Wait Until Twilight Read online

  “Would you just drive?” David takes us out of Underwood into the countryside, over the small wooden bridge spanning the narrowest part of the swamp, North toward downtown Sugweepo. It’s a pretty quiet town, not much excitement, a lot of the small-town blues. I look at the name of our town on a sign with an arrow and remember reading a description in the AAA guide:

  Two hours west of Atlanta and two hours east of Birmingham, Sugweepo straddles the border of Georgia and Alabama. Population of 200,000, its main sources of income include a small college, the West Georgian, and Eastwire, a large wire-making plant.

  “WHAT’RE YOU GONNA DO ABOUT your project?” David asks.

  “I’ll figure something out.” With the spring air coming in through the windows and the slight smell of honeysuckle and wisteria, I begin to feel normal once more. Normal. I miss feeling normal.

  “You goin’ out to the mall tonight?”

  “I’ll stay home with my dad.”

  DAVID PULLS INTO MY SUBDIVISION and down past all the houses. My house is up on the left. After I get out of the car David says, “Hey, I didn’t know it’d freak you out like that.”

  “You’re not the only one. I’ll see you at school.” I go inside, and Dad’s out of his Sunday clothes watching a Braves baseball game. He’s aged a lot this past year. More wrinkly, more gray hairs on a slightly balding head, a little hunched over but still sturdy. I immediately feel guilty for ditching lunch, so I decide to make it up to him. “How’d it go?” he asks from the couch, his Sunday sweatpants and sweatshirt already on.

  “I just saw something. Something I never want to see again. I don’t want to even think about it.”

  “Sounds pretty awful.” He smiles. “Did you get an idea for your video thingy?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “You goin’ out tonight?”

  “No, no.”

  “Good, I got some steaks we can put on the grill. Get out of that monkey suit and watch some of this game. We’re up three-one.”

  THE NEXT MORNING I GO TO CHURCH, something I started doing regularly after Mom died. It’s funny—I started and Dad stopped, which I can kind of understand. I go to remember and he doesn’t to forget. There were times when she managed to get us all to go, but Dad usually just let Jim and me sleep in. Though I loved sleeping in on Sunday mornings, I always felt a little guilty knowing Mom wanted us all to go. I can’t say I really believe in anything at all, but I go for her sake now. I know she’d like it if I went, and it’s a good time to let my mind wander. That morning I try to think of another idea for my video project. Seeing as how there’s less than a month of school left, and Robert, my ex-partner, has forsaken me to work on his waterfall film with his evil twin, I need one quick. Those strange little babies still sit around the edge of my memory, but it isn’t like a real memory, more like something I had seen on television or a movie. Nothing to see here, move on, I think to myself, and instead start paying attention to the goings-on when the singing of the hymns begins. What amazes me is how you could take a bunch of people who don’t necessarily believe in anything and have them sing these hymns together and it sounds so good. It doesn’t matter whether they believe or not. It’s the song that’s pretty, not them or what they do outside of this church. I even sing, though my singing voice isn’t so good. In fact, it’s terrible, but it’s like I’m singing in place of my mom. It makes me feel closer to her, somehow. We sing a rendition of “Upon the Vision of the Holy Trinity,” and then the preacher gives a short sermon ending with an invocation of the Holy Ghost.

  With an idea for a video project seemingly a million miles away, I drive home. I got a cherry-colored Tempo that was handed down from my brother Jim, who went off to the local college, the West Georgian. After I park in our driveway, I walk down the street, still wearing my church clothes, and play basketball with some neighborhood kids. They’re all younger than me, so I just horse around with them. It’s a lot easier shooting some round ball than coming up with an idea.

  I ASK MR. PECK ABOUT my idea block during art class when Monday rolls around. Mr. Peck’s by far my favorite teacher. He’s a big burly man in his late fifties with these big muscle arms from years in the navy and time spent after school in the weight room. He wears large square plastic glasses and has long sideburns. Very old school. He doesn’t talk much, but on that day he says some useful things to me. “If you think too much about it, you get all confused,” Mr. Peck tells me.

