Alistair Thwait Has a Killer Mom

By Kristopher MacGregor

So this is awkward. My mom’s a serial killer. No really, I just caught her on camera while I was spying on my neighbors from the woods... That’s less creepy than it sounds, I promise. What, you’ve never been a peeping-Tom from time to time? I can feel the shade you’re throwing. It’s not appreciated. But seriously, dude, I’m freaking out here! Do I turn her in? She’s my mom! I came out of this woman’s vagina! It’s not that simple. I think I’ll just follow her for a while. Capture these kills on film – for evidence. See what she’s up to. I’ll probably regret this. Wanna come along? I’ll introduce you to my friend Murray. Maybe between the two of you, you guys can convince me to ask Madison Hewitt out. Not that it’ll matter. My mom’s probably going to kill us all anyway. FML.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kristopher MacGregor
• Release date: Sep 24, 2016
• ISBN: 9780995067356

Book preview

Author

1

TUESDAY AND THE HITCH[COCK]

Iwant you to picture the hottest girl you know. Go ahead. I'll give you a minute. Take your time. I'll wait. No rush. I'm comfortable. You do you for a sec… I’ll do me…

[insert your own mental image here – make sure it’s curvy in all the right places]

Okay. Got her in your mind? How does she look? Is your imagination on overdrive? Are you startin’ to feel somethin’ south of the equator? Great. Perfect. Good job. Now, do me a favor. Jack off to that girl one last time and then push her off a cliff in your imagination because you don't need that girl anymore. You need my neighbor. You need my former childhood bestie. You need miss Madison Hewitt. Oh, man, what I wouldn't do for a bridge to Madison's county. This girl... Mm… Take me to church! Let me just breathe in heavily for a sec... Take it all in… The Hewitts have lived next door to us forever. Or at least since I was five. I still remember the day they moved in. Madison had a red ribbon in her hair and looked like that girl from Matilda. The one that was crazy famous and then disappeared completely. You know the one. Except Madison never went anywhere. She just got cuter, and prettier, and then bam! Praise the lord! She went full-on, supernova hot. And it all happened on the other side of the fence. It's like there is a god. There isn't, of course. But like, if there was, and I was a much better person, he'd totally have rewarded me with a girl like this next door. At least I think he would. Everyone at the Grammy’s keeps thanking him for their awards so it doesn’t seem like he’s got anything else to do, right? But for real, yo. I mean sweet, baby, Jesus. This girl makes Scarlett Johansson look like a car crash victim, like one of the serious ones that people slow down to gawk at when they pass them on the road. The kind that slows down traffic and fucks up the drive home from little league and forces you to talk to your kid about death. That’s how hot she is: uncomfortable, transfixing, frustrating hot. I’m sporting a semi just thinkin’ about her... well, more than just thinking about her… I’m… I’m kind of lying on my stomach right now in the trees behind her house.

Now, hold up. That sounds creepier than it is. I don't just spy on Madison, okay? I promise. I spy on all my neighbors. Equally. I'm very democratic about this. Alright, so maybe I spy on Madison a little disproportionately, but you would too if you were my age and had blood in your veins. Stop judging. You never look in people's windows when you go for a walk? Even that kid in Home Alone did and he was fucking adorable so take your judgment and shove it. Oh, shit! She's undressing. Hide yo’kids! I put my camera down and look away. See? I’m not that pervy. Well. I am. Just not with Madison. It feels wrong violating her privacy when the clothes come off. I feel like there are some sights you have to earn, you know? Call it my inner romantic. Or guilt. Mostly guilt.

