Cristian Butnariu

"But how are you keeping track?" I ask. "How did you know I had the tapes?" "You were easy," he says. "You stole my Walkman, Clay." We both laugh. And it feels good. A release. Like laughing at a funeral. Maybe inappropriate, but definitely needed. "But everyone else, they were a little trickier," he says. "I'd run to my car after the last bell and drive as close to the front lawn of the school as possible. When I saw whoever was next, a couple days after I knew the last person had heard the tapes, I'd call out his name and wave him over. Or her. I'd wave her over." "And then you'd just ask if they had the tapes?" "No. They would've denied it, right? So I'd hold up a tape when they got close and tell them to get in because I had a song I wanted them to hear. Every time, based on their reaction, I knew." "And then you'd play one of her tapes?" "No. If they didn't run away, I'd have to do something, so I'd play them a song," he says. "Any song. They would sit there, where you are, wondering why in the hell I was playing them this song. But if I was right, their eyes would glaze over, like they were a million miles away." "So why you?" I ask. "Why'd she give the tapes to you?" "I don't know," he says. "The only thing I can think of is because I gave her the recorder. She thought I had a stake in it and would play along." "You're not on them, but you're still a part." He faces the windshield and grips the steering wheel. "I've got to go." "I didn't mean anything by that," I say. "Honest." "I know. But it's late. My dad's going to start wondering if I broke down somewhere." "What, you don't want him messing under your hood again?" I grab the door handle and then, remembering, let go and pull out my phone. "I need you to do something. Can you say hello to my mom?" "Sure." I scroll through the list of names, hit Send, and she picks up right away. "Clay?" "Hey, Mom." "Clay, where are you?" She sounds hurt. "I told you I might be out late." "I know. You did. I was just hoping to hear from you by now." "I'm sorry. But I'm going to need a little longer. I may need to stay at Tony's tonight." Right on cue, "Hello, Mrs. Jensen." She asks if I've been drinking. "Mom, no. I swear." "Okay, well, this is for his history project, right?" I flinch. She wants to believe my excuses so bad. Every time I lie, she wants to believe me so much. "I trust you, Clay." I tell her I'll be home before school to get my stuff, then we hang up. "Where are you going to stay?" Tony asks. "I don't know. I'll probably go home. But I don't want her to worry if I don't."

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