Watchers

Ghost in the Graveyard

What sort of weird twilight zone had I crossed into that put Dylan Doyle in my living room? I could hardly breathe I was so freaked out about it. Corey, who actually recognized Dylan as my enemy, did a double-take when he walked past the room. He didn't say anything though, and I was privately grateful. Not that I would've ever told either of them that . . . but I was. It was more than a little awkward. I definitely didn't want him upstairs in my room. It'd been revolting enough to let him through the front door. So I just brought all the papers down and we sat on the floor of the living room. I spread them all across the carpet.

Dylan grabbed for some of them, but, being in my own territory, I got possessive. "Don't touch!" I ordered. Then, picking through the stories, I pulled out his and handed it to him like it was a snotty kleenex.

He ignored my rudeness and practically jumped on the written words in front of him. I watched his eyes zoom across the pages. I'd never considered Dylan a reader, but he sure seemed to be a good one. When he finished (in about half a minute), he glanced up at me and said hoarsely, "Somebody wrote this?"

"Obviously," I replied. "It's written, isn't it?"

Dylan still ignored my attitude. He was too interested in what was in his hands to get mean. "You didn't write it, though? You just found it?"

"Yeah."

"How weird, man." Anger crept into his face, but it wasn't aimed at me. Suddenly, he barked out, "Somebody's spying on my Mop? That's freakin' messed up!"

Just then, my mom walked past the living room. "Now Cole," she started, "you know I don't like the word freaking. It's—" She stopped when she spotted Dylan. She was drying a dish in her hands. "Oh," she said confusedly, looking first at him and next at me. "I didn't know you had a friend over."

I fumed. "He's not my friend!"

Mom lowered her eyebrows and stared at me. "All right . . ." I could tell she wasn't sure what to say. Then she turned around and left.

Dylan had his eyes down like he was trying not to catch my gaze. After about a minute of stupid-feeling silence, I noticed how totally jerky I'd just sounded. I didn't think Dylan cared, but still. "Well . . . you aren't my friend," I tried to say, tried to make myself sound better. Then I asked real quietly, "Are you?"

"No!" he automatically snapped. He calmed down. "I didn't mean to say it like that."

Things were getting weird. "Whatever. I don't care. If you want to keep that, go ahead. I don't need it."

Dylan got to his feet, knowing I was ready for him to leave. "Right. Thanks . . . I guess. See you around."

"Sure. Oh, by the way . . ."

He was halfway out of the room but stopped and looked back expectantly.

"Why do you call your grandma Mop?"

Frowning, he said, "Because. When I was a kid I couldn't say Grandma. I could only say Mop."

I nodded like I cared, then turned away. I didn't hear him leave, but I figured he had. As I sat on the couch getting ready to watch some TV, I wondered if the world was coming to an end. When I'd been less crazy, I'd sworn that the planet would have to blow up before I had a normal conversation with that kid. And now, he'd been in my house, in my living room, and I'd asked him if he was my friend. I could never tell Adam. I wouldn't be able to live it down.

That night I actually got a phone call from Adam. He'd been out of school that day because he'd woken up and barfed. Now, he told me, he felt fine. He'd even eaten some dinner. When I asked him why he'd called, he told me that he wanted to meet me outside my house at around nine-thirty; he wouldn't tell me why. So, with that frustration on my mind, I hung out downstairs with my parents (ugh!) until it was time. Then I told them I was heading out with Adam and would be back around ten. My mom and dad didn't seem to mind. It was Friday, and there was nothing in Goldenrock worth getting scared over (unless you counted the trailer people or Dylan's grandmother). Now, I was just assuming I'd be back home by ten. I didn't even know what Adam was planning on doing. Sometimes I hated that he tried to act all mysterious when what I wanted to hear was a good, solid answer.