I tell Charlie to cover his eyes as well and he looks down on cue. Charlie's my dog. He observes with me. He's totally chill about it. Never complained. He's a chocolate lab. He's ten. He's very well behaved and also a total goofball. One time, he kidnapped a neighbor's cat, brought it into our house and put it in the dryer. My mom went to put a load of laundry in and Mittens almost gave her a heart attack jumping out. I think that was the last time she ever did laundry actually. Like, ever. I didn't blame Charlie though. Cats are stupid. And Mittens? What kind of stupid-ass name is Mittens? Cat people are the worst. I'm probably making Charlie sound much more complex than he actually is. He's really a simple character: he hates cats, he hates squirrels, he eats anything, and of course, he loves to lick his own balls. He was born sterile so our vet let him keep his balls. He's very proud of them. I tried licking my own one time. It didn't work. You gotta be a gymnast to pull that shit off. Aaannnddd… I probably didn't have to share that. But if I’m gonna let you in on my haps, you’re gonna have to get used to oversharing, okay? Cuz I’m proud of my balls, too. They’re very well shaped. Charlie doesn’t have a monopoly on ball-pride.

Jeez. I haven't even introduced myself yet. Where are my manners? Let me just brush these leaves off me and put my camera away... There we go. If I stay here at Madison’s any longer, you're gonna have to excuse me to rub one out and that's no way to start a relationship. Who knows? Maybe we get super close and we watch porn together sometime. But we're not there yet. I mean, you seem great, but... baby steps, right? Let’s hop back on the trail and walk a few houses over. The Jenkins should just be getting home about now.

My name's Alistair, by the way. Alistair Thwait. Yeah. You read that right the first time. Don't go back. It'll still read Alistair. But since you seem pretty decent, you can call me Al. Did you catch that? Paul Simon. Really? You've never heard that song? Chevy Chase is in the music video! Who’s Chevy Chase?? Are you kidding me? Check yo’self, fool! Go and YouTube that shit. It’s dope AF. Never mind. So yeah, my parents named me Alistair. I don't get it either. We're not British. They never envisioned me becoming a butler – I've asked. And they both have normal names: Edward and Deborah. So it's not like I'm the continuation of some grand naming scheme or anything. Speaking of names, yes, I'm aware that my dog has a cooler name than me. Charlie. What a go-to name, right? Fits anybody. Boy, girl, animal, boat. It just fits. You could be a jock at the top of the football food chain or a geek in the basement with that name. But I got stuck with Alistair. I asked my parents if we could trade one time. I mean, Alistair is a kick ass dog's name in my opinion. Would give any dog some instant street cred and an air of distinction. They said no. Whatever.

Let's get this Tinder thing out of the way. I'm six-foot. I have blue eyes. My hair does this curly thing when it's too long, so I keep it short and parted. I figure if your name's Alistair, a part is like a requisite. Plus, people my age are hipster as fuck right now and parts in your hair are like all the rage. I'm seventeen. I'm a high school senior. I like things like hiking, impressionist paintings, Led Zeppelin, capybaras – What’s a capybara? Seriously? Here… You’re welcome.

Image of capybara with two monkeys latching onto it.

I dig Johnny Depp movies that aren't directed by Tim Burton, and I LOVE the sound Rice Krispies make after you pour milk on them. I don't actually like the taste of them, but I luurrvee that sound. It does things to me. Uh, anyways… I like to imagine the tantrum that would ensue if Simon Cowell was told they no longer make bell-bottom jeans. I have an unhealthy love of pears. I don't trust people who don't eat gluten but aren't celiac. I sing Sinatra in the shower. And I live for photography. That’s PHOTOgraphy, not PORNOgraphy, but I’m no stranger to the latter either: the retro stuff, with pizza delivery storylines. Nobody does a good plot in porn anymore. Have you noticed that? Like, it’s a real creative shame. I'm gonna pretend you just swiped right. Great. Let's keep moving. Not too much farther.

What else can I tell you... I live in Purchase, New York. It's a hamlet – yep, those are still things – in a town called Harrison, located in Westchester County, which is just north of Manhattan. If any of that sounded obnoxiously stuffy to you. Well... it is. Purchase is the twenty-fifth richest neighborhood in America. The town of Harrison itself was pretty much an elitist game from the outset. Some dude called John Harrison made a deal with an Indian chief in 1695. The chief told him he had twenty-four hours to ride his horse around as much of an area of land as he could. Whatever Harrison circled, the chief would sell to him. Judging by the town's shape on a map, Johnny-boy was either drunk or his horse was an idiot. Apparently, he didn’t want his horse’s feet getting wet, so that’s why we’re the only community near Long Island Sound without a shred of beachfront. Personally, I don’t think the horse would have minded dippin’ them hooves, but we all have our issues.

Purchase is pretty quiet. The average household income here is over $450,000. The houses are big. The yards are big. The Range Rovers are big. The housewives' tits are big. It's your standard country club vanilla nonsense served with a heaping side of domestic help. Seriously. Every second Monday, Mexico invades, bringing with it enough lemon Pledge and lawn-mowers to start a revolution. It's some major white-privilege bullshit here. Find me a resident who knows the name of their help and I’ll show you a liar. My mom still calls our yard guy Raul. His name is Ramone. It’s been seventeen years. He was the one who helped her into his car when her water broke with me. Like for real. He could tattoo Ramone on his forehead and she’d still get it wrong – AND HE DROVE HER TO THE HOSPITAL DURING LABOR!

For being so close to New York City though, Purchase is pretty sprawled out. There's lots of wooded area in between and backing up along neighborhoods that the mayor likes to call ‘untouched’. I definitely say that with air-quotes. She obviously doesn't go hiking very often because I could show her a ton of bush party sites and about a gazillion used condoms that beg to differ with her assessment of god's country. The woods here have definitely been touched... along with most of the town's teenaged genitals, my own included.

But back to the Jenkins. That's their place just up ahead. The glass and steel mega-rancher that sticks out like a sore thumb in this neighborhood, or it would at least if you could see any of it from the street. They had fully grown adult trees brought in when they bulldozed the previous home and rebuilt from scratch. The only way to actually see the place is to get invited in... or if you're like me and you're lurking around the woods out back. Whaddya wanna know about Stu and Cheryl Jenkins… They’re both in the medical game. He’s an OB/GYN and she’s a lobbyist of some kind. They drive matching Maseratis; if you can guess the gender-appropriate colors, I’ll give you a gold star. They’re basically that couple from Christmas Vacation – the ones who wear matching track suits. Just… with less personality. They don't have any kids. Local gossip says she can't have any but I've overhead Stu in the tennis club locker room a time or two over the years. He hates kids. On my mother's life, I swear I saw him purposefully trip a three-year-old one time at Seth Goldstein’s bar mitzvah a few years back. Kid biffed it so hard he chipped one of his shiny new baby teeth and his kippah flew a good ten feet. There was one of those classic post-tumble silences that toddlers do. That brief moment where you’re like, Oh, maybe he’s not gonna cry. What a brave little soldier, and then, nope – floodgates open, and suddenly I wondered if the Wailing Wall got its name not from British insensitivity, but because stupid little kids kept tripping nearby. Where was I? Oh, right. They don’t have kids. It’s just as well. They’d make terrible parents. Cheryl would never give up her six-pack for a belly and a healthy glow anyhow. Get real. All this childlessness, though, makes these two a couple of real horn-dogs. I mean, these people go AT IT. They’re like the living embodiment of that part in a particularly… spirited… porno when you forget to keep pleasuring yourself for a second and just have to marvel at the sheer enthusiasm being exhibited by the participants. (It just occurred to me I’ve brought porn up a redundant amount of times so far and you barely even know me. Meh.)

The funny thing about this stretch of forest behind our street is that people just assume nobody is out here so they never bother to close any of their damn curtains. It's a voyeur’s dream. I don’t really self-identify as a voyeur, myself, if you were wondering. I’m not a fan of labels.

