[sic] Read online

  Contents

  [sic]

  1. A return to Earth

  2. David Bloom

  3. You’re in luck. I’m the normal one.

  4. Landlord

  5. Eureka

  6. Day one

  7. Other people

  8. No exit

  9. Father figures

  10. Grounded

  11. Other people’s dads

  12. Sport

  13. The quack

  14. Blackbird

  15. Poortraits

  16. David graduates

  17. The talented Mr. Bloom

  18. High hopes

  19. Virgins

  20. Hate in healthy doses

  21. Memento mori

  22. Immaculate misconception

  23. Diva

  24. Awakening

  25. Aftermath

  26. Mouth or mouthful

  27. Chased

  28. All fires, one fire

  29. Nature/nurture

  30. The end of Eureka

  31. Predators circle, just past the campfire

  32. Self defense

  33. The weapon of choice

  34. The Grackle King

  35. I blame the death of David Bloom on…

  Help me

  Keep the Ghost by Scott Kelly

  1. Lacuna

  2. The search

  3. Conscience

  4. Conspirators

  5. Causeway

  6. Detective

  7. Truth

  [sic]

  by Scott Kelly

  Want to get special deals, extras, and early access to new novels? Join my mailing list.

  Also by Scott:

  The Blue (2014)

  Keep the Ghost (2015)

  www.ScottKellyWritesBooks.com

  © Scott Kelly 2015. All rights reserved.

  Version 20150513, the Eureka Edition.

  Cover by Greg Poszywak

  The first seven chapters of my novel “Keep the Ghost” are included after the conclusion of [sic].

  1. A return to Earth

  My personal savior is named David Bloom, and right now he’s falling about ten stories from the top of a water tower. And my stupid stunned mind, all I can think is that he looks great doing it. Arms spread, fingertips extended, face serene—homicide by stage dive. His body returns to the earth below, the fall reducing him to a streak of white and blue cloth, brown hair blown back from closed eyes. Maybe he’s smiling. Maybe I just like to think so.

  I can’t see that well. I’m pretty far away, under the cover of some trees, watching through a gap in the leaves. Was supposed to meet someone here.

  A masked figure is rushing down the ladder of the tower, half sliding, spider skittering down a drain. David’s executioner. At least five people, including me, have a good reason to kill David. Naturally, we’ve all been friends for life.

  A good hero would chase the killer.

  I am not a good hero. I’m not even a good me.

  I run to the place where David fell, like I think he’s still going to be alive, somehow. Stupid. What I get instead shocks me, makes my legs weak and my breath feel worthless. David is no more. This is his face on a sack of meat and bone, limbs bent and joints snapped. This guy—this guy who showed me the light, now just a coffin’s worth of flesh.

  Still, though. Face frozen in that calm stare. Still looking as good as he possibly can.

  Not saying much.

  The wet breeze of an incoming cold front sweeps across the woods, and a swarm of blackbirds rises from the trees. If one white dove carries an average soul to Heaven during a funeral, this is a good start. Every grackle in Texas should be heading to the moon. He was a criminal, a drifter, an egomaniac, and my friend.

  David was obsessed with finding out what we really are, what a person amounts to when you strip away all the clutter. This obsession resulted in the invention of a game: We call it ‘Eureka.’

  There’s only one rule. Eureka is played like tag, except when touched, you have to change your life in fifteen minutes. Do something, anything that you weren’t planning on doing. The more dramatic your change, the better player you are.

  Your goals, relationships, and belongings are the cost of entry. Play long enough and life finally becomes about living, rather than some illusion of progress. No attachment to anything except the value of your own continuously thrilling existence.

  I’ve been in a game of Eureka for the past five years, and I’ve been forced to make changes. Painful changes. What I’ve earned, though, is a kind of freedom.

  The game never stops. One of the other players could tag me; force me to change my life. Anytime, anywhere. Lets me see the real value of things.

