The first day of his Senior year, and Josh was floating down the halls of the school. Everything looked good. His schedule was fine. His teachers were tolerable. Even the extended homeroom had been a breeze.

First period, English, room 209, Parsons. Josh wasn't a stand out student, but English was one of his favorite subjects, or at least the one that came with the least work. And Parsons was supposed to be easy. Or at least fair.

Senior year was going to be different, Josh had decided that morning. Get on the good side of teachers, do his work on time, cooperate in class. A disguise, Gran had called it. "Make your teachers think that you are someone who cooperates, who works with them, and you'll have Senior year in the bag." Words of wisdom from dotty old Gran. Josh hadn't believed them until he had greeted his homeroom teacher with a bright good morning. She'd smiled back at him and given him no grief at all. Josh felt in control. Senior year was going to be his year.

He knew who Parsons was, had seen her in the halls. She always seemed to look at him kind of funny, but they had never spoken. And his new attitude, his certainty that Senior year would be his year of glory, made him decide that he had only been paranoid, and Parsons' looks had meant nothing.

Room 209 loomed large, and he strolled through the door. Parsons was talking with some students, so he found a seat at the back of the room. And then he moved up three seats. No need to invite problems. He even had a notebook, bright blue and brand new. Whoops. No pencil. Oh, well. It was still going to be a good year.

"Good morning, class. This is Senior English and we'll be..." Parsons had begun, but when her eyes fell on Josh, she faltered. Her voice caught in her throat, and she coughed twice. "We'll be.... We'll.... I'll take attendance. Answer when I call your name. Allenson?"

"Yeah. Right here."

"Yes. That would be your name, wouldn't it. I should have guessed. Well, we'll see. We'll see." She continued calling names and checking students on her list.

What did she mean by that? _That would be your name, wouldn't it?' Of course it was his name. The euphoria of the first day was threatened, but Josh remembered some advice his grandfather had given him: _Just because you're paranoid, Josh, doesn't mean that they're not out to get you.' But he knew there was another side to it. Just because he was paranoid didn't mean that they were out to get him. And he laughed.

"Mr. Allenson. I've asked you to sit quietly. Don't make me send you to the office the first day."

Uh, oh. Josh didn't feel paranoid anymore. He felt attacked. What was going on?

"That should be everyone. Is there anyone who was not on my list? Good. Are there any questions?"

Another thing that Gramps had said was to check things out. Don't react to incomplete information. Josh decided to go for broke. He raised his hand.

Miss Parsons looked right at him. "Well, then. We'll get on with our work. We will be using writing to help define ourselves this year, so I'd like you to...."

Was he invisible? Josh stared at the teacher, but she didn't look in his direction. He turned to the student beside him.

"Hey, Ken. Is she on my case or what?" It was supposed to be a quiet whisper.

"Mr., ah, Allenson. I expect complete cooperation in this class. You will need to sit absolutely quietly and focus completely on me. Nothing less will do."

"She's on you, all right. You got that right." Ken's whisper was surely too loud, but Parsons ignored him. She began scribbling on the board. Josh stood up.

"Miss Parsons, what have I done to..."

"That is enough. I will not have you disturbing this class. I will not have you questioning my authority. I will not have you asking ridiculous questions. I will not put up with your behavior. I will not..."

"I'm outta here." Josh pushed his desk aside and crashed out the door. His fist found every third locker, loudly marking his passage down the hall to the stairs. But the principal and two teachers were talking by the main door, so he turned and went into the assistant principal's office.

"What is that woman's problem? I am never going back to that class. I may never come back to this school. This place is so messed up. I've never given Parsons any trouble. I've never even spoken to her. And now she blasts me. What is with her?"

"Miss Parsons is one of our best teachers, Josh." Mr. Latvis looked up over his glasses. "Has been for seventeen years. You need to sit down with her and talk."

"I'm never going back to that class. I am never speaking to that woman again."

Latvis fumbled with his computer for a moment and then read the screen. "Josh. You've got one year to go. You need all of your credits, especially English. You've got to at least talk with her, figure out what is going on."

"Never."

"Listen. Suppose I call her down here. The three of us sit down and talk together. Straighten this whole thing out. Will you do that for me?"

"Why?"

"You need to graduate. What are you doing next year?"

"Working."

"Where?"

"At the garage."

"What if you don't graduate?"

"I do good work. They'll keep me."

"Six bucks an hour for the rest of your life? You might do better with a high school diploma. And I thought you were thinking of some more school? Stratham Tech? You need your diploma for that."

"Well... Maybe I'll talk with her. Where? When?"

"Right here. The beginning of next period. Go down to the cafe and come back here in half an hour."

Josh turned and walked out of the office. No one stood in front of the door. He hesitated, and then went down the stairs to the cafeteria. Three of his friends were drinking coffees, but he ignored them and found an empty table in the furthest corner. Waves of confusion roiled his brain. He felt as if it were going to explode. He put his head down and let the confusion fill his mind and soothe his body.

Slowly, the raging in his mind, and the sounds of the cafeteria, and an acutely developed facility for self-preservation, all produced an overwhelming calm. Or almost. Josh heard a small voice calling, from somewhere inside, somewhere where only he was supposed to be, someone who couldn't be there, someone who...

The sharp buzz of the bell marking the end of the period drove the voice away, shook Josh back into Exeter High. He sat up and watched the students push their way out of the cafe. More slowly, other students filed in through the doors, talking and laughing, as if all were right with the world. Josh felt his fist tense in anger. He consciously relaxed, staring at his hand until it opened palm up, a surrender to a rational world, to a world that was ready once again to knock him down. But he hadn't left school. He had decided to return to the office and talk. Or listen.

But that was all.

 

~Two~

The office door stood open, and Holly Parsons was talking with the assistant principal. She did not look happy. Which somehow pleased Josh. He stood in the doorway.

"Josh. Come in. Have a seat. Miss Parsons was just talking about your...."

"Ms."

"Ms. Parsons was just talking about your father, about how he was in her class seventeen years ago. She liked him. I think we're going to work this out."

Josh stood in the door, staring.

"Sit down, Josh. Sit down."

"I'll stand. Is she going to ease up or what?"

"She didn't..."

"I'll tell him." Parsons turned to look at Josh. Her face was still full of the anger he had seen in class. There was no way he was going to listen to her, to put up with her screwed-up memories of his father.

"Josh. Your father was in my class. He was one of my favorite students. Maybe my favorite. I was in my first year of teaching, fresh out of college. It seemed every one of my students was special that year. They all worked hard, and I mattered to them. They mattered to me, more than a class has ever since.

"By the spring, I thought I'd made a difference. Especially to your father. He wasn't the brightest kid in the class, oh, no. In fact, he struggled. Other teachers didn't like him much. Mouthy. Always had to have a word in every discussion, even if it didn't involve him. Even if he didn't know what he was talking about. But I liked that. And he was funny. And sweet.

"Don't think I was in love with him, because I wasn't." She glanced at the assistant principal. "No. He was already going out with your mother. That's one of the things that I never understood. He had so much potential, and he wasted it all on that girl. Dragged him down, she did. And then he betrayed my trust.

"But, listen. I can't talk about this. Take this boy out of my class. That's all." Parsons put her wrist across her eyes, stood up and pushed by Josh. He stood with his mouth hanging open.

"Come in now, Josh, and sit down." Mr. Latvis stood up and led Josh to a chair. "Let's look for another English class."

"What is her problem? What have I ever done to her?"

"She remembers your father. Apparently a little too well. Ordinarily, I'd ask you to work things out, but in this case, we'll just find you a friendlier teacher, one where you can focus on English, and not ghosts. How about a creative writing class?"

"Whatever. I'm out of here."

"Will you come back tomorrow?"

"Maybe. We'll see. I'll let you know." Josh headed out the door. He felt the waves crashing in his head again, and knew there was no point in staying. But he turned. "Hey, Mr. Latvis. Thanks." And then he walked out the front door and into the bright colors of late summer and Linden Street.

The sidewalks were empty. A few cars darted by, but Josh was oblivious to the world around him. He needed to walk and to think and to figure out some of the things that had happened in the last hour. Old wounds had been opened, things he thought were settled, or didn't make any difference. But apparently they did. To him, and to Miss Parsons.

Josh knew that his dad had died six weeks before he had been born, in a fiery car crash out on the old Epping Road. A freak accident, his mother had said. The two of them used to love driving, it didn't matter where, to Manchester and back, or to the beach, or to the mountains. But one morning, all by himself, he had run into a tree. His mother had been at her parents' house expecting his dad. Instead, a policeman came to the door.

They were going to be married in a week. His dad had a full time job lined up at Sylvania for right after graduation. He had seen it all in his mother's journal. She had ripped out a page dated March 15th and framed it, with a page from their yearbook. The yearbook picture was a full page of just the two of them, sitting on the hood of a car. He knew his dad had bought the page, and chosen the picture. His mother must have been pregnant when the picture was taken, so Josh had been there too, although they probably didn't know it. The journal page read "Saturday, June 1st — Wedding; Friday, June 7th — Josh graduates; Monday, June 10th — Josh starts full time at Sylvania; Wednesday, July 10th — BABY DUE!!!"

Gramps had said that the wedding was planned for their back yard. Twenty people had been invited. Instead, fifty showed up for a memorial service. His dad had had friends. And plans. But he died. And his mother was still living with her own dad.

Josh didn't mind living there. Gramps was all right. A little old, and a little hard of hearing, but he cares, and mostly does the right sort of thing. Gran was out of it. But sweet. Always happy. Never knew who you were, but always happy anyway.

A car slowed down and blew its horn. "Hey, Josh. Whazup?" And then it spun its tires in the gravel and took off. But Josh was back in present time. He hated the day dreams, the reliving of his Dad's life, the attempts to make something good out of a life that had never quite worked. And he hated that teacher for poking her nose into his life. He would never go back to her class. Never.