I always sit against this old maple when I watch the Jenkins. It’s elevated on a berm that's just high enough to see over the cedar hedging they have bordering their backyard.

Charlie, sit, I say unnecessarily. He's a step ahead of me but force of habit, you know? Like when your mom puts her hand over your chest when she brakes the car suddenly. I love reflexes. Muscle memory. Habits. That's stuff's my crack. Charlie will whimper twice at two specific times of day to indicate he’s ready for his meal – if we’ve forgotten that is. Like how does he know? He can’t tell time. Does he work it out by shadow angle? That shit cray.

It's 5:44PM according to my watch, which means the Jenkins' pool light should come on… now. Clockwork, baby. And there's the foyer light. Gonna just pull the zoom lens back out now. Don't mind me. Right on time. The best part about the Jenkins' house is that all the glass makes me think I can see through walls. I can literally watch them go from room to room pretty much uninterrupted. Even the bathrooms have glass walls, the bottom half frosted for a semblance of privacy. Not that they’d ever care about a thing like that.

It's Tuesday so they're just getting back from their jog. Mr. Jenkins sets his Fitbit on the table by the door. Cue tearing his spandex shirt off as he walks straight through the living room and onto the back patio to do some weird ritualistic post-jog stretch thing before stripping naked and jumping in the pool. Stu Jenkins has a MASSIVE… you know… I mean, you can’t not notice it when you’re spying on them. He’s got it out all the time. Look at that thing. Fuck. I showed a picture of naked Stu to my best pal Murray one time. Murray’s gay. You’ll meet him later. Murray pretended to feint. He then pretended to go into some Buddhist trance; he’s of Tibetan origin and likes to play it up sometimes. Anyway, we both decided Stu must have been Cheryl’s doctor somewhere along the way – that he was fondling her during a mammogram or something and one thing led to another and she saw his schlong and she put a ring on it. Oh, we’ve also decided that that shitty Anaconda song by Nicki Minaj is about Stu. Third verse. Defo about Stu.

Mrs. Jenkins heads to her right – my left – toward their master suite. Even sweaty and without her face on, she manages to make taking off her clothes and hopping in the shower sexy. Everything about Cheryl is fake, mind you, but it’s good fake. The kind of fake you pay real good coin for. She's not really blonde. There's no way she was graced naturally with cannons like the ones she's got. And if she's actually Texan, I'll eat the rubbish bin's worth of cum-drenched Kleenex I've got back in my room. That twang she’s got makes about as much sense as a Republican spewing on about reproductive rights. It’s that bad. Talk about an abortion.

Stu usually gets out of the pool after about fifteen laps. I'm clocking him at thirteen right now. I like to rattle off a few shots of Cheryl as she washes her hair. Why not? It's practically an Herbal Essences commercial. Now comes the good stuff. You didn't think I'd leave you hanging, did you? Stu likes to strut into the house dripping and buck-ass naked, getting their polished concrete flooring all wet. I can never figure out who he's peacocking for with this little song and dance number but there are some things you just can’t know. He walks down the glass corridor that separates the main living space from their master suite, which is its own little box on the property, and surprises – as if she's not expecting it – Cheryl in the shower, and they start going at it. Let me set the stage here. There’s a huge en-suite off the back of their bedroom. It’s all glass, too. This bonkers-sized shower could be a guest room if it had a bed in it. It has three of those natural rain shower-heads in the ceiling that every Joe and his dog installed a few years back when they got popular. Oh, wow. Did you see that thrust? He’s right up in there. Hello, indeed. Usually he pushes her head against the shower's outer glass wall as he puts one leg up on the shower's built-in bench to increase his leverage. He pumps her like an African kid trying to get water out of his village's last functioning well – fast, furious and desperate for more. The things I've seen in that shower. Dude, you wouldn't even believe me. One time she put on this strap-on dildo thing and went to pound-town on his ass. Another time, he tried picking her up but he slipped and dropped her and she hurt her ankle. Told everyone in town it was a jogging accident. Yeah, joggin’ up Mount Stu without proper footwear. One time I actually witnessed them crack the glass. I'm not even joking. There’s rough, and then there’s crack-a-glass-wall rough. I've got the pics of the repair guy replacing the pane to prove – wait.

What's that?

The front door just opened and lights flick on in the foyer. Things just got interesting. Some guy all in black and wearing a balaclava is standing there. What the fuck? I refocus my lens. Is this a break-in? Stupid question. Of course it is. As if they’re expecting a guest in a balaclava while they’re having a wet-shag. Although, this could totally be some fetish, cosplay type thing… The man looks around. He disappears behind a pillar. Where'd he go? I increase my lens' magnification, trying to suss him out.

Whoa! Fuck! Ouch! He just popped back into my frame like a fucking Jack-in-the-box. He’s in the kitchen. He scared me, I’m not gonna lie. I'm gonna have whiplash from hitting the back of my head on the tree trunk behind me. What the – he’s taking a knife from a drawer? Amateur hour or what? You should always BYOWeapon. Still, this can’t be goo– aaanndd he’s slicing up an apple from their fruit bowl? I'm not making this up. I swear. I whip my camera back toward the shower. Stu is now ramming little Stu down Cheryl's throat. I'd say they're about half way done. Their water bills must be intense. I zip back to the kitchen. Balaclava is apparently still enjoying a nice snack. He’s washing the knife and putting it back where he found it. This is an incredibly considerate break-and-enter. He's got what appear to be leather gloves on. Really tight ones. He has weirdly small hands – like Donald Trump small. Come to think of it, he’s actually a pretty short little fella. Okay. He’s walking into the massive living room. Is that a – he's got a gun. CODE RED! Do I call someone? My phone's back home. Do I warn them? Fuck that. I'm not interrupting a man with a gun who eats his victims’ fruit before playtime. What's he doing? Silencer. No way! Is this for real? He’s slowly screwing his silencer onto his pistol. Not unlike how Stu is slowly screwing that anaconda we were talking about into his wife. Oh shit. He's heading toward the master. Do I watch this? I'm frozen with nerves anyhow. I don’t really have a choice. Even Charlie's paying attention now.

I can think of like ten ways that sex could be interrupted that would be inopportune, but this is gonna be next level. No way they see this coming. To prove I’m a thinker though, here are ten inopportune ways for sex to be interrupted:

by a police officer tapping on the window (looking at you, Hugh Grant)

by your mom

by a fallen plane engine crashing through your roof (that really would have spiced up that scene in Donnie Darko. Just sayin’. Hollywood, call me)

by a nun opening the broom closet (Father O’Malley strikes again – sorry, little Timmy)

by Ashton Kutcher jumping out and yelling, You just got Punk’d.

by your partner revealing they’re actually your long lost sibling

by an attack on Pearl Harbour (that must have happened, right? Nothing kills the mood like an act of war before breakfast)

by an attack on Hiroshima (even worse – nothing says revert blood back to the brain like a mushroom cloud… too soon?)

by the lights being turned on and realizing your partner is a blow up doll of… Steve Buscemi

by zombies (zombies are always inopportune)

Stu’s got Cheryl back against the window again and they're both facing outside in my general direction. Sneaky McAppleSnack is behind them now. He’s leaning against the bathroom doorway and taking in the sights. Must be interesting from that angle. Stop it, Al. No time for that. Stu lowers himself onto the shower's bench, Cheryl still on him. TURN AROUND, DAMMIT! Can’t they see anything in the reflection in the glass in front of them? I've gotta be dreaming right now. This can't be real. The man is stepping forward. He raises his arm – FUCK. He’s holding the gun, trigger downward, over the top of Stu’s head. No. Don’t do it, bruh… don’t do it…

BANG!