  “So think less?”

  “That’s right. You see those buzzards?” Mr. Peck points to a table of students through the glass window of his office. “All they do is talk and goof around in class. They’re gonna get low grades, and they deserve it! But the opposite, trying too hard, is no good, too. Just try letting the idea come to you.”

  I take his advice and try not to think about it, focusing on my other classes. And then it slowly begins to work…

  Later in the week at gym the ever-bearded Coach Gaily makes us go out onto the football field instead of letting us play basketball like usual. “You pissants need fresh air, whether you like it or not,” he tells us. “C’mon! Hup hup hup!”

  When we all get out there, he takes us through some calisthenic drills: deep knee bends and jumping jacks, toe touching, the whole shebang.

  There’s a chorus of whining from the class: “Coach, why you makin’ us do this?”

  “Yeah! How come we ain’t shootin’ hoops?”

  “Aww Coach!”

  “This is stupid!”

  “You gonna make us do this the whole class?”

  “Shut those mouths! You need it whether you like it or not,” says Coach.

  I notice that among the few students spread out in the bleachers, one girl’s wearing this bright red shirt and eating a banana. It’s my friend Melody. She’s a tall coffee-skinned black girl, maybe a mulatto, but I never asked. It doesn’t matter. She has male admirers of every race, origin, and ethnicity. In fact, she’s one of the prettiest girls in our grade. And she’s one of the smartest. I know she gets good grades. But she doesn’t hang around with the other popular, pretty girls like Susie and Katy. Sometimes she hangs out with the black girls, but most of the time she’s alone. Most everybody likes her, and she’s nice to people and happy most of the time. I’ve accused her of being a lone wolf, which makes her laugh. The thing about Melody and me is that when we’re at school we don’t talk. We act like we hardly know each other. It’s something we’ve never even talked about but always done from middle school. It’s almost like we don’t want anyone to know about our friendship because people would dirty it up with their talking and imaginings. She looks very relaxed up there, like she’s perfectly safe without a care in the world. I like the way it looks, and it stays in my mind for some time.

  “Keep your mouths closed and finish this, then you can do whatever you want, ants!” says Coach.

  There’s a unanimous, “Okay Coach!” We finish our jumping jacks and then are set free. Some kids play football, some stand around talking, and others go up to the bleachers to sit down. Right next to me Joe is telling Clay how his dad is getting him a dumbbell set from Kmart. Joe’s a crazy kid one grade ahead of us. He’s just in our PE class because of time conflicts in his schedule. They keep talking about some of the protein and amino-acid supplements they’re taking. Susie and Debbie, two of the popular, pretty blondes in our class, stand next to me sharing a Dr Pepper with Will Young. Will’s like six feet four inches tall, with long blond hair and, when he’s not swimming on the swim team or playing bass in a local rock band, he’s usually smoking weed. Will comes over and grabs for their soda, but Susie jerks it from him. Sensing danger, I jump out of the way, and the can flies behind me. Luckily, hardly any of it comes out of the can. Will runs over to it and picks it up off the ground. After a quick examination he dusts it off and has a long drink.

  “Eww!” say the girls.

  I begin to walk away, looking for a pickup football game, when I hear a
fizzing sound and then feel something sprinkling on my back. Will’s shaken the can up and is splattering it on me.

  “What are you doing, Will?” says Debbie.

  He’s laughing like it’s some funny joke. I come up to him and push him in the chest. He just tries to splatter me again before running away, laughing his ass off. I run after him but eventually give up. It’s just going to piss me off more, and he’s really fast. I go up to the locker rooms to change T-shirts. Brad’s in there, toweling off from a workout with a few upperclassmen. Brad’s a big guy with longish red hair whom I’ve known, along with Will, since elementary school. He has hopes of being groomed into the starting quarterback of the football team one day. He’s definitely the jock of us three, having already made the varsity football team and become a letterman. But he’s a little bit of a nerd, too. I don’t know anyone who’s read any more books than him. “What’re you doin’ in here?” he asks. I show him my soda-splattered shirt, and he smiles.