 

~Three~

Josh came home late. He had stopped by the garage and stayed until almost seven doing some work for Gus. His supper was in the oven — dried out hamburger and french fries. He grabbed some ketchup and a coke from the fridge and sat down. He looked up and smiled when his grandfather came in, but his mouth was full of fries.

"The first day of your Senior year behind you now, Josh. How'd things go?"

Josh swallowed. "Pretty well."

"That's a good start. These are the best years of your life, so just relax and enjoy them."

"Gramps? Gramps, do you remember a teacher named Parsons? She's supposed to be my English teacher."

"Parsons? Parsons was your dad's teacher. She's the one who flunked him. Wouldn't even help your mother get his credits straightened out after he was killed. Sarah thought she could at least get a degree posthumously, thought you might like it. But Parsons refused to give him any credit."

"Do you know why?"

"Well, it's still a mystery to me. Your mother might be able to tell you more. Your dad practically lived here his Senior year, but the school wouldn't give me any information after he died. Said they had sent everything to his parents. Which was a joke, since they hadn't had anything to do with him since they moved to Nebraska and left him here to live with friends."

"Parsons attacked me today. Started screaming at me in class. I had to go to the office just to find someone to keep her from beating on me."

"You up to your tricks again? What set her off?"

"My name. She says she remembers Dad. Parsons hates me."

"Did you say Parsons?" Josh's great-grandmother had wandered into the room. "I think your father was Holly Parsons' favorite student. I always wondered if there was something more to it, but Josh said she was just a good friend. And Sarah didn't seem jealous — except that Josh always talked about her. I expect you'll be her favorite too!"

"Gran. She hates him. She hates my dad. He couldn't have been her favorite."

"Oh, yes. He'd come home from school and talk with me. Told me lots of things. And Holly Parsons was always mentioned. I'm sure they were good friends. I'm sure of it."

"What do you think, Gramps? Who's right? Me, or Gran?"

"It sounds like two different people, doesn't it, Josh. Or maybe just different times. Gran would like to pretend that that whole last month of school never happened, that your father wasn't killed, that your mother didn't have her heart broken. I wouldn't put much stock in what your gran says. But talk with your mother. You deserve more about your father than I think she's given you. And you know I think she needs to get out and be involved with the world. She's been in a funk ever since your father was killed. She's got this crazy idea that your father betrayed her."

"That's what Parsons said. That Dad betrayed her. What's going on?"

"Talk with your mother, Son. Make her think about things that happened seventeen years ago. Those were certainly the best years of her life."

Sarah had a room that had been added to the back of the house. The door was ajar and Josh could see the pale glow of her television. He knocked lightly and went in. His mother was in her bathrobe, holding a cigarette.

"Mom?"

"Shhh. Just a minute, Dear. They're about to solve this puzzle. I want to know if I'm right.... Hey. I got it. Your old lady's not so dumb, after all. What can I do for you?"

"Mom. You need to get out. You need some fresh air. Let's go for a walk. Let's go down to the parkway."

"Oh, aren't you a sweet boy. But not tonight, Josh. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe this weekend."

"Mom. Do you remember a teacher named Holly Parsons?"

"Parsons. Never mention that name in this house. She hated your father and I hate her. She is... She... Don't ever mention her."

"She attacked me in class today. Talked about Dad."

"I'm not surprised. Your father thought she was a friend, that he could trust her. And I thought that she was a teacher and was helping him. But that last week, that last day, she betrayed him. I think she put a spell on him. Made him run away. And it was while he was running away that he was killed and.... No. No more. Stay away from that woman. She hurt me. She killed your father. She doesn't need to do any more harm to this family."

Josh retreated to his own room, confused. Everywhere he turned today people seemed to be full of old angers, old hurts. And no one wanted to talk very much. Well, a couple of things were clear. He was out of Parsons' class. Gramps was trying to help, but didn't know what Josh needed to find out. And his mother had been hurt, and hadn't healed yet. Might never heal. And his mother's hurt, more than Parsons' anger, even more than his father's death, was what Josh couldn't understand or forgive. He promised that someday he would make his mother smile again. But he hadn't a clue about how he could do it.

 

 

~Four~

"Dad. Things are still messed up around here. I know I keep saying they're going to get better, but they haven't. Not yet. Mom still doesn't talk much, especially not about you. Why did you have to betray her? Why did you take off that day, instead of picking her up, the way you said you would? Things could be different, if you had kept your side of the bargain.

"But you and me, Dad. You and me, we're still a team. I believe in you. I just wish you'd help me out some."

Josh sat on his bed, staring at the poster of his father. Seventeen years old, sitting on his car, shaggy hair and a not-a-care-in-the-world look on his face. Three years ago Josh had had the poster made, blown up from a yearbook picture. It had taken him another year to realize that he had made a conscious decision to cut his mother out of the picture, and another year to understand that that had been a contributing factor to the increasing distance between them. Now he and his mother were like ships in the night, living in the same house, but not sharing much at all, certainly not love.

His father stared back at him. A smile or a smirk or a taunting air of mystery. Did anyone like his father? Now that they were the same age, Josh recognized two things. One, he was a lot like his father. He dressed the same, cut his hair the same, tried to act the way he thought his father had acted. But it was hard to compete with a picture-perfect boy who never changed, never had problems. The second was that not many people had liked his father. Not his teacher, that was for sure. And not his mother, not any more. Whatever they had must have died in the crash.

The crash was not talked about in this house. It was one of the things that was forbidden. Josh knew a little bit. He'd searched out the Union Leader story in the library once. His father had been killed out on the old Route 101. And he knew that his father had promised to take his mother somewhere, and had taken off instead, and driven into a tree. His mother had never forgiven his dad for that. She didn't understand why he had been driving away from her. And she couldn't understand why she had been left all alone. The friends she thought she'd had just disappeared. Once his dad had been buried, they just dried up and blew away.

His grandfather, his mother's dad, seemed the least affected by the whole thing, but he had surely wanted something different for his daughter. Now he had her moping around in his house, seventeen years after she should have moved out on her own.

And dotty old Gran. His great-grandmother was mostly confused. He didn't blame her, particularly. Her own daughter had taken off thirty years ago, leaving her baby with its father and grandmother — it was the Sixties is all anyone ever said. Now Gran had her extended family gathered around her, and it was a mess.

Josh thought his family must be the craziest in the world. Sometimes he wondered how he had grown up as sane as he was. And other times, he wondered if he was sane at all. Tonight, for example, he was staring at a picture of a dead man and pretending it was his father. Just as if the two of them were hanging around watching the Patriots. Naw. His father wouldn't be a football fan. He'd want to watch the Red Sox.

Ten o'clock. Josh decided to go downstairs and see if Gran had made any brownies. Then some tube in his room, and maybe an early night. School tomorrow.

Oh, god. Crazy Parsons, getting on his case again. No. He was out of that class. At least some of the craziness could be simply scheduled away.

 

 

~Five~

Josh couldn't sleep. Late at night, lying in his bed, trying to drive the thoughts away. Counting to a hundred. To a thousand. Trying to shape dreams. Last summer, at the beach.... But nothing worked. Just the endless emptiness of the dark night.

"Josh?"

He sat up, suddenly wide awake. The room was still dark, the door closed, the waning moon just visible out the window. He closed his eyes and tried to make his ears more alert. He'd heard a voice, and a voice that he recognized, although he didn't know whose it was.

"Josh. I'm here. Listen to me."

Tsunami. The wave of recognition broke over Josh and he struggled to the surface. His eyes snapped open and he gasped for breath, but the room was still black.

"Dad?"

"Josh, I'm here."

"You're dead. You died before I was born. How can you be here? How can I hear you?"

"Just relax. Close your eyes and listen. Watch with your ears. Try to understand."

"Dad? Didn't you run into a tree? Didn't you run away before I was born? Why couldn't you stay with Mom?"

"Times were hard. Times were different then. Talk with Ms. Parsons. She understood."

"She says you betrayed her. She hates you."

"She was my best friend. The only teacher in that place that I could talk to. The only one who would listen. Talk to her."

"She hates me, too. And she doesn't even know me very well. Just because I'm related to you. And maybe _cause I have your name. She's not going to cut me any slack. I'm outta that class."

"Talk with Ms. Parsons. Stay in the class. Get to know her. Talk to her."

"Dad? Dad, can you hear me? Can you understand what I've just said?" A cloud floated in front of the moon, making the window as dark as the room. Suddenly, Josh felt alone. More alone than he'd ever felt in his life. He knew his room was empty, that whatever had been there was gone. He slipped out of bed and carefully looked out into the hall. The night light in the bathroom was on. His grandfather was snoring. He crept to his mother's room and pressed his ear against the door. He heard her roll over in her sleep.

Then he heard something downstairs. He froze. A footstep on the stairs. Coming up, slowly, step by step, pausing, breathing with difficulty. Josh flattened himself against the wall, unable to move, and held his breath. The bathroom light cast a pale glow. He watched the top step. A foot appeared, and then his great-grandmother pulled herself up the last step.

"Gran! It's you!"

"Of course it's me, Josh. Why are you standing in the hall in your underwear? You'll catch a cold. Now run along to bed, that's a good dear."

Gran, only dotty old Gran. Wandering in the night. Josh went back to his room and climbed into bed. The moon was shining again, and Josh fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

His alarm woke him hours later. Instantly, the voice of the night before appeared in his mind. Had it been a dream? Had he manufactured his dead father? Was he losing his mind?

His eyes sought familiar objects around the room. His guitar, its broken string curled around the neck. The drum set he hadn't played since junior high. The Madonna poster that his mother hated and he didn't like very much. His lacrosse stick. Same old same old. It was his room. What had his father been doing here? Then he looked at the poster of his dad. Why hadn't he noticed it right away? The smile had changed a little bit, a little sharper, more self-assured. And then his father winked. Just once. Or was Josh still asleep? He slapped his cheek.