Jesus Christ, he just shot Stu! Point blank. Right through the top of his head. The bullet must be stuck inside somewhere. I didn’t hear a thing from out here but the way Stu’s head jolted and the recoil of the shooter’s wrist made things pretty damn clear. What a weird angle. I’ve never seen someone shot so vertically. Not that I’ve seen anyone get shot outside of a movie before. Cheryl is still riding him hard from in front. She has no idea. Could the shower’s water be that noisy or is she just moaning that loud? How do you not hear a gun directly behind you, silencer or not? Stu’s hands have fallen away from her hips. She’s gotta figure this out sooner or later, right? Why is the apple man just watching from behind still! There’s blood starting to trickle out the top of Stu’s head now and down his face. Drippity-drip-drip down to the floor. She’s noticed it now beneath her. She’s turning around, corkscrewing herself on Stu’s somehow still erect pogo stick. Oh, man... I squeeze my eyes shut. Open them, dammit! You have to capture this for evidence! I start taking pictures feverishly. Cheryl’s back is to me, arms outstretched, flailing and yelling as she slips off Stu’s third leg. I can’t hear a thing. It’s like a silent movie. Balaclava is just standing there. What is h– oh, shit. He’s raising his arm again. Oh, man, round two. He’s talking. Cheryl is still screaming. What would they be talking about? The man says another few words.

BLAM!

Right in the chest.

Blood spatters all over the shower. Like everywhere. It’s as if Cheryl’s implants were actually grenades and they both just went total ISIS on her innards. It's a dripping red glass case of emotion. Cheryl's making Ron Burgundy look reasonable; she's losing it. Coughing up blood. Tripping over herself. She falls to her knees, begging. How is she still up and speaking? She just took a shot to the heart. And more importantly, what the fuck is going on here! Is this a hit? It's gotta be a hit. What did the Jenkins get into? Drugs, I bet. These people have cocaine habit written all over them.

BAM!

And she’s down. Game over… Head shot. This one goes clear through her skull and cracks the glass a little behind her. It spiders out and the blood traps into the narrow fractures, creating a red web as the water washes away the rest.

What is he doing now? Why is he rearranging the bodies? Cleaning off the gun. Taking off the silencer. He’s gonna make it look like a murder-suicide? Gun, meet Cheryl’s hand. He’s not even going to turn the shower off. That is not gonna help the smell in there if nobody finds them for a few days. Rank, man. Rank. Wet corpses do not smell good – I imagine. The cleaning woman whose name they probably didn’t even know is sooo screwed next Monday. I mean this is the kind of cleaning job that makes you just say fuck it and hop the next bus back to Mexico or Guatemala, green card be damned. And what kind of cop is gonna buy murder-suicide with those three shots and their angles? Why even bother staging it?

He’s leaving. I whip my lens back toward the living room. The killer just stepped out onto the back patio. Oh fuck. He walks around the pool and toward the back edge of the yard. I'm losing my shit right now. I'm praying Charlie keeps quiet here. It's dark enough that I think we're okay as long as we stay quiet, but now’s not the time for a rogue sneeze or bark. The guy’s opening their back gate. He pauses. Why is he just standing there? He takes his gloves off and puts them in his jacket pocket. He's taking the balaclava off.

I REPEAT: HE'S TAKING THE BALACLAVA OFF!

Do I take a picture? Do I take a picture! Will he hear my shutter? The breeze is pretty heavy right now. It might be just loud enough to mask the sound of my camera. Double check the flash is off, Al. Check. All systems go. I gotta do it. I gotta have this shot, man. What if I can help turn this guy in, right? I mean, I didn't stop what just happened. The least I can do is help catch their killer. Okay, I'm gonna do it. I raise my lens up and refocus. He's a lot closer now than he was in the house. Maybe eighty feet. The balaclava's half off. Turn to me, you trigger-happy motherfucker. Turn to me! It might be too dark. I've maxed out my ISO and made a few setting adjustments. With a little luck in post I might be able to CSI a miracle out of this shot if I can get it. He's turning around, people! Turning around! Look sharp! 3… 2… 1… snap. Fuck, that was loud. Did he hear it? I don't think he heard it! Wait… No… That can't be. This can’t be!

