the truth. His totally faked shrug faded away as he managed a faint grin. “I sorta got the crap kicked out of me,” he admitted. “I’m Ryan McIntyre.”
Clay hesitated a second, then smiled. “Clay Matthews.” His eyes moved to the duffel bag that still lay where Brother Francis had left it. “You need some help putting your stuff away?”
Ryan struggled to a sitting position, then managed to stand up without wincing too much. “I can—” he began, but Clay had already swung the bag off the floor onto the bed.
Suddenly another boy appeared at the door. “Hey, Clay—” he began, then fell silent as he saw Ryan. “The new guy’s already here?” he asked, coming through the door with yet another boy right behind him. “What happened to your face?”
“Nothing, compared to what he did to the other guys,” Clay said before Ryan could answer the question himself. “His name’s Ryan Mc-Something.” He winked at Ryan. “These are Darren Bender and Tim Kennedy. They’re both assholes, but at least most of the time they don’t smell too bad. And don’t believe Tim when he tells you Ted Kennedy’s his uncle—he lies about everything.”
“That is such a crock!” