Everyone Dies Famous in a Small Town by Bonnie-Sue Hitchcock (best ereader for graphic novels TXT) 📕

a stranger in the car and him thinking about kissing Conrad, Ben didn’t find it humorous. He rolled down his window to get a little air.

At least the fire would be heading in the other direction if Coyote Jones had his information straight, which he almost always did.

“This one just looks like good old-fashioned arson—a dumpster fire that got a little out of control.”

The radio abruptly turned to static.

“He’ll be back around the next corner,” said Ben, as if she might be worried.

“That guy’s voice creeps me out anyway.” Her face looked even paler than before.

The stereo speakers hissed and crackled like a bowl of Rice Krispies.

“People trust him,” Ben said quietly. “Coyote Jones, I mean.”

“I have good instincts,” she said. “The guy sounds like a nutcase.”

“You aren’t from around here, are you?”

She wouldn’t be saying this if she were.

“Nope,” she said.

“So who were you visiting?”

“You wouldn’t know them.”

“Obviously you don’t know Granville. Everyone knows everyone.”

“Are you trying to make friends suddenly?” she asked, in the unfriendliest tone ever.

Definitely not, he thought, pressing a little harder on the gas.

Ben had tried to talk to Conrad at Mass the Sunday after the kiss, but Conrad wouldn’t even look at him. He was coming out of the room where they kept the chalices and where the altar boys prepared the wine and hosts for Communion. Conrad was the head acolyte, the one who trained the younger altar boys about everything from what to wear (black pants, dress shoes) to how to stand (hands together, fingers straight) and sit (hands on knees). Ben thought the whole thing was ridiculous, but it was also something he loved about Conrad—the way he said church made him feel connected to something outside himself. Ben understood that, but it was Conrad who made him feel that way, not God.

Ben hadn’t wanted to do anything to jeopardize Conrad’s relationship with God; he had just wanted to talk. So he’d gone early, knowing that on that day the priest was hearing confessions. He thought that if Conrad didn’t go to confession, Ben wouldn’t have to wonder if he was regretting the kiss or if he felt guilty about it. Okay, maybe it was too much like spying, but he’d needed to know.

From the back of the church, watching Conrad enter the confessional was like being punched in the heart. Of course Ben should have left, given him privacy, but instead he inched closer, leaning his head against the mahogany door, breathing in the paraffin smell of candles and guilt. He heard Conrad’s confession, whispered quietly, begging for forgiveness. The priest said something about the sins of the flesh, and to go forward and sin no more. Ben was instantly pissed off, but he managed to get outside before Conrad saw him. What a load of bullshit. He wanted to pick up a rock and throw it through one of the stained-glass windows.

He would not let this go. He was going to talk to Conrad directly.

He went back inside to the small room where the altar boys prepared for Mass, hoping to catch Conrad as he put away the incense and the chalice of Communion wine. The priest in the doorway was not Father Doyle but someone new. Ben had never seen this priest, who was disheveled and had strands of gray hair combed sideways across his scalp. From under furrowed bushy brows, he was watching someone leave hastily through the wide front doors of the building.

Behind the priest, in the small room, a young altar boy holding the chalice was staring out at Ben like a deer in the headlights.

“Are you all right?” Ben asked, stepping closer to peer inside.

Both the boy and the priest flinched at the sound of Ben’s voice.

“What’s your name?” Ben asked him.

“Michael,” said the boy, his voice barely audible.

The priest tried to shut the door, but Ben held his hand against it. “You look terrified, Michael,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“I need to go find my mom.”

Ben pushed his hand harder against the door, and the priest stumbled backward, caught off balance on the other side. Michael dropped the chalice with a clang and hurried past. He looked barely ten years old.

“Everything okay?” Ben asked the priest, who had recovered his footing and was again pushing the door closed.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” he said, bolting it from the inside.

There was something really strange about that priest. Nobody ever stormed away from Father Doyle, or looked scared like that altar boy had looked. The thought of Michael’s big brown eyes continued to haunt Ben. He had tried for over a week afterward to reach Conrad but had no luck—Conrad didn’t take his calls and wasn’t home when Ben dropped by. Finally Lula had come to the door to say that Conrad had left town. He hadn’t even said goodbye.

Two weeks later Ben received a postcard with a poem that explained nothing. It read like a suicide note.

Green shoes thrown carelessly on a dry, wooden porch,

Filterless Camel cigarettes

And torn tablecloths holding half-empty beer bottles.

You’re too beautiful for any of this.

And because I cannot apologize enough,

I plant flowers in old leather boots.

And fear the root-bound violet

Will die before morning.

Ben knew Conrad had an uncle in Canada, and the postmark on the card was from a place very close to the border. Was it a cry for help? Apologize for what? The kiss? For leaving? Was Ben the root-bound violet or was that Conrad?

He could not shake the feeling that Conrad wouldn’t have sent it if he didn’t want Ben to come looking for him.

Now he really wished he could read the poem one more time, scan it for some missing clue, but it was in the glove box and he wasn’t going to reach across his passenger again. Coyote Jones’s voice returned, making them both jump as if he’d popped into the backseat. Ben saw the girl’s hand move to the top of her boot. She caught him looking and then pretended to be massaging her leg.