No. Fucking. Way.

I'm hallucinating. I've gotta be hallucinating. Did I drop acid today and forget about it? That’s… HOLY SHITBALL SPAGHETTI, BATMAN… That’s my…

…mom?

2

WEDNESDAY AND THE OPEN VEINS

So I ran last night. I ran like a Jamaican with nothing to prove at the Olympics. I ran like a woman who’s been left alone with Bill Cosby at an after party. I ran like St. Elmo from the fire – that’s what that movie was about, right? Charlie was like, "Ease up, human. I’m freakin’ ten years old! You trying to Old Yeller me with a heart attack?" I knew he had it in him though. Charlie’s got pluck. The sticks and leaves cracked and crackled under our six feet as we booked it back to the house. As we got to our back gate though, it occurred to me: what the fuck am I doing? Dad’s in D.C. Why am I about to willingly confine myself in the same place as my hitmom? Do you like that? New word. Copyrighted, bitches. Don’t steal it. So I just kept running, and running, and running. Until it got dark and I couldn’t see and I had to turn my camera’s flash on just to stay on the trail. We doubled around finally and made our way back to Murray’s, where I borrowed his phone to ceremoniously call home and told mom I was spending the night at the Changs’.

Are you sure? I brought pizza back. Your favorite kind, she said, cheery and not at all murdery.

Aw, man. Seriously? Pizza?

Chicken-pineapple-bacon with pesto sauce from Lil’Franco’s?

She would bring my favorite pizza home the same night I witness her heartlessly murder two of our neighbors.

I know my boy! she confirmed, completely unaware of the irony that I’d only just realized I apparently know NOTHING about her.

Appreciate it, ma. The Changs already fed me. Pop that pie in the fridge though. You’re a lunch-saver tomorrow!

What? She’ll be out at work today. I didn’t want her to eat it all last night. She probably had a killer appetite. Ha. I crack myself up. I hung up at that point. She texted Murray’s phone ten seconds later:

"You boys have fun."

She always makes it sound like him and I are having a covert romance. Murray kept asking me what was wrong and I kept telling him it wasn’t important. The wounds were still fresh last night. The Jenkins’, yes, but mine too. My emotional wounds. My deep, gory, emotional wounds. I wasn’t ready to tell my best friend my mom was a killer – is a killer. Even if I do have the photos to back up the theory. Fact. It’s a fact, Al, not a theory. I think my coping mechanism is faulty. Anyways, I grabbed the handle on the wall under Murray’s loft bed and pulled down the murphy that hides under it. The sheets from my last stay were still on, not that I’d have been in the right mind to change them anyhow. Charlie jumped up the second I face-planted myself into the pillow. I think Murray stayed up and watched Taken 3. I can’t be sure. I just remember hearing Liam Neeson’s soothing but menacing voice as I dozed off and dreamt about my mom’s ‘very particular set of skills’.

Murray’s staring at me. Like intently. Like this-isn’t-a-game-anymore-I-know-something’s-wrong-spill-the-beans intently. I guess I should introduce Murray…