It had been a dream, albeit a weird dream. When he had been little, he used to dream of his father all the time. They'd be running through fields, and riding on swings, and standing by lakes, and floating on clouds. But those dreams had stopped when he went to junior high. And he didn't think that his father had ever talked to him. He had just been there, been there like all the fathers his friends had. Just a normal father with a normal son doing normal stuff. Not a dead father. And not a father who knew about what was going on in school yesterday!

"Talk to Ms. Parsons. Get to know her." What a weird thing for a dream to say. If dreams come from the subconscious, then things must be weird in there. Josh did thirty push-ups, took a cold shower, and went down to forage for breakfast. The kitchen clock said six-thirty.

 

 

~Six~

Josh didn't go to Parsons' class the next day, but he didn't go to the third period class either. In fact, he didn't go to any classes that day. He wandered around school, hung out in the cafe. He spent some time talking to Latvis, but that hadn't helped. And he didn't see any of his friends. Not any that could help.

A few kids were still at their lockers when Josh finally made it back to the English wing. He hesitated outside the classroom door, and then he took the final step.

"Ms. Parsons? My dad said I should talk to you."

"What? What did you say?"

"I mean, I'm going to stay in your class. And I'd like to talk to you about my dad. You knew him. You knew what he was like. Can you tell me?"

"That was a long time ago. I don't like to think about it. Your father betrayed my trust. That's all you need to know." She lowered her eyes and turned a page in the book on her desk.

"But that's just it, Ms. Parsons. He had your trust. He was important to you. Why won't anyone tell me anything about him?"

"I believe it is time for you to leave. School is over. You don't belong here until eight o'clock tomorrow morning."

Josh turned and walked out the door. He carefully followed the row of lockers until he found his, and then let his fist explode, denting the thin metal door. The pain in his hand surprised him, and he slumped to the floor. He wasn't crying. He wouldn't cry. But the pain burned inside, the way it had ever since he knew he was alone in the world, without a father to guide him, without a father to even understand and talk to.

"Josh?"

He looked up. Ms. Parsons had followed him down the hall.

"Maybe we should talk. It might be some help to you. It might be some help to me. Can I sit down?"

Weird teacher. This old lady wanted to sit in the hall and talk? And she'd just thrown him out of her room a minute before? Well, why not.

"Sure. But you don't want to talk about anything that I want to talk about. And I'm not interested in much else."

"I can talk about your father." She slid to the floor beside him "His name was Josh, too. But you know that. You were named after him. A long time ago. I was a first year teacher when I met him. He was in my first class. That's still my favorite class, after all these years. I had coffee with two of the girls in that class just last month. Sweet kids. They were all sweet kids."

"Was my dad one of your sweet kids? Or did you hate him? The class trouble maker? The bad apple in your sweet sweet class?"

"You're going to have to help me. There's a lot of good to remember, before he.... There's a lot of good to remember.

"He was tall. Sandy hair, like yours. And he wore it a lot like yours, too. Sort of shaggy and wild. I remember looking at that class — my first class ever. And even before any of us had said anything, I noticed your father. His bright black eyes staring at me, challenging me, demanding that I do something worth his while. So I asked his name."

"You asked everyone's name. That was your job."

"Sure. But I started with him. I asked his name. And he laughed and tipped his head, yes, the way you do, and said, _Josh. What's your name?' And he waited. I had written _Ms. Parsons' on the board, so he didn't have to ask. But his eyes sparkled, and his smile waited, and I felt, well, special.

"I was a new teacher. I'd never had a class of my own before. I'd never even worked in a high school. I did my student teaching in Ohio with a junior high teacher who wasn't allowed to leave me in a class by myself. So here I was, being challenged on the very first question I had asked in my very first classroom."

"Challenged? By the same question you'd asked?"

"But I was new. I was twenty-three years old. Some of my students were nearly twenty. And I didn't expect to be caught off guard."

"So what'd you do? Is that why you hated my father? Because of a dumb question eighteen years ago?"

"I didn't hate your father. In fact, I think I fell a little bit in love with him, that first day. Oh, I had a fiancé and I was pretty sure he must have had a girl friend. But still."

"So did you answer his question? The biggest crisis of your teaching career, and the answer was written on the board behind you. All you had to do was turn around and look!"

"I said _Holly.' And then I blushed. And then I said, _Parsons. Ms. Parsons.' And pointed to the board. The entire class laughed. A couple of kids gave Josh high fives. The kids in the back row whistled and stomped their feet. Paper airplanes appeared out of nowhere. What was supposed to be my first class was suddenly the class from hell. And I just stood there, staring straight ahead. No. I was staring at your father. I was furious with him."

"So you hate me because my father embarrassed you? You never got over that moment? And now you'll take revenge on me, just because I show up in your class? You have got to be kidding."

"No. You've got it wrong. I was furious, but impressed, too. I told you. Bright sparkling eyes. A wild mop of hair. A smile that demanded attention..."

"Like mine."

"Yes, like yours. You could be your father. You look just like him. Your mother must have told you."

"She doesn't talk much about Dad."

"Of course not. Listen. Stay in my class. Come tomorrow. Give me a chance. And I'll give you a chance. We'll see if we can make this work, despite the ghosts."

"Ghosts? What do you know about ghosts?" Josh fixed his eyes on Ms. Parsons, terrified that she knew what he had discovered last night, that she had ghosts talking to her as well, maybe the same ghost.

"Old memories. I have twenty years of kids and twenty years of teaching floating around in this old brain of mine. Like ghosts. Nothing real. Just the old mind of the old school marm. I'll see you tomorrow." Ms. Parsons raised herself slowly, and then walked down the dim hall to her classroom.

"A good start. Give her time. Keep pushing."

"Hey. Where are you? What are you? Why are you here?" The hall was empty. Josh's words echoed in the corridor. He leapt up and headed for the exit sign glowing red at the end of the hall.

 

 

~Seven~

"Hello, Josh. I haven't seen you for a while, but I still have your picture. Josh Benson. You were quite something. Oh, but you're dead. I'm sorry, dear." The old lady twisted her smile back into her face and hurried toward the door.

"Miss Ingersoll! Your bread." The girl at the counter held out a loaf of rye bread.

"Oh, yes. I wanted that sliced."

"It is. All sliced and only a few hours out of the oven."

"Your bread is so good. Excuse me, young man." The old lady clutched her loaf of bread and pushed her way through the lunch line to the door. Josh stared after her, unaware that it was his turn to pay for his lunch at the Loaf and Ladle.

"Weird lady. Who's Josh Benson?" Fred and Josh were on lunch break.

"Josh Benson was my father. Who's that lady?"

"Don't know, man. Never saw her before."

Josh turned to the cashier. "Lisa. Who's that woman? Do you know her?"

"That's Miss Ingersoll. Crazy old lady. But nice. Five forty."

"Huh?"

"Your lunch, Josh. Your lunch is five dollars and forty cents. Money?"

"Oh, yeah. Here. Thanks."

"Josh. Wait a minute. Your change. Jeez. Take care of him, Fred. He's out of it."

Josh stood staring at the door, but let Fred lead him to a table out on the deck. The river flowed over the dam and traffic raced over the bridge.

"Listen, man. Don't let that old lady spook you. She's just confused. Batty. Gonzo. Not on this planet. Not your problem. She's gone. Out of here. Spaced out. Wake up."

"She thought I was my father. She thought she recognized me. She was spacing. But spacing to seventeen years ago."

"Now you're the one who's spacing. Eat up. We have to get back to the garage in fifteen minutes."

Josh took a bite of his tuna on wheat. And stared at the river and the dam.

"Chew, man. You take a bite and then you chew. And then you swallow. And then you do it all over again."

"Huh?"

"Josh. Eat your friggin' sandwich. We got to go."

"My father looked like me. I mean, I look like him. Ms. Parsons noticed it in class the other day. It freaked her. And now this, this Ingersoll lady."

"But she called you Benson. And your name is Allenson. Not the same. Mistake. We're out of here. Eat your sandwich or give it to me."

"Allenson's my mom's name. Benson was my dad. She knew that. She thought I was my dad."

"So where's your dad? Do you ever see him? You could ask him. He'll tell you. Probably an old flame of his."

"My dad's dead. Let's get out of here." Josh got up to leave. Fred started after him, then picked up the trays. But before he dumped them in the dishroom, he put Josh's sandwich into his pocket.

 

 

~Eight~

There were three cars to work on that afternoon. Josh and Fred were supposed to wash them, vacuum them, rotate the tires, check the lights and wiper blades. Usually it was easy work, but not this afternoon. Josh couldn't concentrate.

"She knew my dad, man. She thought I was him. And she liked him. She has a picture of him. Wow. I got to meet her. Talk with her."

"You got to grab this tire and balance it. Make a note that it's worn, only good for another few months. Come on, Josh. Get on board."

"Yeah. Roll it over here. Why would she have a picture of Dad? I wonder if Mom knows?"

"Hey, you guys are running slow. I promised all of those cars by three this afternoon." Gus had wandered into the service area from the front desk. "I got a real doozie coming in later today — needs to be done tomorrow. A 1980 Thunderbird. This old lady only drives it around town — got about fifteen thousand miles on it. Dark green. Whitewall tires. Leather seats. And dice. It doesn't have rumble seats, but it's got class. And you guys get to work it over tomorrow. If I haven't fired you for sloughing off. Now get to work."

"Hey, good work takes time."

"Good work takes an extra fifteen minutes for lunch? Move it!"

