The Summer Man

The Summer Man - By S. D. Perry



CHAPTER ONE





Amanda was stoned out of her mind the night everything started to change. So high, in fact, that the sounds of the party around her, the voices and laughter, all sort of blended together into a big, echoey stew, punctuated by the beat of bass-heavy music coming from another room and by the old movie playing not far from where she sat. David Lynch, she thought. Something with Laura Dern, anyway.

The way everyone kept moving around didn’t help define matters; from her position, leaning against the wall next to the bathroom, the shapes of the other partygoers were vague, dark blurs, people shuffling themselves to watch the film, to pass a pipe, to leave the room or enter it. Half the people there seemed to be wearing black. At least half.

“Me too,” she said, looking down at her skirt, noting how pale her skin looked through one of the carefully cultivated rips. Man, she was white. She was one of those people who didn’t tan, anyway, just turned red, and too much sun gave her a headache. She wore sunblock all the time, put it on after every shower. Which meant she was white, white, white. Kind of fat, too. The tear in her skirt revealed a tiny white island, rising from a black abyss. She seriously needed a new diet.

Devon, sitting next to her on the floor, was saying something. Amanda blinked, focused on his wide, seemingly sober gaze. Ha. As if he hadn’t finished off most of a six-pack by now. At least.

“What?” she asked. “Did you say something?” Her voice seemed to be going through a tunnel, echoing away as she spoke. Cool. Weird.

“That’s what I asked you,” Devon said. “You said something.”

“When?”

“A minute ago,” he said, then shook his head slightly. “Never mind. You’re out of it. High as a f*cking kite.”

Amanda hesitated, digesting the information, then grinned. It was kind of embarrassing to be caught out unable to function, but it was only Devon, he of the perfect skin and just-so hair and the charming overbite, which he hated. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d seen him puking in the bushes, beer being his usual drug of choice. He said pot made him paranoid. She thought it just made him think too much…which, if she were him, she’d probably want to avoid, too. He was smart and funny and he had friends, but being gay in high school—he wasn’t technically “out,” but it was pretty obvious, even to a bunch of backwoods hicks like their alleged peers—was a suckfest, no doubt. He got hassled all the time.

“I am not; f*ck off,” she said. Too loud. A couple of the movie-watchers glanced over at her, then turned back to the film. Onscreen, someone was punching someone else. Blood splattered.

Devon was smiling, too. He drained his beer, then set it aside. “I do believe I will. There’s more beer here, somewhere. And I need a smoke. I think Keith’s back from the store; I’ll see if he got ours. I’ll be back in a few, OK?”

Amanda nodded, slightly amazed at how he was able to talk in complete sentences, to express whole thoughts. There was a beginning, middle, and end to his plan, and he hadn’t forgotten any of it as it came out of his mouth. Impressive.

I want a smoke, she said, but only thought it, which was just as well. Devon was already gone, rising in one fluid motion, disappearing around the corner into the darkened room.

A dilemma, then. Cigarettes were outside only; Pam Roth’s parents were out of town for three more days, but Pam insisted that they’d be able to tell if anyone had smoked inside. Pot didn’t count; incense covered that up pretty well, and the actual smoke-to-air ratio wasn’t so bad, but cigarettes were a different deal. So, out back with the dog crap and the cold, cold night, where the other addicted souls huddled together, blowing stinky smoke at the moon. Making their clothes reek. Making their lungs black.

Sounded f*cking awesome. Amanda started to get up, then remembered that Devon was coming back to get her—wasn’t he? Or was he going to have a smoke first? She tried to remember…he had been unclear. They were both out of cigarettes, but Keith had made a run to the Qwik-Mart at the bottom of the hill for like seven different brands, some soda, candy, possibly even beer—if Clark Emory was working, he’d sell to Keith—carrying a scrawled list and a fat handful of crumpled bills. Missy had probably gone with him. Keith and Missy were practically married…and if they were back, there was a hard pack of Camel filters and a grape soda waiting for her, beer and barfy Winstons for Devon. No way that fag would come back for her before catching a smoke first; she was on her own.

God, grape soda and a cigarette. She ached for them suddenly, and she decided she would brave her stoned legs, find her coat—it was almost the middle of June (school out for one whole day now, hoo-f*ckin’-rah!) but the nights were still way too cold to go without—and head out back, see if Devon had—

Somebody started to scream. Amanda froze, and the terrible, high-pitched shriek filled her ears, filled the room, went on and on like the end of the world. It was loud—or it seemed loud, but it was in her head, too, deafening, but she could still hear talking, heard someone laugh a few feet away from her. She looked at the TV, saw that the movie was still playing—and then a movie began to play out in her mind, like a vivid memory or dream. It overtook the room, the party, carrying her inside herself.

What the f*ck?

