had hit him with a padded bat. The noon bell rang, time for lunch. Outside the window, Coach Willis was putting the team through some drills. Casey’s parents stood up. His mother started buttoning her coat.
Suddenly Casey asked, “What about making up the classes? You said we could work something out…I could keep up from home. I’d like to try that.”
A brief look passed between Mrs. Olson and Casey’s parents, so short that Casey wasn’t sure he’d seen it, but he felt his stomach drop all the same. His mother didn’t look at him. Mrs. Olson turned to Casey and gave him a great, sunny smile.
“We can talk about that a little later, Casey.”
“Right,” Casey said, and knew he’d never see the inside of Herrington High again.
_____
Casey went home with his parents. His mother tried to talk to him in the car, but he stared out the window and wouldn’t look at her or answer her. He hoped he looked angry, or at least defiant. He hoped he didn’t look as frightened as he felt.
He still had the books that he’d taken with him to the principal’s office, but none of the books for his other classes. No one had said anything to him about taking those home. After years of his parents’ constant attention to Casey’s schoolwork, it suddenly didn’t matter anymore. AP classes, college boards, grade point average…nothing. Casey’s pulse pounded. He gripped his pre-calculus textbook so tightly that his knuckles went white.
Casey’s father dropped him and his mother off at the curb and continued on to work. Casey started up the stairs to his room.
“We only want what’s best for you, Casey,” his mother said from the foot of the stairs. “We want you to get well.”
“Sure, Mom,” he answered.
Casey went to his room. He would have shut the door, but it wasn’t there to shut. He sat on the bed with his useless schoolbooks on his lap.
_____
Stokely called after three o’clock. Casey heard his mother tell her that he couldn’t come to the phone.
_____
Casey’s parents liked to go to bed early, and their days of letting Casey stay up in his room after they’d retired were over. Even if he’d been allowed to stay up, he had nothing to do. He had no phone or computer, no magazines or newspapers, and the only books in the house were ones he’d read or had no interest in reading. Now he didn’t even have homework to do anymore. By ten-thirty, the Connor house was dark.
Casey lay on his bed and waited. When he heard no sound from his parents’ room, he got up and went downstairs. He picked up the phone. The little electronic beep of the cordless phone seemed as loud as a track-starter’s gun.
Stokely’s mother answered the phone, and Casey asked if he could speak to her.
“Little late, isn’t it?” Stokely’s mother asked, her voice sharp with suspicion.
“I know, Mrs. Mitchell, I’m sorry, but it’s for a school project. I have to get it done tonight.”
“A school project. I’ll just bet it is.”
Casey held his breath, certain that she would hang up on him. But the next sound he heard was the dull thunk of the phone being put down on the table, and Mrs. Mitchell’s distant voice. “It’s that Connor boy…” he heard, and was glad he couldn’t hear the rest.
Casey didn’t exhale until Stokely’s voice came on the line. “Casey, what’s going on? They said you left class and didn’t come back.”
“I know, I know…it was my parents. They took me out of school.”
“For the day?”
“No, for good…I think. I don’t know. It was weird. They said I needed to be in a secure environment…I don’t even know what they’re talking about!”
“What the fuck, Casey—you have to talk to them. They can’t do this.”
“You want to bet?” he asked, almost in tears. “They just did. What the fuck am I gonna do, Stokely?”
“Casey, listen to me, calm down…”
“It’s that doctor, that fucking doctor.She’s the fucking crazy one. You should hear the shit she says to me. It’s like she’s trying to make me look nuts. Fuck!”
“Casey, maybe…maybe you have to play it cool here. I don’t know, just do what they want for the next couple of weeks. Do what they want, say what they want. They’ll let you come back. They have to.”
“You don’t understand, you don’t know…something’s going on, Stokely.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know…I don’t know, like…maybe they’re going to send me to reform school or some shit. Do they still have reform schools?”
“I don’t know.”