Josh managed to focus on the cars for the rest of the afternoon, and they were nearly finished when the green Thunderbird pulled up to the pumps. Fred went out to pump gas while Josh started to straighten up the bay. Every tool had a place, and had to be there before they checked out. It had been a pain at first, but even Josh admitted that it made the next day's work easier. One socket was missing. He scanned the floor, hoping it was in plain sight.

"Hey, dreamer. You're not going to believe this!"

"Huh?"

"That dream car? That green Thunderbird? Guess who it belongs to? Guess."

"I don't know. You?"

"No, get serious. Guess for real."

"The Chief of Police? The Principal? The Man in the Moon?"

"No. No. No. It belongs to Miss Ingersoll!"

"Who?"

"Your weird lady friend from the Loaf! The one that called you Josh Benson!"

"No way, man. Back off."

"For real, Josh. Same lady. Same dress. Same name. And the loaf of bread sitting on the front seat. It's even got a pair of dice hanging from the mirror!"

"Where is she? Is she here? Did she see me?"

"She walked home. Left the car at the pumps. Told me Gus was expecting it. Just climbed out, picked up her cane and walked away. I grabbed the bread and ran after her."

"Did you talk to her? Did she ask about me? Did she..."

"Josh. She dropped off her car. That's all. She doesn't know you work here. She doesn't even know you."

"Hey, will you finish up? I got to go. It's all sort of tight in here, you know what I mean?"

"Sure, but don't let Gus catch you. He's already pissed about the extra fifteen for lunch."

Josh slipped out the back and worked his way behind the hardware store. Then he headed down Lincoln Street, trying to sort out the day.

 

 

~Nine~

"Hey, Allenson. You got that Thunderbird ready to go?"

"All set, Gus. You were right, it's a sweet car."

"Lube, oil, filter?"

"It's all set."

"Inspection sticker?"

"Whoops. Needs a sticker and then she's ready to roll."

"Put the sticker on and then drive it over to Grove Street. I got the address at the desk." Gus went back to the front room and Fred picked up the book of stickers.

"Did you mark the registration? What's the mileage?"

"Sixteen thousand and sixteen miles. Can you believe that? Even that seems high, for a car like this."

"That's because we put the spit and polish to it. We could make your grandmother's car look good..."

"She's my great-grandmother and she doesn't drive." Josh pushed by Fred and went to find Gus.

"Jeez. Lighten up, man." The dice bounced as Fred began scraping the old sticker.

"Listen, Gus. Maybe Fred should take that car back."

"What? I've seen Fred drive, and I'm not letting him near that car. No, you're the safe and sensible driver here.

"Ingersoll lives on Grove Court, fifth house in on the right — a yellow Victorian with a purple stripe around its middle — go figure. You can't help but miss it."

"Do I just leave it in the driveway? What's the deal?"

"Nope. Park it in the garage. You'll need to get out to unlock and open the door, and then lock it up after you're done. Take the keys to the side door and knock. She'll probably invite you in for tea — don't worry, you're still on company time. I'm hoping she'll let me buy that car some day, or leave it to me in her will. So be real nice, and real careful!" Gus gave him a stern look, and then winked and laughed. "Do your best, Josh. To the victor go the spoils, and I want that car!" He tossed the keys to Josh. Three keys. One for the T-Bird, one for the garage, and one that probably fit the front door to the house.

Josh backed out of the bay, only a little nervous. But the car was smooth. The brakes felt firm. He shifted into drive and touched the accelerator. The car moved ahead. Almost as if Josh were using autopilot, or mental telepathy to control the car. He thought hard, trying to tell it to turn right, and his hands moved as the steering wheel twisted on its own. He signaled for a left hand turn and pulled out onto the deserted street.

The car asked for speed, and he was going forty by the time he reached the Lincoln Street School. Too fast, but he didn't slow down until he was nearly at the stop sign. And then he hit the brakes a little too hard, and the car lurched to a stop.

"Watch the brakes. They've always been a little tight."

Josh swiveled around, and looked in the back seat. But the car was empty. Crazy. That's what it was. Voices.

He turned left onto Front Street and then kept going, past the academy. He almost turned left at the band stand, but remembered just in time that he couldn't go past the garage. He headed out High Street, slowly at first, but the car liked a faster speed. He was going fifty by the time he got to the court house, and decided to turn onto Route 101 so he could really test this machine. Every mechanic tests out his work before surrendering the car to the owner, he assured himself.

The car was smooth. He wanted another word, but it was just a simple machine that ran like clockwork. Smooth, he thought. That was it. The needle pointed to seventy as he neared the turnoff for Interstate 95. He was tempted to go onto the big road, but thought better of it. Instead, he pulled across the yellow line to pass the cars slowing for the exit, and then accelerated across the bridge. Eighty. And then three more cars in front of him, and he had to slow to fifty.

"Damn. I guess it's time to take it home." Josh took the next right and wandered some back roads. He drove back at about thirty, trying to collect his thoughts. Miss Ingersoll had known his dad. Known him well enough to remember him seventeen years later. Was that all? Would he dare ask her what she remembered? How had she known him? What was there to know?

Josh realized he had driven past the bandstand and was about to go by the garage — half an hour after he was supposed to have delivered the car. He took a left through the academy and then across Front Street to Elliot. Grove Court was buried back in a nice residential area — some academy people, some townies, and Miss Ingersoll. He found her driveway and pulled up to the garage. After he pulled the car through the open door, he had a sudden uneasiness. The car had seventeen more miles on it than the inspection sticker showed. Maybe she wouldn't notice. Or maybe she'd call Gus, and he'd be out of work again. Oh, well. It was rough working every Saturday and Sunday. Might be better to be free. And broke. But the ride had been worth it.

 

 

~Ten~

Josh rapped on the heavy oak door and waited. He was about to knock again, when he heard someone coming. Miss Ingersoll pulled the door wide, and stood staring at him. She was almost elegant in her long dress and jewelry, but even Josh could see the flaws in her lipstick and the button that had been missed on her bodice. Most of her hair was back in a tight bun, but strands seemed to fly out every few moments. Josh stared at her, wondering what would happen next.

"It's you again! We met at the Loaf and Ladle yesterday. I want to apologize for my behavior. I was caught off guard, and mis-spoke myself. Why are you here? Is it something about yesterday?"

"Um, ma'am. Your car. We inspected it at the garage. Here're your keys." Josh held out the chain, the keys dangling.

"Oh, yes. Thank you. Were there any problems? I worry about that car. I bought it new in 1979 — a big expense for a school librarian. But it's lasted. And will probably out last me. But I've got an appointment next week with my doctor for a lube, oil and filter." She smiled, just a little, and looked at Josh. He stared back.

"A joke. This old lady can still make a few jokes. And you should have the politeness to laugh. Just a little chuckle, to make me feel good. Well, if you don't like jokes, do you like brownies? I've just made a batch, and would like you to take them on a test drive for me. Laugh."

Josh was caught by surprise, and just let his mouth fall open. Miss Ingersoll laughed and turned.

"Follow me. If you can't laugh, or even talk, you certainly need a brownie. Come." She walked through the small back hall and disappeared around a corner. Josh felt his feet glued to the porch. He couldn't follow, and he couldn't leave. Miss Ingersoll came back with some brownies on a plate and brushed past him onto the porch. She sat on the top step and held out the brownies.

"Come. Eat. They're bewitched. Try one."

"You knew my father."

"Josh Benson was your father. You look a lot like him. That's why I was so surprised and confused yesterday — why I forgot my bread, and took three wrong turns coming home. Your father was one of my favorite students. True, even though your face says it was not possible. He spent a lot of time in my library. I was the school librarian until 1983. He wasn't much of a reader, but he liked to hang out in the back room, doing homework on our old Apple computer, drinking cocoa, talking. He died, I think, before you were born. Is that right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"How much do you know about him? Your mother loved him very much, but I think she never quite forgave him for driving into that tree. I used to see her in Shaw's, with her baby — why, it was you sitting in the shopping cart! We were never friends, but I'd say hello, and she'd nod. I'd watch her go off down the aisle, and think about your father. I guess it's just my fantasy, that she never forgave him. But that's the way it seemed to me. Does she talk about him much?"

"No, ma'am."

"You're uncomfortable. Oh, a silly old lady who doesn't know when to shut up. Eat a brownie and let's just watch the beautiful trees move in the wind. I've lived in this house for eighty years. I was born in that room right up there. Ol' Doc Burns delivered me at three in the morning. Tomorrow's my birthday. I'll be eighty-one. Now, run along and tell Gus thank you for the car. I'm glad you brought it back. He usually takes the long way here, and ends up putting twenty miles on the odometer!"

Josh swallowed hard, choking on the last of the brownie.

 

 

~Eleven~

Monday morning, Josh arrived early for English class. He chose a seat near the front of the room, and put his book on the desk. He hadn't had time to read the assignment, but at least he was going to look ready, to try to cooperate today — the second week in the class that his father had been in. And the teacher who had known his father. Maybe she could make some sense out of the crazy lady he'd talked to yesterday.

Holly Parsons came in, holding her brief case under her arm. She smiled at Josh and started to arrange her desk.

"Good morning, Josh. Did you have a pleasant weekend?"

"I met Miss Ingersoll. Do you know her?"

"Oh, yes. Miss Ingersoll retired fifteen years ago, but she still invites me for tea every once in a while. How did you meet her?"

"She thought I was my dad. She told me some things about him. And about you. We need to talk. We need to talk today."

"Oh." Other students were coming into the room and finding desks. Two girls stood at the desk, trying to get the teacher's attention. "Stay after class, Josh. We can try. I can try to give you some answers." She turned her attention to the girls.

Josh couldn't concentrate on the class. His mind churned with the glimpses of his father that Miss Ingersoll had given him. Forty-five minutes seemed to take forever. Parsons called on him once at the beginning of class, but he couldn't answer her question. She didn't bother him again. At the end of the period, she spoke to him.

"Let's go down to the cafe and get some coffee. I'm supposed to be on duty down there, and we can talk."

"I've got math class. How can I..."

"I'll write a note to your teacher. You can see him later. Let's get this figured out right now." She picked up her brief case and walked to the door. Josh followed her into the hall.

"Give me a minute, Josh. Get two cups of coffee and find an empty table. I'll just take a turn around the cafe and be right with you." She dropped her briefcase on the table and walked to a back corner where a group of kids was arguing. They split apart as she approached and she turned around and came back to Josh.

"Not there, Josh. Let's use the teachers' line. It's a lot quicker.

"Two cups of coffee, Tina. How are you today?"

"Just fine. Do you want lids?"

"Not today. Thanks a lot.

"Take both of these, Josh. No, no. I'll pay. I think we're both going to sort some things out today. Take them over to the sugar and milk, over there."

 

 

~Twelve~

How could getting coffee suddenly be so hard for Josh? He'd done this a hundred times, a thousand times in the last few years. But today, he was nervous, confused. He took the coffee to the table, spilling a little on the floor. Ms. Parsons followed him, and picked up her cup.

"I'm going to get some milk. Do you want any?" What a jerk he'd been. She'd said milk and sugar. She'd told him to get milk and sugar. And he wanted milk and sugar. And here he was, sitting with a cup of black coffee, smiling sweetly and saying that he never took milk.

She came back and sat down opposite him across the cafeteria table. For a long while, she stared at her coffee and said nothing. Josh waited, sipped his coffee, found it too hot, too bitter. He adjusted himself on the stool. Just as he thought he could wait no longer, Ms. Parsons spoke.

"Your father impressed a lot of people in this school. I may be the only one he impressed positively. I try not to play favorites, but from that first day, your dad was one of my favorites. I made him work, and mostly he let himself be pushed. He said he'd read more books that Senior year than he'd ever read before. He said he'd started to finish books for the first time ever. His writing in September was atrocious. But it started to get better. For me. Other teachers would talk about him in the teachers' cafe — the problems he was causing, the rudeness he displayed. But I didn't see any of that. I discovered a different boy, one that enjoyed playing with an idea, enjoyed turning it over in his head and on paper. That's all that I asked in my class — that the students do some thinking on their own, and that they expand their thinking a little bit.

"There were a lot of phonies in that class. Kids who would posture and pretend and act as if they knew everything. Your dad didn't have any space for them. Neither did I, although I was supposed to treat every kid the same. Kids who were getting straight A's from their other teachers would get C's from me. And your dad got straight A's, all year long, right up until the end of the year."

"But you failed him. You flunked him, and he was furious, and he drove away from school, and drove into a tree, all because you flunked him." Josh stared at Ms. Parsons, daring her to contradict. "All that gushy stuff about being a favorite student is fine and dandy, but you failed him. That doesn't follow."

"Ah, yes. I thought I might show you the better side of your father, pretend that it had all been real, pretend that he was as dedicated to my class as I was to him. That last week changed a lot of my thinking. That last week is what I was thinking of the first day of class. But I'd like you to know the boy who was my favorite, not the one who let me down."

"You promised me the truth. Not just the good stuff. Tell me about that last week. Tell me why you think he failed you." Josh let his black eyes bore into Ms. Parsons. "If you like the sparkle," he thought, "can you put up with the hate?"

"I trusted your father a great deal. And I knew he had a hard time with exams, with sitting for nearly two hours pushing a pen across the paper. So I assigned projects to my Seniors. They were supposed to write a story about a special day, and then share it with the class. Your father was excited, which pleased me. I had wanted to help him finish on a strong note, and I thought I was succeeding. He wouldn't tell me what he was writing, but he hinted for weeks about the story. Something about your mother and father, early in their relationship was all I knew. Miss Ingersoll, the librarian, told me he was working down there all the time, but even she wasn't privy to what he was writing. And we finally found out why."

"Why?"

"Listen. This is the hard part. If you don't want the truth, with all of its pain, then leave now. Just remember the sweet boy who charmed a first year English teacher. It's time to choose. Walk away with only the good memories."

"I'll stay."

"The Seniors were supposed to present their papers to the class on Friday. I knew that wouldn't be a problem for your father, because he loved to share his work. Not in September, but we had worked hard all year and now he was a story teller, a public speaker, an extrovert, at least in my class. I guess that's what I think a teacher is supposed to do. Take a quiet student who is unsure of himself, nurture him, trust him, work with him until he is able to trust himself and share himself with the world. That's what I thought, and that's what I'd done with your father. Or that's what I thought had happened, and I was vain enough to think I had something to do with it."

"But that's still not the end, is it?" The black eyes waited.

"No. Wednesday afternoon your father came to me after school. He had his story finished — twelve pages of typing, the most impressive piece of work, at least in volume, that he'd done all year."

"An impressive piece of work, the most impressive piece of work your A student had done all year, and you flunked him? Had you suddenly changed the rules? Were you, what's the word, were you suddenly sadistic? Let's take the puppet and cut his strings the last day, and laugh and laugh down in the teachers' cafe. You are unbelievable."

"Now wait. There's more. The reason he came early was to ask a favor. He had a plan, and he absolutely fooled me. He said he wanted to do something special for your mother. She was eight months pregnant, huge and utterly miserable. They were getting married in a week. But they had no time to do anything. The weekend was full of family and plans. The wedding had your mother in a tizzy. He had a chance to take her out on Friday. All day, just the two of them. They'd drive around to favorite spots — the beach at Pawtuckaway, he said. It would lift her spirits, make their wedding more wonderful, make their relationship even stronger.

"I admired a lot of things about your father, but his love for your mother was one of the best. So of course I said yes. He had his paper done, and said he'd take a lower grade because he wasn't presenting it. I told him not to worry. Have a wonderful time. Could I loan him some money, or give him some for the special day. He laughed. I remember his laugh, the sparkle in his eyes and his laugh. He said he probably earned more than I did, working at Sylvania. But he invited me to the wedding. And thanked me. And left. That was the happiest moment of my teaching career."

"The happiest moment of your whole teaching career, and you flunked him? Were you jealous of my mother?"

"The next day, everything changed. I had read his story, and it was clever. Different than anything your father had done before. I thought it was based on some true things, probably with your mother, but I don't like to focus too much on truth when we are supposed to be creating good fiction. But it had given me a warm feeling, both because the story was about happy children succeeding in their high school life, and because I felt that I had taught your father a lot of good things, that the reason the story was so good was because I was a good teacher and a good friend. A real ego trip."

"And?"

"And the next day, everything changed. A different class, not your father's, my first period class, had the same assignment. I asked the Seniors in that class to share their stories. Philip Jones raised his hand. Now Philip was a good enough student. In fact, he was very good. Popular. Football player with A's and B's all year. Did most of the work, and did it well. I had never warmed up to him, but I knew he was graduating near the top of the class.

"He raised his hand, and I called on him, and he read his story. I guess my mouth fell open while he was reading, because he stopped and looked at me funny. And then he finished. His story, except for the names, was identical to your father's story. Same happy people succeeding in the same happy high school. I was heartbroken."

"This football jock copied my father's story? Why didn't you flunk the jock?"

"I thought about that. But I wasn't sure. Philip said he'd been working on his story for a couple of weeks. And it was consistent with his usual work. I took the two stories and compared them. Almost word for word, except that your father had made some of his usual spelling mistakes. He couldn't even copy correctly. And he'd substituted different names. I was flabbergasted."

"My father had copied this jock's story, and turned it in as his own?"

"I guess I had thought that your father was special, and that I was special to him. I thought we were friends. I knew he was marrying your mother, and that was all right. That was good. But I thought he was a friend. And when he asked a favor, I thought it was a friend asking a friend. So I said yes. And he abused the privilege. He took our friendship and dashed it on the rocks. I have never forgiven him for that. Never." Holly Parsons took her wadded up napkin and dabbed at her eyes.

"I gave your father one more chance. I called him Thursday night — me, a twenty-three year old teacher calling a student at home. I told him I had to see him Friday morning, that it was essential he see me before he took off for the day. And he showed up. He was supposed to pick your mother up later on. But he was here at eight in the morning."

"And did he admit copying the story?"

"He was too furious to defend himself. He had always had a difficult time with his temper anyway. And that morning he was almost incoherent. But I know where he was going. He was going to see Philip Jones. I surmised that he had copied Philip's story, but never figured out that I was also Philip's teacher. I don't know what he was going to tell Philip, but his anger, his complete loss of control, made me realize that the year had not been what I had thought. He had been cheating all year, no doubt, and I had been a fool to believe in him."

"How do you know that Jones wasn't the one who had been cheating? Maybe you guessed wrong." Josh's hands were gripping the edge of the table and he was leaning forward and talking loudly. Suddenly, he realized that Parsons felt threatened.

"I think you should leave now." Ms. Parsons was crying, clutching her coffee, and poking at her eyes with her napkin. Josh stood up and walked out of the cafe. He didn't stop. He slammed out the door and down Linden Street, away from town. He turned down Gary Lane and followed it across Route 108 to the river. Then he sat and watched the water slowly flow around the bend and out of sight.

Josh tried to fit everything together. Parsons had felt betrayed because his father copied a paper. Big deal. Josh had copied a few himself. Probably would copy a few for Parsons. But was his father a phony? Had he sucked up to Parsons all year just to blow off his final? Why not? But why? Parsons seemed to think it was a big deal. Maybe just because his father had died.

"Parsons straighten things out? Are you going to be able to work with her?" The voice startled Josh, but this time he didn't look around. He stared at the water and tried to listen.

"She thinks you cheated, Dad. She thinks you copied a story."

"But Philip Jones was supposed to tell her. I talked to him. That's where I went, instead of picking your mother up. He had copied my story. He promised to tell her. I was going to make sure. But I didn't make it back."

"He never told her. Or she didn't believe him. Or... Oh, Dad. I don't know what to do."

"Find Philip Jones. Make him tell the truth."

"How can I find a guy who graduated years ago? What's the big deal? I can't do this. I can't keep digging up the past. Dad, I...." Josh sensed he was alone again.

"Dad?" Was he the next one to betray his father? He was asking him to do simple stuff, to talk to a few people. It wasn't very hard. And the pain maybe even felt good. To be involved in the beginnings of his life. To make sense out of it.

Josh threw a few more stones into the water. He let the ripples swirl away in the current. And he listened very carefully, but there were no more voices. But he knew where he had to go next.

 

 

~Thirteen~

He found Fred just heading for the parking lot.

"Hey, Fred. Tell Gus I won't be in today, that I got a birthday party to go to."

"Yeah, right. He's going to fire you, and you'll spend all day with nothing to do and no money to do it with. Hop in. We're already late."

"Tell Gus I've got family business. I'm going to find my father. Don't tell him that. Just tell him I'll be in tomorrow, and I'll make up the hours later. Just do it, Fred. Thanks."

Josh watched Fred drag his muffler over the speed bumps and then walked back up to the school and found the path to Pine Street. Then a new idea came to him. He smiled for the first time since he'd talked with Parsons and cut through the inn parking lot and headed down town. He crossed the street to the Chocolatier and pushed open the door. They sold chocolate roses. He selected a pink one and handed five dollars to the cashier.

Walking through town with a pink rose hadn't been part of the plan. Maybe he should have had it wrapped. But he headed up Front Street and then turned into the academy. Grove Court didn't belong to the academy, but it ran right up its backside. The house looked different, a little scary. Josh paused, but then gathered his courage and walked up to the front door and twisted the bell key. The rasping sound of the bell further discouraged him, and he was about to back off the porch when the door opened. Miss Ingersoll, dressed in a pink garden dress, stood smiling at the door.

"Josh. What a surprise."

"Happy birthday, Miss Ingersoll." He handed her the rose. "It's chocolate. I thought you'd, I thought you, I..." She reached for the rose and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

"What a sweet boy. Do come in. Do have some tea with me. An old lady who is very surprised and touched. Come in." Josh followed her through the front hall. A grandfather clock started to chime four o'clock. Josh jumped and then laughed. Just an old lady's house with old lady stuff. They went into the kitchen.

"I have tea and... No, you probably don't want prune juice. I'll just make some tea. Some friends are picking me up at five, so we have a little time. We're going to Portsmouth for dinner. A wild night out with three octogenarians. I'm afraid you can't come with us, even though you obviously want to. Now sit over there and be patient for a minute."

A breakfast nook with a table and two benches built into the side of the kitchen looked out over the back yard. Josh slid in one side. A bluejay was pecking at a dried apple and a squirrel ran wild circles around the bird. Miss Ingersoll put a plate of brownies on the table and pushed them toward Josh. In a minute, she brought two cups of tea and a small bowl of sugar.

"I don't have any milk in the house. But try a slice of lemon." She slid in across from Josh and smiled at him.

Josh raised his cup. "Happy birthday, Miss Ingersoll."

"You're very sweet. But I don't think you came here to wish me happy birthday. No, no. It's all right. My guess is that you came to find out more about your father. I was looking at one of my old yearbooks last night. Have you seen his Senior picture? He and your mother are sitting on the hood of his car. They were so sweet. So young. So innocent.

"Some people thought he was a hood. He certainly dressed the part. Leather jacket. Black boots. Greased back hair. But he was a sweetheart. I used to tell him that, and he'd groan. But he kept coming down to the library. Kept helping me. He was supposed to be in an academic study hall. The only course he did well in was English. Holly Parsons may have been the only other person in the building who liked your father. The only other teacher. Math was his downfall. I would work for hours with him on his homework, but he could never get above a C minus in math.

"He was proud of his work at the voc school. What do they call it now? Technology school. He was studying auto mechanics. He loved cars. He helped me buy my Thunderbird. He thought I needed a sharp car. And I suppose I was supposed to let him drive me around. And drive the car around when I was busy. He bought me those dice that we hung from the rearview mirror — they still hang there. He didn't want it to look like an old lady's car."

"You know, Miss Ingersoll. Nobody's ever told me good stuff about my dad. I thought everybody hated him. A tough guy who was a little too fast and too rough for anybody to get close to. Except for my mother. And she seems to regret that she ever knew him. My grandfather. Well, he'd like a different life, too. Sixty something years old with a daughter still living at home, and a grandson that plays disgusting music. Thank god he's hard of hearing."

"Your dad was a lot of different things. Sure, he was a punk and he dressed and talked tough and liked to see people move aside as he came along the street. But he was a sweetie inside. If you looked carefully enough. And listened to him. I did. Holly Parsons did. Your mother did. He didn't have many other friends, I'm afraid."

"Holly, um, Ms. Parsons ended up hating him — still does. Because of some dumb paper. Did you know Philip Jones? Football player? Popular kid?"

"Philip was another of my boys. I had a mixed bag down there. He was popular, but not one of the happiest of boys. I see him every now and then. He owns the McDonald's in Epping. But he's still not happy. He said he spends seventy to eighty hours a week there, trying to make everything run smoothly. I always worried about Philip."

"Did he and my dad get along? Were they friends?"

"Your dad wasn't good friends with any of the boys that hung out here. Your mother was his best friend. And me. And Holly Parsons. No, he and Philip weren't good friends."

"Then why did Philip let him copy his story? Why couldn't Dad have written his own story? What happened that day?"

It was nearly five when Josh left Miss Ingersoll's. She had apologized three times for the tea, and for not having any more brownies, and made him promise to come back to see her another day.

 

 

~Fourteen~

Josh saw the light turn yellow ahead of him, but he accelerated and pulled out onto 101. Epping was a few miles down the road, and he wanted to get there, he wanted to be there now. Philip Jones was going to answer some questions, help Josh sort out his father's life. He pushed the accelerator to the floor and tried to list questions in his mind, tried to figure out how to crack Jones, how to make him tell the truth. And then he realized he'd watched too much tv, seen too many second rate crime shows. And then he saw the car coming straight toward him.

Josh yanked the wheel to the right and felt his tire drop off the edge of the road. And he yanked his wheel back to the left, and swore as the back wheels lost traction. It wasn't slow motion, just heightened awareness. The car spun in slow circles, in the middle of 101. Oncoming cars swerved around him. The steering wheel moved lazily in his hands. Sometimes the sun was in his eyes, and sometimes it hit his rearview mirror. Sometimes he could see the road clearly, see the cars amazed to see him spinning slowly in front of them, sometimes he could see the trees blowing in a gentle breeze.

And then his car stopped, seemed to gather itself into one piece again, and finally rolled backward down a short incline and nudged a tree with its rear bumper. The sun glinted off the right fender and blinded Josh. He decided he was dead. Death didn't seem so bad. Except for the harsh light. He raised his hand and found the shadow comforting. And then he realized he was still in his car, still in one piece, still on the road to Epping. Or just off the road. And then he realized he had been holding his breath. He exhaled, gripped the steering wheel, and found his center.

The car had slid back into the brush at the side of the road, hiding it from view. But no one was stopping. Dozens of people had seen him spinning out of control down the middle of 101 and seen him go into the woods, and no one was stopping. The unfairness of the world overwhelmed Josh. His near death experience was over and forgotten. But he wanted someone to notice, someone to offer to help.

He looked out the windows. Route 101 was at the top of the incline, thirty feet away. The incline was the new road base. The old road was just visible out the side window — it had been simply buried for the new road bed. Out the other window was an old oak tree, one of its branches fallen and rotting on the ground. The sunlight hit Josh's eyes again, but now he knew where he was. Deja vu, except he wasn't dead. The oak tree was the tree his father had run into seventeen years ago. His mother had shown him. The Union Leader had had a picture of the twisted car. He had seen it. And now he was here, in his own car, seventeen years old, following his father's footsteps.

 

 

~Fifteen~

Josh turned the key. Nothing happened. A sickening silence. Again, nothing. All the lights glowed on the dashboard, but not even a click when he turned the key.

He shifted the car from drive to park, and tried the key again. The car roared to life. Josh held the steering wheel, and stared straight ahead. He shifted into second gear and touched the gas pedal. The car edged forward. A little more gas, and the car climbed the incline. A welcome break in the traffic, and Josh nudged the car out onto the road. He accelerated until the car developed an uncomfortable whine. Then he shifted to drive and sped up to forty-five. Fast enough, he thought. I want to find my father. I don't want to be my father.

Josh turned onto Route 27 and drove slowly and carefully to 125 and McDonald's. He parked away from the restaurant and sat for a few more minutes. Philip Jones would be inside. Josh rehearsed his questions, and then climbed out of the car and walked across the parking lot.

"Next, please." A girl he didn't recognize was taking orders.

"I'd like to see Philip Jones, please."

"Who?"

"Is the manager here?"

"Oh, Phil. Sure. He's out back. But he's busy. Nope, here he is." Jones looked old for someone who was only thirty-four — over weight and balding. Josh could only imagine his father at seventeen, eternally young.

"Phil. Someone to see you." Philip Jones turned around and stared at Josh. Sudden recognition lit up his face, and then a frown.

"Can I help you?"

"Mr. Jones, I'm Josh Allenson, Josh Benson's son. You knew my dad"

"Not very well, I'm afraid. What can I do for you?"

"We need to talk. I'm trying to find my dad, to find out what he was like. Can we talk?"

"Look, this is my busiest time. And we're short handed. Wait until six thirty. The rush will be over.

"Sarah. Get this gentleman a Big Mac and a coke. No charge.