  Ideally, without regret. Ideally. It’s how I lost the girl I love.

  I pace back and forth, trying not to look but finding myself unable to resist. Still horrifying. Still a puddle of David’s parts.

  I realize that, for a variety of reasons—not the least of which being, I’m the only one standing around his corpse—I will be blamed for pushing him off the water tower. That’s fine. I have some things to discuss with the police.

  I blame the death of David Bloom on the weight of his presence. The dead body is a collapsed star, and the resulting black hole will suck everyone else into David’s personal reality. My reality.

  I close my eyes and inhale slowly, dreading what comes next. I crouch next to David’s corpse and reach a hand into his pocket, trying to avoid all contact with my dead friend’s flesh. I can’t help nudging him. He shifts limply; a shattered arm bends backward. Sick. I yank the cell phone he carries from his pocket.

  The phone works; I dial nine one one. “There’s a dead body at the water tower next to the Kingwood High football field.” My voice cracks. Putting words to this somehow makes things worse.

  The responder rattles off questions, making sure I’m serious. Eventually, she’s convinced this is real and I hang up.

  The high school football field is a half-mile back, and they’re holding our graduation today. My would-be girlfriend, the valedictorian, will be giving her graduation speech. Doesn’t matter—she’s not talking to me anymore.

  I pull a beat up pack of cigarettes from my pocket. They aren’t mine, and I don’t smoke. One left; I remove it, then take the pack, wipe it on my shirt, and throw it into the grass. A small quotation is scrawled on the paper tube in tiny script. It reads Hell is other people. Appropriate. I hold a flame to the end of the nicotine stick until the tip smolders, then place the softly smoking cylinder next to David’s body. The cigarette smokes itself: tiny prayer candle to my friend.

  How did I let things come this far? The sorrow sets in as my adrenaline drains. I’m going to miss him. I’m truly alone.

  A squad car arrives. A Hispanic policeman steps toward me; the way he alternates between jogging and walking makes his excitement evident. I lift my hands above my head to show I’m unarmed and cooperative, then point at David’s body. The policeman teeters around the corpse, first crouching nearby, then standing over, and finally touching the cadaver for a pulse.

  “I need you to arrest me,” I tell him, once he’s balanced enough to move forward.

  The officer asks me: “Did you kill this boy? Do you know what happened?”

  I don’t say another word. After a few more unanswered questions, the handcuffs click around my wrists. Hands brush my pockets, my socks. Strange intimacy. I’m loaded into the cruiser.

  “What happened out there?” he asks as we drive to the police station.

  “Are you the person that decides whether or not I am going to get charged with murder?” I ask instead, ignoring the question.

  The cop clears his throat, agitation evident. “No, I’m not. You’ll be talking with a detec
tive.”

  “Then I’ll talk to the detective,” I say. “Until then, I’m invoking my fifth, or whatever you call it.”

  “Your right to remain silent,” he explains.

  “Right, that.”

  There are dark clouds overhead, and the first drops of rain start falling just as we reach the police station. I try to remind myself that this doesn’t matter either way. I’ve never owned anything, and never will. No good or bad situations, only experiences. Everything matters because nothing matters; I know this because of what David taught me. Because of Eureka. I lean my forehead against the cool glass of the police cruiser window and remember him.

  2. David Bloom

  Eighth grade

  A swarm of grackles shrieked in discord from the tall oak behind us. I turned to watch them; blackbirds with iridescent bodies like something born of oil spills. Texas’ answer to the raven. When a sudden noise startled the birds, they burst away in a black cloud. All for the slamming of a trailer door—the calamity in Broadway Trailer Park even annoyed the pests.

  Just beyond the bus stop, a fat man in a tank top screamed from his doorstep at a neighbor, hurling an empty bottle of beer at her RV. His elderly target stood in her yard, shrieking, brandishing a small garden rake, bulwarked by black garbage bags. The holy mess of our lives: big barking dogs in makeshift fences, beer guts in ripped jeans, and high drama at loud volume.