Casey sighed heavily and leaned against the wall. “They’re up to something, Stokely. I know it. Them and that doctor…and there was this guy…the doctor said he was her colleague but he didn’t even look like a doctor, and then he was at the jail…”
“At County?”
“Yes, when I went to see Zeke...”
“You went to see Zeke? Casey, are you out of your mind? Did your parents find out?”
“Yes, but that’s what I’m saying…this guy was there, too. That’s how my parents found out I’d been there. I think they were having me followed or something.” He paused, rubbing his forehead. “Stokely, I’m scared shitless.”
“Casey, oh God, I don’t know what to say…you have to…you have to be careful, Casey. You just have to play the game for a little while, at least till the heat is off. Please, Casey.”
“I know, I know…I should have done that from the beginning! I’m so fucking stupid!”
“Casey, no,” Stokely said. “No, you were…you were the only one…”
Casey did not hear the rest. The phone was yanked out of his hand.
“It’s too late for calls,” his father said into the phone, and hung up. He turned to Casey. “Upstairs,” he said.
Casey went upstairs. He lay awake until dawn.
Wednesday, October 14
Casey woke up on Wednesday, wondering why he hadn’t heard his alarm. Then he remembered—he had no reason to get up early.
He got out of bed with a new resolve. Stokely was right. Stan was right. So was Zeke. He had to play the game. He had to be smart. He had to tell them it wasn’t real.
His room was still a mess from his father’s search on Saturday. Casey spent an hour straightening it up. He took a shower and got dressed. He went downstairs and had breakfast.
He spent the day taking SAT practice tests in his room. At three o’clock, he went to his doctor’s appointment.
He sat down in his doctor’s charming office and told her he wanted to come clean. For an hour, he told her the “real” story of what had happened that night. How he was tired of being the class loser, and thought if he got high with the other kids, he’d fit in. How they’d made up the alien story while they were stoned. How he’d stuck to the story all this time because he was embarrassed, he was angry at the other kids for ditching him.
His doctor smiled and nodded. Now and then, she asked questions. When his mother came to pick him up, the doctor asked to speak with her for a little while. Casey sat in the outer room. His mother was in the doctor’s office for about fifteen minutes.
They drove home in silence.
“Is everything okay, Mom?” he asked. He had hoped she would be happy, that the doctor would have told her he was coming around.
“Sure, Casey,” she said. She smiled at him.
Around nine o’clock, the phone rang. Casey heard his mother’s voice. Then he heard his mother and father, speaking quietly.
His mother came upstairs and stood in the doorway of his room.
“Casey, the doctor would like to see you tomorrow, at eleven o’clock.”
Casey felt a thread of anxiety wind through his stomach, but he looked at his mother with what he hoped seemed like innocent confusion. “Any special reason?”
“No she just…she thinks you made a lot of progress today, Casey, and she’d like to keep that momentum.”
Casey smiled. “Okay, Mom. Sounds good.”
“Goodnight, Casey.”
“G’night, Mom.”
Thursday, October 15
Casey’s father didn’t go to work that morning. When they left to go to the doctor’s office, his father drove.
“You’re coming too, Dad?” Casey asked.
His father kept his eyes fixed on the road. “Yeah,” he answered.
Casey wanted to ask why, but didn’t. He was a good kid. He didn’t question his parents.
He rolled down the window. It had finally stopped raining, and it was a perfect October day, brilliant leaves against a crisp, cobalt sky. When he was little, they had often gone to Brunswick in October, for the Fall Festival, and had come home with cider, Halloween pumpkins and bushels of apples. They hadn’t done that in years.
“We should go up to Brunswick this weekend,” Casey said.
His mother turned around and gave him a faint smile. “That would be nice, Casey.”
Casey put his hand out the window. The air was cool and fresh. He felt good.
Everything will be okay, Casey thought as the car pulled into the doctor’s driveway. Everything will be all right.
He got out with his parents and went into the house.