“So you didn’t beat up the abductor?” Oliver said. “That’s the moral of the story? You did the opposite of what Alex did.”
“I wanted to kill my son’s abductor. He’s in jail now. For life. But no, I didn’t beat him up. I try to protect others and help kids like your friend Alex back there. People pay a heavy cost for bad decisions. Oftentimes, it’s strangers you hurt most.”
“I’m sorry your son was taken from you,” I said.
Officer Damon nodded and said, “Your friend Alex. He made a bad decision. He doesn’t have to make a string of them.”
Oliver and I both nodded and left.
I saw the kid home and told him again that the bullies wouldn’t be after him now that things had gotten too public, and even though Alex’s plan was foolish, it probably would work out the way he wanted it to—meaning Oliver would stop being bullied. “Everyone’s paying attention now,” I said.
When I had him back in his bedroom, Oliver looked through his window and said, “If Alex gets locked up for a long time—”
“He’s not going to—”
“But if he does, will you help me solve the mystery?”
“What mystery?”
“The Bubblegum Reaper. The Thatch twins. Sandra Tackett.”
“Yeah, I will,” I said.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
In spite of our last sour meeting, I pedaled my bike to Booker’s and was relieved when he seemed happy to see me.
“My god, Nanette, why are you shaking like that? Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, but something awful has happened.”
“Come inside. Tell me everything.”
We sat down in his living room, and the words poured out of me. Booker grew more and more tense—like a catapult being tightened before it slingshots its load at an enemy.
When I finished, Booker shook his head. “So he’s using my novel as an excuse to go all vigilante on the world. Doesn’t he see that I’m a peaceful man now? Why doesn’t he emulate me instead of my literary character? That’s why I pulled the book off the shelves in the first place. Everyone started to go crazy after they read it!”
It was a rare moment of honesty from Booker about The Bubblegum Reaper, so I decided to push the issue. “It wasn’t because Louise Tackett died? Your refusing to reprint The Bubblegum Reaper?”
“Of course not! I can’t believe Alex is in jail. How could this have gone so horribly wrong again? It’s like I’m cursed!”
“What do you mean, ‘again’?” I said.
“Oh, there have been others.”
“Others?”
“Young men who have done stupid things after reading my novel. I really thought Alex was smarter than that. That he understood. I’ve been so selective lately. Do you know how many people contact me about my book? I only interact with the peace-loving ones now. And you—you of all people should have understood and prevented this.”
I thought about Alex’s violent poetry—wondered how much Booker had read, or had Alex only shown Booker what the old man wanted to read? Then I said, “Understood what?”
“That I help young people with words! Words can help, and kindness and letters and dinners and games of Scrabble and love and talking with others who feel the way you do and sitting in the garden with Don Quixote. We can all learn a great deal from turtles! The book makes you feel. You have to figure out the feelings for yourself. You ponder. Discuss. Reread. And if you do it right, you have a catharsis. That’s supposed to make you feel better. It’s a soul-cleansing! Purification. That’s what catharsis means in Greek. Don’t they teach you anything in high school these days? What’s Oliver going to do if Alex ends up in jail? Does he really think the kid would be better off? Oliver would choose spending quality time with Alex even if it meant being bullied. How obtuse can a young person be? I’m not taking the blame for this one. I never encouraged violence. No one would blame Shakespeare if kids started drinking hemlock and killing each other with broadswords. Why do I even try with you young people? I think I may be done with teenagers altogether. We may just be a doomed species. Maybe we all should give up. Quit. Wrigley was right about that. What’s the point of trying to communicate when it leads to misunderstanding and violence? Even the smart kids don’t get it. And Alex is brilliant!”
He was red hot and raving.
Practically foaming at the mouth.
He was even scarier than when I’d pressed him about the Tackett twins.
Suddenly, Booker was sounding a lot like all the other adults in my life—defensive, exhausted, resigned—and I didn’t like it. It made me trust him less. And depressed the hell out of me.
“I’m going to go now, Booker. Okay?”
“Very well. Just go home, then. Quit on me! And never come back. I’m no good for your type—youth.”
I was stunned. “Are you defriending me? Like, in real life?”
“In light of recent events, what else is there to do? I’ll spare us both any further difficulties. You and me—we’re finished,” he said, in a way that was mean. Palms up. Shoulders raised. Eyes squinted. I could feel the anxiety and frustration coming off him. I needed to get away, which was a new feeling, because I had always felt calm around Booker before—drawn to him.
I shrugged and then left.
My eyes started to water on the ride home—and it wasn’t because of the wind.