Phantom [h.s]

Thirty

Ian is leaned back in his seat, looking past me with a thoughtful expression on his face. His hazel eyes are dark, almost grayish as memories of Harry seem to come back to him. So many questions pop up in my mind as I wait for him to speak, but I push them aside.

"I first met Harry when I was a freshman and he was a sophomore, along with all his other friends," Ian begins. "He didn't talk to me much, none of them did. I only knew him through my mom, who knew his father in high school. He started getting into trouble with the law when he was a junior, and he'd be sitting in my mom's office almost every weekend after being busted for alcohol abuse and disrupting the peace. He didn't care. He knew his father would get him out of it, as always.

"He and Max were always together, but Max never got busted for anything at the parties. Either he didn't do anything at these parties, or Harry always took the blame for everything. I never understood it. I knew Max did all that Harry did at the parties-I went to a few, even-but it was always Harry sitting in my mom's office. It was almost like he had fun with it, like it was some sort of game."

I rest my chin in my palm, trying to absorb everything Ian is telling me.

"I distinctly remember one particular time he was brought in to the station," Ian says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. "He had a black eye and a bruise on his cheek, but he sat in his chair with a big smile on his face. I asked him if he got in a fight, and he looked over at me, looking me up and down. I thought he wouldn't answer me, but he slowly smiled and just said, 'Yeah. And I won.' I didn't quite know what to respond, but my mother walked in and I didn't talk to him again that night. I guess what struck me about that occurrence was his pure...confidence in everything he did. Nothing he did seemed wrong, because he always acted like everything was so right. You don't find a lot of people like that."

The waitress comes by with our food, setting my plate in front of me and saying she'll be right back with our drinks. I thank her and look back at Ian as I begin to eat.

"If I'm honest," Ian says, unfolding his napkin and setting it on his lap, "There weren't a lot of people that didn't like Harry. He was a people person. He knew how to make everyone laugh, how to wrap them all around his finger. He had a certain charm to him. It's no wonder that he was so popular, really." Ian reaches for butter and syrup as the waitress sets glasses of water down on the table, smiling before leaving.

"What about you?" I ask Ian, taking a sip of my water. I set the glass back on the table. "What was your opinion of him?"

Ian shrugs. "When I was younger, I kind of looked up to him," he says. "He was this guy everyone loved with lots of friends and popularity. As we grew up, though-especially last year-I could sense that something was going on, things were changing. I think everyone could, but no one said anything about it."

"What do you mean?"

"It was almost like some kind of force or tension in the air. It started around January, maybe, and continued up to his death."

"Tension between whom?"

"Harry and...everyone, really. He was one year away from graduating, and then going on to college and working for his father's company from there. Everyone knew that. I think maybe..." Ian pauses, taking a drink of his water. He sets the glass back down on the table, running his thumb and index finger along his bottom lip. "I think maybe the anticipation of his promising future got to his head."

I reach for the syrup, pouring it over my pancakes. "How so?"

"His father was...is...the president of their very successful family founded company. I mean, with promises of a high income, steady job for life-Harry would practically be living in the lap of luxury for his entire life after taking over that position. Wouldn't it get to your head, too?"