There was a girl, running, screaming, and behind her a dark shape, a man in dark clothes; his hands were empty, but he was so much bigger than her, faster, and he grabbed her, caught her sleeve, and then pulled her close. The girl screamed again and he shook her, hard, and now Amanda could see her face—

That’s Lisa Meyer, what the f*ck—

It was dark, and there were trees; they were outside somewhere, and Lisa stopped screaming because the man’s hands were on her throat now. She was making horrible choking sounds, her hands fluttering up, pulling uselessly at the thick fingers around her throat. Her eyes were bulging, her face red, drool running over her lower lip as the attacker squeezed and squeezed. He was breathing hard, fast, like he was excited, and as Amanda watched he leaned forward almost casually and bit Lisa’s face, high on her cheek.

Blood poured from the bite. Lisa’s entire body flailed and shook, but he was holding tight; her hands fluttered uselessly, and the attacker grinned, his teeth red, and Amanda saw that she knew who he was, it was the f*cking shop teacher for f*ck’s sake, Mr. Billings was killing Lisa Meyer; she was sagging now, and he was chewing on her f*cking face—

Amanda screamed. She screamed, and for a few seconds it was the only sound in the room as the dark shapes around her fell silent, as someone snapped off the movie. Then there were hands on her, excited voices, someone telling her to calm down, someone else telling her to shut the f*ck up. Somebody touched her spiky hair, and then the lights came on, a painful shock of light that illuminated the shabby carpet, the off-white walls, a dozen familiar faces looming over her, teenage and afraid and curious and surprised.

“’Manda?”

Devon, pushing through, crouching at her side. She started to cry then, too terrified to care that she was sobbing in front of everyone, that she was being a total freak. Devon put his arm around her, and she smelled smoke, smelled the product in his hair, and she cried harder into his itchy sweater.

“It’s OK, sweetie,” Devon cooed, patted her back. “Breathe, OK? Breathe.”

People were talking. “What happened?”

“Is she dosed? ’Cause if it’s that shit that Mark Jacobsen got from Seattle, it’s supposed to be bad shit, and I heard—”

“Is that Amanda Young?”

“Jesus, that scared the shit out of me—”

Amanda closed her eyes, clutched Devon tightly. She wanted them to shut up; she wanted to be home in bed in her flannel nightshirt, warm and safe and sleepy. She wanted a f*cking cigarette.

“What happened?” Devon asked, his voice low and close to her ear.

Amanda gasped a hitching breath. “I saw—I swear to God, I saw Lisa Meyer getting killed, I saw Mr. Billings killing Lisa f*cking Meyer!”

She tried to say it softly but it was too difficult; her straining lungs pushed it out with force. A number of frowns now, the people closest—Doug and Sean from drama, Sean’s little sister, Ally—drawing back slightly.

“What?”

“What did she say?”

Devon pulled back to look at her. “OK, that’s cool,” he said, his voice smooth and relaxed, pitched to carry. “Not a f*ckin’ show, people. She’s cool. Back off, OK?”

He smiled at her as those gathered around started to move off. “You’re OK,” he said, more softly. “Let’s go have a smoke, just hang out for a few minutes…reefer madness, right? You’re fine now. No big deal, we’ll just hang out.”

Amanda managed to stop crying, though her voice was still catching, the fear and panic close. “No, I’m not high…listen, I saw…I’m…I mean, I am, but—”

“Relax,” Devon said. “Whatever it was, you’re fine. It’s all good. Oh, and Keith brought our smokes, they’re in the kitchen. Why don’t we go get them, get you an apple or something, and head out back?”

He grinned, lowering his voice slightly. “Come on, we can make plans for the big picnic. You know Justin Anders got tapped to sing the anthem this year? What a f*ckin’ joke. We could show up with air horns, maybe, blast ’em when he hits the high note. What do you think?”

She’d seen him do this before, at Chris Lahey’s house last December, when Doug had taken acid and gotten all freaked-out about his uncle being dead. Doug’s uncle had been carjacked the year before in Seattle. Devon had been all Mr. Rogers smooth, as relaxing as a warm bath, and had talked Doug out of a hysterical fit and into a lengthy philosophical conversation about the sociological impact of the Butthole Surfers. Watching him do his routine now, trying to take care of her, gave her something to focus on. She took a deep breath, blew it out.

“I got high, OK, but it’s not like that,” she said. Other than a general brain fuzziness, she now felt quite sober. “Devon, I saw something…”

She looked into his eyes, his familiar, cool, gray eyes, determined to make him see how serious she was, how notcrazy. He was her closest friend; he had to see that much—

“Is she OK?”

Pam Roth stood behind Devon, arms crossed tightly. She looked worried.

Devon stood up. “She’s fine.”

“Because if she’s freaking out, she should maybe go home,” Pam said, her voice a near whisper. “I mean, no offense, but if my parents even find out I had people over, I’m so totally f*cked.”

