Real World Read online

  “Tell me, since you’re both in high school, how does the neighbors’ boy strike you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is he handsome, or the type who’s popular with girls?”

  The female detective smiled, and I could see her white overlapping teeth through her bright red lips. Lipstick was smeared on her teeth. I remembered the woman next door with her bright red lipstick, and though I didn’t have any feelings for her one way or the other, I suddenly got frightened thinking that Worm had murdered her. I couldn’t figure out why he’d do something like that, and it gave me a weird, spooky feeling. I was sitting there staring into space when the female detective rested her hand on my knee.

  “Well?” she said.

  It felt hot and awful to have someone else’s hand on me like that, and I shifted to the side so her hand slipped off my jeans.

  “To tell you the truth…”

  “Please, go right ahead. He’s the victim’s son, so there’s no need to hold back. We’ll forget we heard it from you.”

  If you’re going to forget it, then why even ask? I thought. But my mom was watching me with a worried frown, and the older detective looked all serious as he was scribbling notes, so I went ahead and told them.

  “Well, he’s kind of gross,” I said. “Nerdy, and sort of gloomy, like you never can figure out what he’s thinking. Like a withdrawn loner who just studies hard all the time.”

  A withdrawn loner who just studies hard all the time. That seemed to strike a chord. The two detectives shared a glance and stood up. My words seemed to make them label Worm a typical nerdy guy from a family that pushed its kid too hard to succeed in school—so he flipped out.

  They questioned my mom, too, as she sat there at one end of the sofa. What kind of woman was the lady next door? How did the family seem to get along with each other? Any hint of domestic violence? I noticed that even before they began, the police had a set pattern of questions. It was after nine p.m. when they finally finished. All the lights were on next door, so they must still have been combing the place for evidence. I could picture Worm’s father, in shock, leading the police from room to room. I let out a deep sigh. He’d always treated me like I didn’t exist, but still it seemed outrageous for this to happen to him.

  * * *

  “This is terrible,” my mother said. “The police haven’t said anything but it’s pretty obvious they suspect the son. They told me the father’s a doctor who works in a hospital. We’re neighbors and yet I didn’t even know that. I wonder if they forced their son to study all the time to get into med school.”

  I was looking at the TV guide in the evening paper and didn’t reply.

  “How can you be so easygoing at a time like this?” my mother suddenly yelled at me.

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with us,” I said.

  “True, but you knew the lady next door, didn’t you? And now she’s dead. Whether the son did it or not, I feel sorry for him and the mother. I even feel sorry for the father, that stuck-up man with the ascot. His own son killed his wife, can you imagine? How could they ignore things until it came to this?”

  “So what?”

  I don’t know why I lashed out at her. What she said made sense, but something just wasn’t right about it, which really bothered me.

  “You shouldn’t talk like that,” my mom said.

  Her eyes were fixed. The front door opened and Dad came in. He had on a crummy light brown jacket and a black briefcase under his arm. His navy blue polo shirt was all sweaty. His eyes had the same fearful look as Mom’s. She must have called him and he’d rushed home. He always says he’s busy, but if he needs to he can come home right away. He turned to Mom first.

  “Man, what a shock,” he said. “The police just questioned me outside. I didn’t know anything. They were amazed when I told them I didn’t even know they had a son the same age as Toshiko.”

  Mom looked at him with this look that said, You’re always out drinking and never come home, that’s why. The whole thing was too much, so I tossed the newspaper on the table and was about to go upstairs to my room. Dad looked over reproachfully at the scattered paper.

  “Toshiko. What happened to your bike? It’s not outside.”

  “Yeah, what happened was…I parked it in the parking lot at the station but it got stolen.”

  “Why don’t you report it? The place is swarming with cops.”

  Dad chuckled at his little joke but soon turned serious.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “We wouldn’t find it anyway. Sometimes people just use bikes and bring them back to the parking lot. Whoever took it will bring it back.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  Dad didn’t seem to care one way or another. You’re so careless! Mom would normally have yelled at this point, but she was preoccupied, boiling noodles, slicing ham, preparing a late supper for us. As I walked up the stairs I could hear my parents talking, keeping their voices down so I couldn’t catch anything. I stopped halfway up the stairs to eavesdrop.

  “The inside of the house is apparently a wreck,” Dad said. “The glass door to the bathroom was shattered when the woman was thrown against it, and she was covered in blood.”

  “I don’t doubt it. They said her skull was bashed in by a baseball bat.”

  “What could possibly have made him do it?”

  “He must have gone crazy. He took off his bloody T-shirt, they said, and put it in the laundry. He must have calmly changed his clothes and then gone out. I can’t believe it—a wimpy little boy like that.”

  “Boys are strong,” Dad said. “He might be skinny, but boys that age are stronger than you’d imagine. And they don’t know how to control themselves. I’m sure glad we had a girl.”

  “What a terrible thing to say. That’s kind of self-centered, don’t you think?”

  Chastened, my father said, “Guess you’re right. Sorry.”

  I sat down on my bed and called my cell phone from my room phone. “Hi,” a young guy answered. Damn, I thought. In the background I could hear the roar of trains going by. He was outside.

  “You’re the person who found my cell phone.”

  “I’m not sure if ‘found’ is the right word,” he said.

  The guy seemed hesitant. His voice sounded similar to the one that had said, “Sure is hot.”

  “Where did you find it?” I asked.

  “In the bike basket.”

  Was this the person who stole my bike? My blood began to boil.

  “Did you steal my bike?”

  “Stole, or borrowed—I’m not sure how to put it.”

  “That’s my phone and I want it back. If you don’t return it you won’t be able to use it anyway ’cause I’ll stop the service. And I want you to give my bike back. I need it.”

  “I’m sorry,” the guy apologized.

  “One other thing. Are you the boy next door?”

  All of a sudden the phone clicked off. I hit redial but he didn’t pick up. I kept on calling, my knees shaking. I was starting to suspect that the guy who stole my cell phone and bicycle was Worm. Finally I left a message.

  “This is Toshiko Yamanaka. I want you to return my cell phone and bike. My home phone number is under Home on the cell, so call me there. Between nine a.m. and noon I’m home alone, don’t worry. Please call me. I’ll tell you something else, ’cause I think you’re the boy next door. The police are looking for you. I think you know why. It has nothing to do with me, but it was a shock to hear about your mother. I feel sorry for her. I probably won’t say anything to them, but I don’t really know what I should do.”

  I left this message on the phone, and felt depressed afterward.

  * * *

  That night I couldn’t sleep well. I dozed off and had some weird dreams. The one I remember the most is this:

  The woman next door was in my house, cooking dinner. Worm and I were in the living room, watching TV and laughing till tears were streaming down our faces.