“You don’t need to do that,” the employee said.
I shrugged, unable to explain the impulse to a stranger. “Make a new batch for the customer. No loss for you.”
The guy shook his head, clearly unimpressed, but he turned back to the kitchen area without saying another word and shouted to the cook for another small fry.
Collecting my order, I brought it to the table where Émeric waited impatiently. He wasn’t so different than the skinny boy with slippery fingers. Hungry and poor.
Émeric had a habit of inhaling food or overfilling his mouth to the point his cheek swelled like a chipmunk’s. It was a heartbreaking habit born from the fear of not knowing when he might have another decent meal.
“Slow down and chew, bud. It’s not going anywhere.”
He tried, and I didn’t remind him again. It wasn’t his fault. Delphine struggled to buy groceries most months, so when I took him out to eat, Émeric often gorged. He wasunderweight and improperly dressed half the time. I made it my responsibility to ensure his basic needs were met as often as possible. Trips to the mall for a new hoodie or the trendiest Air Jordans—whatever the kids were wearing—wasn’t unheard of. I did what I could to give him a better childhood than I’d had.
The kids at school made fun of Émeric’s situation—as nine- and ten-year-olds are wont to do—but I’d been hearing about one particular boy named Christopher Bryan for the past two years.
“Everyone hates him,” Émeric told me regularly. “He’s such a bully.”
Today, it was more accounts of Christopher’s bad behavior as Émeric hoovered perogies. “Jessica Albert said he snapped her bra in the hall before PE, and last week, he stole Miranda Makkai’s granola bar from her lunch bag. She punched him in the face. His nose bled everywhere. It was so funny. The teacher didn’t see it happen, but Miranda got in trouble even though Chris started it. It’s such bullshit.”
“Hey.” I glared across the table.
“It is. Chris had to see the nurse, and he got to go home early, but Miranda got detention.”
My inside voice said,Christopher deserved the punch, but my outside, more responsible voice said, “Violence isn’t the answer.”
Émeric rolled his eyes. “Don’t be such a cop.”
I arched a brow. “Excuse me?”
“Everyone hates Chris.”
“So you’ve said.”
“Come on, Kobe. If a guy is mean to everyone all the time, he deserves to get his lights punched out.” Émeric tried and failed to hide a giggle. “And by a girl. It was so epic. Sucks she got in trouble though.”
“Why not tell a teacher if he’s bullying so much?”
“Because all they do is tell him to stop. Talking to him doesn’t help. Guys like him just want to hurt people.”
Émeric was right—although I couldn’t admit it aloud—and those types of people got worse as they aged. I thought of Jesse and how every single person we’d talked to recognized the sadistic monster behind the charming smile. He was known to everyone on campus, no matter who we talked to. Was he a grade school bully at one time, stealing granola bars, snapping girls’ bras, or teasing children who didn’t live as privileged a life?
Was Christopher a future Jesse in the making?
Telling the teacher hadn’t worked for the young women we’d interviewed. Neither had a petition with hundreds of signatures. Filing a report with the police hadn’t helped Blaze. It had only made things worse until she had no choice but to drop the charges. The female population and their concerns had been dismissed, and Jesse had continued his reckless advances.
Until someone punched his lights out for good.
How far had he taken it? Had his vile behavior caught up with him?
Not for the first time, I wrestled with the idea that whoever had killed Jesse had done the campus a favor. Fuck that punk. Maybe I was wrong, and his murder had nothing to do with assaulting women, but every time I tried to venture in a different direction, a niggling in my gut pulled me back.
Was Jesse’s murder the adult equivalent of Miranda What’s Her Name punching Christopher in the nose?
Émeric slapped the table, startling me out of my thoughts. “Kobe, you’re not listening.”
“Sorry, bud. What were you saying?”
“Tell me everything.” Elifetlanded on the couch beside me, two sweating bottles of beer in hand. He passed me one and held his up to clink necks.