  David and I stood at the road outside the park, watching as we waited for the morning bus to school. His skin shone against low-hanging sun, wisps of curled brown hair wild, accidentally styled by his mom’s rough haircuts. Fourteen, two years older than me—tall and lean.

  The bus was always late, which always made us late, which highlighted the fact we were from a different part of town than our classmates. In Kingwood, kids’ parents drove them to school, usually in something expensive.

  When our bus finally rumbled to a stop, David and I let the other four kids from Broadway get in first. The ride was quiet, the morning’s chaos having earmarked the day. We peered out our respective windows as the wilderness of the forest around Broadway Trailer Park transformed into the pristine town of Kingwood, with its vaguely Italian cream colored buildings and new football stadium.

  The high school and middle school were only a hundred feet apart, sharing bus routes and sports fields. We rolled into the parking lot.

  None of us wanted to be here. Hand-me-down sneakers, hungry for free school lunches—no one pretended we belonged, least of all us.

  Even after the bus driver cut the engine, none of us moved. We sat together, staring at the floor or the ceiling or our hands—anything but each other. Like we could just hide here until school was over, and not have to go inside.

  It took a few minutes, but David was the first to stand. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  After school, I waited for David near the bus stop. Worst part of my day: no one rode the bus except the kids from Broadway, and so the spot was ripe for ambushes.

  A high school boy approached. Trouble. I recognized him as one of the meanest bullies in his grade—my regular after-school problem. Twice my size, at least; a boiled gorilla that stank like ranch corn chips and an unwiped ass.

  “Hey, buddy,” he said, voice low and slow. “Make any crystal meth today?” He snickered at his own joke.

  Bad day to be standing alone. I ignored him, wishing one of us would disappear. Fighting back never got me far with this one; he was too big.

  He stepped up, electric-blue shirt and its flipped up collar inches from my face. The line of sweat underneath his flabby chest lined up with my eyes as I stared straight ahead.

  My tormenter spun me around and gripped my backpack, holding it so I couldn’t run.

  “What’s that all over your shirt?” he asked, pointing down at the white paint splotches on my black t-shirt. “Even the clothes you steal suck.” The observation was cut short as David collided with the bulky boy; he tumbled to the ground, fat face bouncing off the grass.

  The bully climbed to his feet, cheeks red, and faced David. They rushed each other. The larger boy stepped forward and kicked, shoving my friend back with his foot. David staggered then lunged, arms swinging in a series of akimbo assaults, fists flailing like a carnival clacker.

  It wasn’t enough to overcome the superior bulk of our enemy; he pushed past David’s fists, ramming a palm into his forehead.

  David grabbed the hand and bit in. Blood peaked from under his canines and ran down the bully’s fingers. The stunned student tried to pull away, but David clamped down harder, teeth slowly sinking through delicate tissue.

  No more pretending: our tyrant hissed in pain, eyes clenched shut. The feel of David’s teeth grinding against his bones, the flesh tearing as he jerked away—these were not things he came prepared to feel, and I saw tears at the corners of his eyes.

  I panicked, realizing I’d have to stop David again. My shoulder hit his side as I tackled my friend; he released his hold. The bully fell out of reach, but David yanked out of my grip and started kicking at him again and again, aiming for ears and neck and nose. I grabbed his arm and pulled.

  Finally, the older boy got up off the ground and limped away—crying as he wrapped the bleeding hand in his shirt.

  David wiped the blood from his chin; a droplet fell into the dirt. His hair matted to his forehead where the sweaty hand had pressed against it. Five and a half feet of tightly wound determination.

  “C’mon,” David said, voice hoarse.

  I followed in stunned silence. Only David rebelled—tooth and nail.

