Calling Home by Michael Cadnum

fast—”
    â€œWitnesses aren’t always reliable anyway,” he said, as though doubting my ability to tell night from day, no doubt recognizing me as yet another teenage zombie. I must have smelled like a distillery. But at least his voice was kind. You feel grateful if the police treat you with the least amount of courtesy.
    They interviewed a dozen other people, and everyone knew zero. Some of the know-nothings probably knew what had happened, but people looked at me with respect, as though I had refused to tell what I had seen.
    â€œThis is insane,” I told Lani as we rode home on the bus. “They admire me because I’m protecting someone probably no one knows anyway.”
    â€œIt’s just drugs,” she said. “It’s just drug money. It has nothing to do with us. Are you upset at what you saw?”
    â€œI didn’t see anything.” But in fact, I was shaken. All day, I had imagined the cherry jam on the guy’s shirt.
    â€œThere’s too much violence in the world,” she said, looking into my eyes. “Try not to be upset.”
    I got off the bus at my usual stop, and did not see him until I nearly ran into him. Even then, I did not know who it was, although he obviously knew me.
    â€œI expected you to be taller by now,” said a man with a military haircut, and a square jaw. He had broad shoulders, and wore a dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and dark slacks, a look I associate with narcotics detectives.
    â€œI expected you to be better looking,” I said, but I didn’t know yet who it was.
    â€œWe have to talk.”
    I knew then who it was.
    â€œActually, you’re looking good, Jack. I guess military school is just the thing for you. You look like a linebacker.”
    â€œI’ll buy you a cup of coffee.” He motioned with his head. “Let’s cross the street.”
    His words were friendly, but his manner made it hard to argue. I had no choice. Jack had always been mean. Now he looked much older, and more like a drill sergeant than a football player. His neck was beefy, and his jaw muscles bunched like biceps as he chewed gum, or maybe a bite out of someone he had taken on the way to meet me. I felt tired and empty, and I wanted a drink.
    He pointed to a booth, and I sat. He brought back a cardboard tray holding Styrofoam cups, and two glistening doughnuts.
    â€œIt’s nice to be back in the old neighborhood,” he said, looking at the interior of Dunkin’ Donuts as though he wanted to burn it. “You miss a place like this.” He found the wad of chewing gum in the back of his mouth, and retrieved it. It was about the size of a dolphin’s brain. He dropped it with a regretful expression into the ashtray. “But you don’t miss much else. What are you going to do?”
    I stared at my doughnut, the exact twin of his, except mine was not ravaged. “Do?”
    â€œWith your life.”
    â€œThis is a pretty serious question.” I laughed. “To ask someone. All of a sudden.”
    â€œI can do a hundred and twenty pushups.”
    â€œHey, that’s great.”
    â€œYou might say, ‘What does that have to do with life in general?’”
    â€œThat’s not what I said. I said it was great.”
    His forefinger was smeared with sugar and fat. He stuck it at me like he wanted me to suck it. “I have turned myself around. I see what I want, and I see how to get it. I’ve worked hard, Peter, and it wasn’t easy. But I’m proud. You might say, ‘Angela’s brother has turned into a total jerk.’ But I’m going to join the Navy and I’m going to go to college, and I’m going to be a naval officer, and I feel very, very good about that.”
    I opened my mouth, and shut it.
    â€œI know this is really a jackass way to present myself after months of being gone, and I hardly knew you anyway. But there’s a future out