Murray Chang is seventeen, too. He’s a senior, too. He’s my height. Murray is Chinese. His name is Murray because his parents are first-generation Americans who really loved Bill Murray movies for some reason (apparently he was huge in China at the time or something). It’s as good a reason as any and honestly, it’s better than John. There’s like three Asian Johns at our high school. I’m not saying they look alike, but I’m not not saying that I haven’t mixed them up before either. I mean, they’re all named John for fuck sakes. Murray is the odd man out. He doesn’t look like the Johns. Not that the Johns are ugly… It’s just… Murray is sort of… beautiful? Yeah, let’s go with that word. Like you know how Japanese fashion brands use really attractive white people in their ads? No? Well, run with me here. Murray’s the opposite of that. Except he’s not Japanese. How can I explain this… Um… Ask a white girl if she has a crush on Mike Chang from Glee. Welcome to Murray’s world, ladies and gents. To complement his exotic appeal, Murray has flawless teeth. Conspiracy? Or just convenient? You decide. When Murray smiles, that twinkle thing happens. It’s obnoxious. Murray and I have been friends since we both required legitimate assistance going number-two. He was the weird foreign kid (did I mention Purchase is exceedingly white?) and I was that kid whose head was too big for his little body, which is neither here nor there, but I don’t really know how to better end that sentence so…. Anyhow, we hit it off and have been inseparable ever since. We like a lot of the same things. Gory horror films, Alpha Romeos, Grape Crush soda, Clive Cussler novels, poker, rowing, the Metropolitan Museum of Natural History’s dinosaur wing, tigers, and baseball — well, he likes it for the stats. I like it for the peanuts and Cracker Jacks… He likes other sports for stats, too. He gives new meaning to the word ‘mathlete’. Oh, and we both dig musical theatre. Murray got me into that. But seriously, have you seen Bruno Pelletier’s version of Le Temps des Cathédrales in Luc Plamondon and Riccardo Cociante’s late-nineties version of Notre-Dame de Paris? I get all white girl. I can’t even. Did I mention Murray is gay? Oh, yeah. Big mo. Like not big, I guess. He’s pretty on the DL. You probably wouldn’t know unless he told you, or if a rerun of Gilmore Girls came on in the other room — he yelps. I didn’t even know until he told me. In retrospect, I probably should have picked up on the clues.

Clues Murray was gay:

he once asked for tickets to a Tina Turner concert

he had an unhealthy obsession with Chad Michael Murray — and it wasn’t because the name is fun to say

he could make coq au vin, by himself, at age ten

There were others. But you get the picture. Under the radar creative or fan of the ‘D’? It was a total tossup. Then, after his fifteenth birthday party two years ago, after everyone had left, he pulled me aside and told me. No tears. No drama. No preamble. It was shorthand. Abbreviated. I’ve seen longer Snapchats.

Al…

Mm?

He raised his hand vaguely in his own direction.

Gay.

Huh?

I’m gay.

What?

I like boys.

Really?

Yeah.

I shrugged.

Cool.

Mad?

No.

"Call of Duty?"

"Yes. Mod or Black Ops?"

He looked at me like he was constipated.

Da fuck kind of question is that?

Hallmark movies WISH they could come up with stuff that deep. It was five hours later at 3:30AM when I was one leg out his bedroom window to leave that he pulled me back in and hugged me like I was going off to war. I got it. He got it. We were good. Since then he’s managed to convince the captain of our school’s football team to give him regular blowies under the bleachers. Apparently Marc is easy on the teeth. I would never have thought that.

Murray’s still staring at me.

WHAT? I blurt out.

What’s going on?

Nothing.

Charlie is here.

Charlie’s always here.

Through the front door when your visit is planned. You’ve never carried him up the ladder on your back before.

Murray’s parents installed a ladder outside his window when we were twelve because I snuck over so often. They’re very thoughtful people.

Just. Never mind, I shut him down, lifting my arm up to smell my pit. I need to borrow a shirt for school. I should probably just tell him. I’m going to tell him eventually. I just need time to process.

Maria just folded a load. They’re in the closet.

Maria is the Changs’ housekeeper. She’s gifted in the art of fabric softening. Borrowing one of Murray’s shirts is like signing up for a Swedish massage. My nipples don’t even know what to do with themselves, the fabric is so soft. I change into one quickly without looking at it; it has a picture of Justin Timberlake on it. I laugh to myself. On him, it’s super gay. On me, it’s pleasantly ironic. I toss