Full Release by Marshall Thornton (classic books for 11 year olds txt) 📕

It’s a lovely car, though I don’t know why people can’t buy American. It’s just logical buying American would make things better. Don’t you think it would make things better? Anyway, they were sitting in Jeremy’s car, and I went down to chat with them. His friend isn’t very nice. You don’t think he’s nice, do you?”

“Not particularly, no,” I said honestly. “Did they say why they were here?”

“Jeremy wanted to show Skye the house.”

“They went inside?”

“No, no, no. Not that I saw. But would that matter? It’s Jeremy’s house, too.”

I couldn’t help but say, “Why don’t you tell him that? He hasn’t given me any money for the mortgage in almost a year.”

“Oh well, I wouldn’t know about that.” She stood and asked me, “Do you want another drink?”

“No, I didn’t, I don’t--”

“You don’t have a drink,” she said, looking at my empty hands. “Did I not offer you a drink?”

“You did. I didn’t want one.”

“Don’t be silly. Have a drink!” She walked over to a little brass and glass bar cart. “What can I do you for?” She nearly knocked herself over laughing at her own joke.

“Mrs. Enders, if you saw Jeremy earlier, why were you afraid it might have been Jeremy who hung himself in the garage?”

She looked at me blankly, then said, “Oh, I see what you mean. He wouldn’t have had time to come back and…would he? I suppose I was just thinking about how he seemed. He seemed unhappy. Unhappy people hurt themselves.”

I said an awkward goodbye and left. The minute I got back into my own living room, I found the landline and called Jeremy’s cell. What time had they been there? I wondered as it rang. Would it make any difference to the police? For instance, Jeremy and Skye could testify that my car wasn’t there at, say, seven o’clock. That would prove I got there after seven, but would that leave enough time for me to accidentally strangle Eddie and fake his suicide. Probably not. Of course, if Jeremy and Skye were there at six fifteen it didn’t do me a bit of good.

“Jeremy, it’s me,” I said when he picked up.

“It’s not a good time, Matt. Can I call you tomorrow?” The connection was crap; it sounded like he was in a bar or restaurant. The phone picked up the background noise stronger than Jeremy’s voice.

“I talked to Mrs. Enders. She said you and Jeremy came by the night my friend died. What time were you here?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We didn’t come by.” He was lying.

“She said you were sitting in the car outside. What time?”

“She’s confused. Maybe she’s thinking about a different day.”

“Okay. What other day is she thinking about when you and Skye were sitting in your car in front of the house?”

“She says we were just sitting in front of the house? That’s stupid. Why would we do that?”

“Look, I don’t care why you were there. I just need you to call the police and tell them what time you were there and that I wasn’t home yet.”

“Matt, I told you. We weren’t there.”

“Someone killed Eddie. The police think it was me. You have to tell them I wasn’t here.”

He didn’t answer. I heard him talking to someone in the background.

“Matt, I’ll call you tomorrow. We’re being let into the VIP room. I have to go.” He hung up on me. Wherever they were, it had to be a pretty slow night if they were letting Skye and Jeremy into the VIP room.

Not surprisingly, I had a tough time sleeping that night. I’d done my best to make the couch comfortable, making it up with sheets and a blanket like a real bed. I tried a number of positions: on my side, face-down, curled up like a kitten. None of them worked. I was wide-awake. The whole Eddie thing kept spinning around in my head, which I suppose is where my real discomfort came from.

Around two, I got up and took another Norco. That zonked me out for about three hours. I was awake when the Sunday paper was thrown from a passing car onto my front yard. I heard it land in the damp grass with a thwack. Dragging myself off the sofa, I went out to get it. Only half the lawn was damp. The sprinklers for the other half had failed to go off. I’d have to come out with a hose later. Of course, eventually I’d have to get it fixed. Which would cost a lot of money, but if I didn’t, I’d end up having to re-seed the lawn. Unfortunately, I had bigger problems just then, so I pushed those thoughts aside. I grabbed the thick Sunday paper and ran back into the house.

I pulled the paper apart and flipped through it quickly. There weren’t any stories about Eddie’s death. But there was an obituary. Next to his high school graduation portrait, the piece read:

Javier Eduardo Hernandez born May 25, 1985 in Van Nuys, California passed away on November 10, 2009. He is survived by his fiancée Sylvia Navarez, his mother, three brothers and many aunts, uncles and cousins. He’ll be remembered for his kindness, his bright smile and his generous nature. He planned to go back to college soon. God has taken him instead.

It ended with the time and location of services. I ripped the obituary out of the newspaper and set it by my phone and keys. The funeral was Monday; maybe I should go.

Of course, I couldn’t help but be a little surprised by the existence of a fiancée. I suppose that meant Eddie was bisexual. It had only ever been guys for me, even before puberty I’d had some idea I was gay, so I didn’t quite get bisexuality. I didn’t have anything against bisexuals. Logically, I knew there were all sorts of people in the middle between straight and gay. It just hadn’t occurred to me that Eddie was one of them.

In both