Amanda pulled herself to her feet, put on a smile. It was a dismal one, she could tell, but it was the best she could do.

“I’m good,” she said. A flat-out lie, but she wasn’t about to get her ass thrown out, either. Whatever had happened to her, she knew that going home wasn’t an option. It was her mother’s night off; she’d be parked on the couch and looking to engage. “I’m sorry.”

The lame smile worked, somewhat. Pam’s frown faded, and the few others still standing close by started to wander away. The television was turned back on, the movie started up again.

“What happened, anyway?” Pam asked.

I had a vision, Amanda thought, and though nothing like that had ever happened to her—it was strictly for movies or TV or bad thriller novels—she thought it was true, and knew also that if she talked about it, she’d be branded a total psycho. Worse than already being the only real retro-goth in a metalhead high school. Port Isley was a small town, and word traveled fast.

So what? You and Devon’ll be out of here by the end of the summer, God willing, the second he turns eighteen. F*ck the townies.

So what was she knew better. And maybe she had fallen asleep, a little…

“I dozed off, is all,” she said. “Got high and then fell asleep, with that movie on…”

She nodded toward the screen, where some guy in makeup was lip-synching a Roy Orbison tune. She thought she sounded convincing, and Pam was nodding. Amanda relaxed a little further, forcing the thoughts of Lisa and Mr. Billings away, far away. Her excuse made sense, actually. It made a lot more sense than what had seemed so real only a few moments before—

Lisa Meyer stepped out from behind Pam, wearing a puzzled smile.

“Hey,” she said. “Someone said you were talking about me?”

Amanda stared at her, entirely dumbstruck, though a part of her mind was already filling it in for her.

Premonition, like ESP or something—

Her rational self shouted it down. It had seemed real; oh, totally real, but she must have fallen asleep and dreamed it. Must have, because psychics weren’t legit, everyone knew that, at least people who weren’t dumb as rocks. At best they talked themselves into believing they had some kind of special power, but mostly they were money-grubbing shitheels, psychics, palm readers, astrology, all that shit.

Lisa was still waiting. She was a senior—or had been; she’d gotten her diploma at Friday’s ceremony—and was pretty OK. Not popular, exactly, but not bottom of the barrel, either. Her family was a hair above poor through the winter, lower-middle class in the summer, same as most of Port Isley; Lisa’s dad was an accountant or something; her mother worked in the bookstore on Water Street. She was just a girl, some random girl who Amanda had seen being murdered by Ed Billings, the shop teacher at their high school. Mr. Billings also coached girls’ basketball. And Lisa was on the team, Amanda remembered…

Don’t try to make connections. It was a dream.

She smiled at Lisa, the smile better now, almost real. “It was nothing. I was asleep.”

Ally Fergus, Sean’s little sister, was standing close by. “Not nothing,” she supplied helpfully. “She said she saw you get killed by Mr. Billings. Screamed like her tits were on fire, too. What, you didn’t hear her?”

Lisa wasn’t smiling anymore. She looked from Ally back to Amanda, her expression unreadable. “Are you serious?”

Devon scowled at Ally. “F*ck off, brat.”

“You f*ck off,” Ally mumbled, but melted away a moment later. Amanda tried her smile again on Lisa.

“I got too high or something,” she started. “Had a nightmare is all. Really, it’s—”

“That’s f*cked,” Lisa said, her voice tight. Her face was flushed, and Amanda realized that mild, pleasant Lisa, whom she’d grown up with, known for most of her young life, and never known to have a harsh word for anyone, was totally pissed off. “Why don’t you keep your little dramas to yourself from now on, OK? No one wants to hear your shit.”

“Jesus, Lis, you on the rag or something?” Devon asked. His voice was mild with surprise. “Calm down. She said—”

“I heard what she said, and it’s…it’s bullshit,” Lisa snapped. “Like usual. Just stay away from me, all right?”

She turned and stalked off, leaving Amanda and Devon staring after her, Amanda feeling like she’d been kicked in the stomach. They’d never been friends, but she’d always considered Lisa to be kind of a neutral personality, not an enemy, certainly. The people watching dropped their gazes, turned away, tried to act like they hadn’t been entirely engrossed in the exchange.

“Psycho cunt,” Devon said loudly. A couple of people laughed. “Come on, let’s get some air.”

Amanda allowed herself to be pulled toward the back door, her head spinning, stumbling over an extended foot as someone turned the lights out again as the party returned to itself. Everything had happened so fast, she didn’t know what to make of it, of anything.

The air outside wasn’t as cold as she’d expected, summer coming on fast, and as Devon handed her a smoke, one of his barfy Winstons, she had a sudden flash of understanding, a thought that was complete in its clarity.

He’s here, she thought, and because she didn’t know what that meant, didn’t know how she knew or who he was or pretty much anything at all, it seemed, she began to cry.