"I'll see you in forty-five minutes." Jones turned away, counting the packages of burgers lined up on the heat table. He yelled something into the back room and then disappeared around the corner.

Josh took the food offering and found an empty table. He used a napkin to wipe up some spilled ketchup and then sat down. He sipped at his coke but didn't unwrap the burger.

 

 

~Sixteen~

Forty minutes later, Philip Jones sat down opposite him. He had two cheeseburgers in torn buns, a chocolate frappe that was leaking out the bottom of the cup, and a wrapper full of french fries. He pushed the fries toward Josh.

"Here. Have some fries."

"No, thank you. I'm all set."

"I didn't know your father very well. We were different sorts of people. I was a football star, big man on campus, center of attention, you know. And your father. Well, your father seemed to keep to himself. I remember he was going out with a junior — was that your mother?"

"Yeah."

"Now wait. Your dad was killed just before graduation. I remember. Was he going to graduate? I always wondered if he had ever gotten any credit. No, no. I'm sorry. What can I tell you?"

"You knew my dad. You worked in the library, helped out down there."

"Yeah, I suppose I did. Those weren't my friends down there. But I'd go there when my friends were busy, or doing homework or stuff. Yeah, your dad was down there a lot. But we weren't friends."

"Do you remember a story you wrote, a final exam for Ms. Parsons? About two happy high school students discovering life?"

"Oh, sure. Your father wrote that and then I...." Jones suddenly froze, and stared at Josh. "What do you want?"

"Just the truth. It shouldn't make any difference to you. You graduated. You had a life after high school. You passed English class."

"I guess it doesn't make any difference, now. I found that story on the computer. Your father had left it on the screen, after he had printed it. I was about to erase it, when I read a bit of it. It was pretty good. And I still had my story to write — and no idea of what to do. Then I noticed your father had a bunch of misspelled words in his essay — real simple mistakes. I corrected the spelling. Changed the names, made it about me and my girlfriend. Well, I'd never had a girl so interested in me. Always in what I was, what I represented, the football star. This story was different. I guess I saw what I wished I had been. So I pretended it was mine.

"When I read it in class, the teacher gave me a funny look. But she liked it a lot. Gave me an A on the exam. I always meant to thank your father for that, to find out if he got a good grade. But then he was killed. Gee, I'm sorry about that. But life goes on, you know. And you seem to be doing okay. What else do you want to know?"

"What did you say to him the day he was killed?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. I was working here the day your father was killed. I started here when I was sixteen, and now I own this franchise. I'm kinda proud of that, if you want to know."

"I don't want to know. My dad came to see you the day he was killed. You talked to him, and he left here and drove into a tree. What did you say to him?"

"Hey, now wait a minute. The story in The Newsletter said he was driving west, toward here, sure, but he hadn't been here. How could he have been?"

"He spun out before he hit the tree. He drove from Exeter to here, to see you. You promised to talk to Parsons. He was driving home when he hit that tree. The cops never figured that out. But you know that. You've known that for seventeen years."

"How do you know that? How could you possibly know that? No one knew that we'd talked that day. You can't know."

"I know now. Let's say I have an informed source, someone who was there. But now you've said it was true. What did you talk about?"

"About nothing. About the story that he had written. Yeah. He was furious that I had copied it, and I laughed in his face. He told me that Parsons had accused him of plagiarism, and I had to tell him how stupid he had been, how witless it had been to leave the story on the machine. He swore at me and threatened me, but I pointed out that I was graduating fifteenth in the class, and he probably didn't even have enough credits to graduate. Your dad was a real loser, if you want to know the truth. Parsons was a loser, too. That's why she believed everything I told her. Now why don't you run along, and be careful driving home."

"Well, thank you very much, Mr. Jones. I appreciate all you've done for me today. You've cleared up a lot of things." Josh stood up and headed for the door. "Oh, yeah. There's just one more thing." Josh fumbled in his pocket, and pulled out something black. Jones dove for the floor. "Oh, no. I'm not going to shoot you. I don't believe in violence. It's just this...."

_He was furious that I had copied it, and I laughed in his face....'

"You're on tape. You're famous. See you later, big guy."

Josh sang with the radio all the way home. He didn't even care that all his radio picked up was WERZ and all they played was The Queers. He went through a speed trap at forty-five and waved at the Brentwood cop. By the time he hit the Exeter line, he was giggling uncontrollably.

 

 

~Seventeen~

"Now what?" It was late. Josh had been in bed since nine, but unable to sleep. He suddenly realized that he had been waiting for his father to give him some advice.

"Hey, it's your show. You tell me."

"We call The New York Times and break the story?"

"You've been away too long. Nobody's going to care about this except for you and me. Mom would like to know. No. She would have liked to have known then. It may be too late now."

"Call Parsons. She should know. Rub it in her face. Make her see how wrong she's been."

"Listen, Dad. No offense, but you lack a bit of tact. 'Hey, Parsons, in your face, baby.' And then she forgives all and loves me and even your ghostly self."

And then, a plan came to him. It was crazy, for sure, but it just might work. He had just begun to talk it over with his father when he fell asleep.

The next morning, Josh went into the school library for perhaps the second time in his high school career. No. Freshman orientation, and his English teacher had brought him down a couple of times sophomore year. And today.

He poked around the magazines, picked up a copy of Sports Illustrated and settled into a chair. He looked around the room, checking out the kids at the tables. School work was going on all around him — it made him kind of nervous. But there was a row of computers on the other side of the room, and one that no one was using. He threw the magazine down and walked across the room.

"May I help you?" Some adult was standing next to him, almost in his face.

"Yeah, back off," he thought. But then he took a deep breath and spoke aloud.

"Yeah. I need to type a story for English. For Parsons. She said we could use your computers. Z'at right?"

"That's right." She smiled. "You can use this computer. Do you want me to set it up for you?"

It was too easy. Josh was sitting in front of the screen, knocking words into the computer. His keyboarding class might even pay off.

His story was supposed to be fiction, but Parsons had mumbled something about fiction and truth being the same thing — just that fiction could be changed to make things work. Well, he would change a few things. Maybe.

THE DAY WAS DARK AND ALL WAS

Nope. That wasn't going to work.

HE HAD STRUGGLED FOR A WEEK, WRITING A STORY FOR HIS ENGLISH CLASS. HE SKIPPED WORK TWICE. HE BROKE A DATE WITH HIS FIANCEE. THE STORY HAD A LIFE OF ITS OWN. IT NEEDED HIM THERE TO MAKE IT HAPPEN.

The words came faster and faster. But his fingers managed to keep up.

BY THURSDAY, HE HAD TEN PAGES DONE. TEN BEAUTIFUL PAGES THAT CAME FROM HIS HEART. FROM HIS SOUL.

"From his heart and soul? Josh, you've seen too many soap operas." Josh ignored the voice in the back of his mind. This story was going to be handed in on time, uncopied.

HE SAT BACK AND SMILED. HE HIT THE PRINT COMMAND AND WATCHED THE PAGES GLIDE OUT OF THE PRINTER. DONE. HE GRABBED THE PAGES AND LEFT THE LIBRARY, THE COMPUTER SCREEN GLOWING IN THE DARK.

Now for the good part.

HE HAD TOLD THE LIBRARIAN THAT HE WOULD LOCK UP FOR HER, AND HE ALMOST HAD. ALMOST. BUT HE HAD LEFT A WINDOW UNLOCKED.

LATE THAT NIGHT A DARK FIGURE CRAWLED THROUGH THE WINDOW AND FLATTENED ITSELF AGAINST THE FLOOR. MOVING WITH THE STEALTH OF A CAT, IT WORKED ITS WAY THROUGH THE SHADOWS, AVOIDING THE RAYS OF MOONLIGHT, UNTIL IT CAME TO THE STILL GLOWING COMPUTER SCREEN. A FEW DEFT STROKES...

"Deft? Good word, Josh. Keep going!"

"Ease up, Dad. This is my story."

"Your story? It's my story. And you're going to make it true!"

...A FEW DEFT STROKES CHANGED THE NAME. AND SPELL CHECK FIXED THE ERRORS LEFT ON THE SCREEN. AND ONCE AGAIN THE PRINTER PRINTED....

"Josh. Find a better word."

THE PRINTER SPAT OUT ITS PAGES. THE SHADOWED FIGURE TURNED OFF THE COMPUTER AND LEFT, CLUTCHING THE PAGES TO ITS CHEST.

THE NEXT MORNING, OUR HERO HANDED IN HIS WORK. BUT IT WAS TOO LATE. HIS TEACHER LAUGHED IN HIS FACE. "THIS IS COPIED," SHE SAID. "YOU HAVE USED ME, ABUSED ME, LIED TO ME. THERE IS NO GOODNESS IN YOU." SHE SHREDDED THE STORY AND LET THE BITS FLUTTER OUT THE WINDOW. Nope. SHE RIPPED THE PAPER IN TWO AND DROPPED IT TO THE FLOOR. OUR HERO LEFT AND DROVE INTO THE SUNSET.

"Kill him. Drive him into that tree. Hey, make it happen."

"Nope. This is enough. But I'll spell check it and then erase it."

"Don't rub it in."

RIPPED IN TWO

BY JOSH BENSON ALLENSON

PERIOD ONE

MS. PARSONS

SEPTEMBER, 1997

Josh copied the story onto a floppy disk. Then he printed a copy. And then he erased the story from the hard drive. Secret agent.

"Listen. She likes stuff double spaced. Did you double space?"

"Hey, look. Will you back off. Who do you think you are, my father?" He wished there were someone there to punch in the arm, but all he had was a voice bouncing around inside his head. A far happier voice than had been there a few weeks before.

First period was just ending when Josh came careening through the door, story in hand.

"I've written my story! Here. Can you read it now?"