  A soft knock woke me from my sleep. I twisted in my cot, pulling back the bed sheets I hung as curtains. Knuckles rapped against the little plastic porthole; I pressed my face to the window and saw David stood outside. I checked the wristwatch beside my bed: 3 AM.

  Only needed jeans and a shirt; on a balmy spring night in South Texas, you didn’t need the sun to sweat. I found David perched over a chrome bicycle near the trailer. A bulging backpack hung around his shoulders, and a second bike lay on the ground next to him.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, vision cloudy.

  “My paper route,” he said. “I want you to come with me tonight. I’ve gotta show you something.”

  “Paper route? Don’t you have school?”

  “Sleep is a waste, if you think about it.”

  I pulled up the second bike: a diamond-shaped red frame with shocks and knobby tires. The clamp underneath the seat was stuck; I banged on the padding with my elbow until the saddle lowered into a position I could get my leg over. “And where’d you get this?”

  “I borrowed it. C’mon, let’s go.” David stood as he pushed the pedals, accelerating quickly. I struggled to keep up. My new bike crunched through its gears, metal on metal.

  We sped down the freshly paved road leading to Kingwood. No cars; the world was ours. Thick sheets of darkness ruffled my hair and teased my skin. Exhilarated.

  A couple miles later, we made a right turn into a proper Kingwood neighborhood. A newer one, the trees still saplings, but laid out in a big figure eight like all the rest. David pulled off to the side, under a street light but away from any houses.

  “Check this out,” he said, sliding the backpack off his shoulders and digging through it, retrieving a large chart folded into thirds and marked with addresses and instructions. “This is my paper route. They give me a new one every week. The route is stupid, but look: people tell us when they’re going on vacation. Know why? They don’t want the papers piling up out front, so it won’t look like they’re gone. But, it says right here how long they’ll be gone, and when they’ll be back.”

  “Okay. And?” I got off the seat and stood over the frame, on my toes to keep the aluminum bar from digging into my crotch.

  “So, I can break in without getting caught,” David said, smiling. Teeth white, practically light sources in their own right. “Some of them are gone for weeks. You just find a good one,
in a corner somewhere.”

  David mounted his bike and pedaled off; he hopped a curb and we pushed through the grass outside a small brick house. Through the yard and right up to the back door—the realization I was about to break the law dawned on me; I got off my bike and stood dumbly, unable to continue.

  David turned. “Come on, don’t be a wimp. I’ve been in here a bunch, it’s fine.”

  He fished a key from the backpack and opened the back door. “I used the window the first time,” he informed, retrieving a flashlight. “Just took a key from the cabinet after that. C’mon, pull the bikes in, don’t want them sitting outside.”

  A sudden, crushing anxiety forced itself on me. I was about to go in someone else’s home, their sanctuary, without their approval. I couldn’t move; cold sweat clung to my skin.

  “C’mon,” David insisted. “Follow me.”

  I did as he instructed, guiding my bike over the white tiled floor of a clean kitchen. Only a green mop, perched against the refrigerator, stood out of place. It felt wrong to be inside this home, with other people’s aunts and uncles on the walls leering at me accusingly.

  After a few breaths, I regained control of my legs. An upright piano occupied the far corner of the living room, covered with photos and trinkets, keys blanketed with a red cloth. I studied one of the pictures: a middle-aged woman with a short, tidy haircut. Modest makeup, long dress, no jewelry. Very reserved.

  “That’s Pamela. It’s her house; she’s divorced, has one kid who grew up. She’s an accountant. Come on,” David said, motioning toward a hallway leading deeper into the house.

  He guided me into the bedroom, flashlight leading the way through the darkness. “It’s crazy, you know—being in someone’s house is like being in their head. All the stuff in the living room, the stuff other people see, it’s about her being this nice mom and accountant. But when you get a little deeper—look, come in here.” He led me to the last room in the house, furthest away from any entrances. A walk-in closet, filled with drab dresses in neutral colors. We pushed our way through the forest of clothes and reached the far corner.