  “How the hell am I friends with that guy?” I ask.

  “I’ve asked myself the same question. I think it’s because we’ve known him too long now to break free. Don’t fight it.”

  “Maybe that’s it.” I open up my locker across from Brad’s and pull out a white T-shirt. “So what, now that you’re varsity football you can just skip class and get all pumped up?”

  He lowers his voice and whispers, “It pays to be a dumb jock, man.” Then he laughs. “You should go out for varsity basketball.”

  “I got to keep my straight A’s, and there’s my SATs. Anyways, I just don’t feel like it.” I head for the sink to rinse out my T-shirt.

  “Hey!” yells Brad.

  “What?”

  “Tell David I got someone who needs a small loan.”

  “Now you’re in on his loan-sharking scheme?”

  “Five percent for each person.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” I rinse out my T-shirt and hang it up in my locker before going back out to the football field.

  THAT NIGHT AN IDEA COMES to me in a dream…

  I’m shooting my short film for Mr. Peck’s art class. But it isn’t a film shoot. It’s a war. I’m the leader of a small band of warriors who are fighting a revolution against a tyrant dictator and his large army. A group of their soldiers corners some of my warriors in a field of golden wheat. Many of my men are already dead, but the few who remain are brave. They keep fighting in the face of insurmountable odds. The problem is, they’re wearing red shirts, which make them too easy to see. So I tell them to duck down under the tall wheat blades so they can’t be seen. They follow my orders and disappear into the wheat. There’s this huge machine gun right outside of the wheat field that has been killing many of my warriors. It’s helmed by the enemy general, a man resembling Will, with a Fu Manchu mustache. Out of frustration and fear of having all my warriors killed, I bum-rush the main gun and cover it with a black tarp, which somehow magically turns it into a video camera. Instead of killing my warriors, it’s filming them. But when I look in the camera, it’s those deformed babies wriggling toward me…

  And I wake up.

  THE NEXT DAY I TELL Mr. Peck about the dream, sans the babies at the end. He tells me, “I read one time about a scientist trying to figure out a formula but failing for two years. Then one night the answer came to him in a dream. Looks like the same thing happened to you but a heck of a lot earlier. Work on it and see what you find.” So that entire week I focus on trying to get my idea together. I write down my dream in detail and recruit the school drama club to help. They sure as hell like the idea of being in a short film. Getting all the props is the hardest part. Army fatigues and fake machetes for the tyrants and soldiers, red sweatshirts for the revolutionaries, not to mention a big fake gun. With the help of David and Will we drive our cars with the drama students out to a wheat field I found a few hours southwest of Sugweepo. There I shoot the whole thing on handheld video. I get them to act out the scene in my dream with the soldiers looking for the red-sweatshirted warriors, while the general with the fake Fu Manchu mustache stays back with his big fake gun. We shoot for the entire day, and then when it’s all over, I take everyone out for pizza.

  After we finish, I go over to Will’s house. I’d left a few old tapes from my handheld there in his basement when I made use of their DVD burner. Will’s older brother is down there painting all the walls white. Leaning against a dry white wall are stacks of his Monet-type Impressionist paintings.

  “The tapes are on the desk over there,” he says. “I peaked at some of the footage. Looks good.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What’s up with those baby things at the beginning of the second tape?”

  “What do you mean baby things?”

  “Those three freaky babies on the sofa.”

  “Ah, that. I don’t know. I think David shot that. Pretty weird, huh?”

  “Yeah, they looked so real. I don’t see how they did it.”

  “Me, neither.” Just the thought of them makes me nauseous and creeped out. I grab the tapes and go back up to the kitchen, where I fix myself a hot dog, hoping to settle my stomach. I walk outside with my food. Will and his parents are standing around in their pebble-strewn garden next to where they park their cars.

  “How’ve you been, Samuel?”