"Josh. Where have you been? I've got to go downstairs." But she sensed his excitement, and held out her hand. He watched anxiously as Parsons perused the story. Too soon, it seemed to him, she looked up at him.

"Josh, I thought I'd be glad that you'd stayed in this class. But I was wrong. I promised you a new beginning, but this story you wrote is revisionist history. You're trying to take things that happened seventeen years ago and make them into what you want. I've put all of that behind me. It's over, gone. And I won't allow you to play with my emotions."

"Ms. Parsons..."

"No. Nothing. I'll write a note to Mr. Latvis, and you will have a new English class tomorrow. Done. Finished. Take your fantasies somewhere else." She ripped the story and dropped it in the wastebasket.

Josh left. He'd hoped to salvage his father's memory, not twist the knife in the wound. The anger that had subsided welled to the surface. He didn't bang the lockers. He didn't go downstairs. He left. For good and forever.

 

 

~Eighteen~

Josh let his anger overwhelm him. The storm raged as he went through the woods and across Pine Street. His only purpose was to keep moving, to move away from the school, to let the hurt dig deeper and deeper into his soul. And so he was surprised when Miss Ingersoll found him on her front porch, weeping inconsolably. She led him into her front parlor and brought him tea. Then she left him just long enough for him to compose himself. And then she came in with her own cup of tea and listened while he spilled out his adventures and his hopes of the last few days.

When he was through, he felt his whole body sag, and thought the tears were coming again. But he looked up and saw Miss Ingersoll smiling at him. She reached over and put her hand on top of his.

"It's all right, Josh. You've done very well. But Holly has years of built up anger inside of her, and that's a very hard thing to change."

"But we thought, we hoped that she might..."

"We? Did someone help you with this plan?"

"Just Dad. We wrote it togeth..." Josh froze. The anger turned to panic, and he bolted from the chair. Miss Ingersoll gently pushed him back down.

"It must be wonderful to have your dad help you." She didn't seem surprised, or disbelieving. "We all need as much help as we can to get through this life, and doing it alone is nearly impossible. Now just sit still and let's see if we can work this out. What do you want?"

"The truth. Just the truth. That's all."

"And you think that you have it. And that other people don't?"

"Yes. Ms. Parsons thinks Dad cheated. Mom thinks he drove off and left her. And you.... I don't know what you think."

"I think I believe you. I think you're a wonderful boy, as wonderful as your father. But you're not worried about that. You just want all these people to know how wonderful your father was. Or to know that the boy they thought they knew was the real Josh Benson. I think we can do something about that. Do you really have Philip Jones on tape? And do you know how to make tea?"

Josh sat entranced as Miss Ingersoll spelled out her plan.

 

~Nineteen~

He didn't go to English class the next day. No one was in the teachers' mailroom when he went to Holly Parsons' box, and no one saw him drop the note, addressed in an elegant and ancient hand, in her mailbox.

After school, he went through the woods and across Pine Street. By the time he reached Grove Court, he had settled into anxious anticipation. Miss Ingersoll's house loomed in front of him. He went to the side door and tried the knob. It turned and the door swung open. The back hall was damp. He closed the door behind him and the darkness spooked him. But he moved forward. The door to the kitchen was closed. He turned the knob slowly. The door stuck and he felt a wave of panic swelling inside.

Courage, he told himself. But why did he suddenly feel so all alone? He needed his father's voice to soothe him. He pushed the door again and the hinges creaked, but the door opened. He surveyed the kitchen and found the kettle. He filled it with water and put it on the stove. Nothing happened when he turned the gas knob, except for a sharp hiss and a smell of rotten eggs. Then his eyes fell on the box of matches. Stupid of me, he thought, and lit a match. The small explosion singed the hair on his arms, but didn't seem to harm anything else. And the burner under the kettle was lit. Josh sat down at the table and waited. His story had only made things worse. Now Ingersoll's tea party was his only chance. His father's only chance.

He must have dozed off, because two strange things happened. First, he was riding in a car with his father. It was Miss Ingersoll's T-Bird, with the dice bouncing below the mirror. They were driving down Ocean Boulevard, and his dad was singing. One hand on the wheel, one hand out the window, holding the side mirror. Nothing was said, but Josh was sure they were getting close to something special.

And the second thing was finding Miss Ingersoll busy at the sink. She was humming quietly as she worked. Josh watched her for a few minutes, and then she turned around.

"It's nearly four, Josh. You had best go into the front room and wait there. No. Stay here. She'll use the front door, and I'll serve her tea in the front room."

"There's the bell. Now, you stay here, and come into the front room in about five minutes. I think we'll make a lot of things better today."

She bustled out of the room with a tray of tea and cakes — three cups, Josh noticed. Now there was something for Parsons to think about. He looked around the room. The ancient stove had been turned off. The window was shaded by a lilac bush that had grown too large for the yard. And there was a small sliding panel in the wall that opened into the front room. It was open just an inch. Josh moved close. He strained to make out the voices from the other side of the wall.

 

 

~Twenty~

"It was so nice of you to invite me for tea this afternoon. We haven't done this for years."

"Well, it seemed like time. I've been thinking about you lately."

"About me?"

"Oh, yes. You and one of your students. I thought I saw one of our favorites downtown the other day. Do you remember Josh Benson?"

"Now wait a minute. I won't have..."

"Now stay seated Holly. Josh was one of your favorite students, and one of mine too. Let's talk about him for a minute."

"You saw his son. His son is in, was in my English class. A dead ringer for his father. But I'll not be fooled again. And you shouldn't be, either. Seventeen years ago I was young and foolish. But I found out the truth about that boy."

"How did you find out the truth? Do you remember? Tell me."

"All year, that boy had handed in papers that I thought were his. We worked on them. We talked about them. He pretended that he enjoyed our time together. I even took him and his fiancée out to dinner once. But he was cheating. Cheated the whole year. And it was only by chance that I found out."

"How did you find out, Holly? Do you remember that, too?"

"Of course I remember. I found out the day after he was killed. Philip Jones told me about him. It broke my heart, but I knew I had been lied to. His girlfriend came looking for favors for the poor dead boy, but I wouldn't have any of it. I denied him credit for the whole semester. I wish I could have done more."

"Oh, excuse me, Dear. I think I hear someone at the door." Josh hadn't heard the door bell. He glanced around the corner and saw Ingersoll going not to the front door but to the room across the hall.

Good grief. He heard his mother's voice. She was talking to Miss Ingersoll. What was she doing here? How had she been made to come here? That must have been what Ingersoll had been doing when he arrived. Getting his mother. His heart was beating loudly enough to give him away, but he pressed his ear tight against the sliding panel and listened.

"I was so surprised when you came to get me, Miss Ingersoll. It's.... What is she doing here?"

"I was just leaving."

"Now both of you sit down. We need to talk, and you need me to help you sort things out."

"I don't think you understand. This woman was my boyfriend's teacher, and she sent him off on some fool's errand and got him killed, when he was supposed to be with me."

"Your boyfriend was spending too much time with you, that's why he couldn't do his own work. Always copying somebody else's work, and handing it in as his own. You're better off without him."

Josh knew that both women were on their feet. Would they come to blows? He thought about waiting another minute, but decided against it. Instead, he pushed a button.

"...About the story that he had written. Yeah. He was furious that I had copied it, and I laughed in his face. He told me that Parsons had accused him of plagiarism, and I had to tell him how stupid he had been, how witless it had been to leave the story on the machine."

"What is that?"

"Who said that? I know that voice. Who is that?"

"Parsons was a loser, too. That's why she believed everything I told her." Josh flipped off the tape player and waited.

"Now, do you remember who that voice belongs to, Holly?" Miss Ingersoll's voice sounded sweet and kind, but Josh recognized the edge she gave to the question.

"That's Philip Jones! He's the one that wrote the story that Josh copied. He's the one that said that Josh stole all of his work. What does he mean?" Holly Parsons turned to Miss Ingersoll. "What is going on here?"

"Not what you think. Josh, will you come in here." Josh knew it was only his appearance in the dim light, but both women gasped as he came through the door. And then they recognized him, and both sat down at exactly the same time.

"Gotcha," Josh thought. But all he said was, "Hello, Miss Parsons. Hi, Mom."

"I met your son, Sarah. He's quite a remarkable boy. Reminds me of his father." Miss Ingersoll moved forward a bit, to where she could see both women. "But he had some ideas about the past that didn't quite fit with what I thought had happened. And he wasn't satisfied with the old answers. So he's done some exploring.

"Certainly, you pushed him, Holly, with your bitter memories of his father's death. And you helped, too, Sarah. Josh didn't think it was fair that you had no life, that you felt that his father had run off and left you. That's not the father that Josh knew."

"Josh never knew his father."

"Well, not the father that Josh wanted to think he might have had."

"Well, Josh. I'm outta here. You're all set. You don't need me anymore."

"Dad!" The three women turned to stare at Josh. He realized that they hadn't heard his father say good-bye. And then he realized that his mother, his teacher and his friend were going to help him keep his father's memory alive forever.

 

 

~Twenty-One~

Josh sat in his room watching the light fade. A single star glowed in the east. Jupiter, he thought. Or Mars. Or.... And then he laughed. He'd been laughing a lot more lately. Maybe he was cracking up. And he laughed again. No. He was just happy. The year had started off with so much confusion and anger and sadness. And now he saw a new beginning. Truth certainly was easier to handle. There was a knock on his door.

"Josh?" It was his mother. "I'm going out. Just for an hour. Do you have plans?"

"I'm all set. Who are you going out with?"

"Oh, just a couple of friends. You don't need to worry about me. I'll stop by when I get back."

Josh looked out the window again. The crescent moon had just risen, giving the star a companion. And parked in front of the house was a green Thunderbird. He couldn't see who was in it, but the sparkles on the dice hanging from the mirror glinted in the street light.