  “Good, Miss Williamson. Just busy with school.”

  “How’s that film coming along?”

  “Almost finished. I’ll have to see what there’s to see in the editing room.”

  Will’s big brother comes out of the house with a shotgun and an easel. “I’m goin’ huntin’. Anybody wanna come along?”

  “No thanks, I’m tired,” says Will. He does look tired. “I think I might be coming down with something.”

  “Will, you get inside and get some rest. We don’t need two sick boys walking around here,” says his mom.

  “I don’t feel sick anymore. I’m too good to be sick,” boasts Will’s big brother, and then he walks into the woods alone to paint one of his pastoral paintings. I finish my hot dog and go home. I never did ask him why he took that shotgun with him. Maybe he really was going hunting.

  I SKIP TWO DAYS OF school and stay on the art class computer trying to make the video I shot look like the dream. Editing is the easy part because I can do it alone and on my own time. All I have to do is cut and paste. The problem is it doesn’t look right. It looks too plain. It isn’t until I remember those Impressionist paintings sitting in Will’s basement that I can fix the problem. I manipulate the colors of the video using a program on the computer to make them look as if they’re water-colored. It deepens everything and gives it the dreamy look I want. The blue of the sky bleeds into the yellow of the sun and wheat. The red of the shirts the rebels are wearing show out like blood. It’s like everything has its own aura. Most of the running time of the film consists of the machete-wielding rebels frantically running around in the wheat getting hunted down and picked off by the gun-toting soldiers. After I give the orders and the rebels duck down into the wheat to hide from the soldiers, I come running out of the wheat to cover the dictator’s big gun with the black tarp. Using a little camera trickery, namely turning the camera off and then on while keeping everyone standing still, I turn the big gun into a camera, which suddenly becomes the point of view of the film. The dictator and the soldiers run, and the rebels win the battle without violence. As soon as I finish I show the ten-minute film to Mr. Peck in his office.

  “Looks good.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Is this your final exam project?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Well, just try to look busy until the end of the year, then,” he tells me.

  CHAPTER 2

  I GET SUSPENDED BECAUSE OF THOSE TWO DAYS I skipped while working on my video art project. And as punishment I’m put in “lockdown” for a day. There’s a trailer behind the school next to the Dumpster for that. I get there early in the morning because if you’re l
ate just one minute you get another day. David’s already there for getting caught smoking back behind the school. All the teachers know about the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket but usually don’t say anything because, though he’s sixteen, David supports himself and his mother as an auto mechanic and the occasional small-time loan shark. He has this constant worn-out look about him. I don’t think he sleeps much.

  The other two in lockdown that day are the Japanese exchange student, Yoshi, and a skinny little black kid whose name I’m not sure of. Once you got in there, you have to stay in your cubicle facing the wall and keep your mouth shut the entire day. If you speak, you get another day. That’s the punishment for everything: you get another day. Mrs. Smith, who I think is two hundred and two years old, sits all hunched over behind a desk at the head of the trailer, making sure we all stay quiet. Mrs. Smith’s this old lady who sometimes works as a substitute teacher. She’s real strict and always has a scowl on her face. I spend the morning catching up on homework and readings from the classes I’ve missed. When lunchtime comes, Mrs. Smith has to go get the food and bring it to us. We don’t get the regular lunch. Instead, we get a brown bag of a peanut butter jelly sandwich, chips, an apple, and milk. At least we get it delivered to us, though. “No talking, no laughing, no nothing,” she orders at us before she leaves to get our lunches. As soon as she goes I speak up from my cubicle.

  “Hey, Yoshi. Did you really get in a fight, like everyone’s saying?” I ask. I’ve never talked to him, but in lockdown everyone seems like a comrade.

  “A black tried to throw a rock at me. So I kicked him,” he says.

  “Who was it?”

  “He is here,” Yoshi says.

  “Why’d you throw a rock at him?” I say from my cubicle. There’s no answer. “How long you in for?”

  “One day,” says David.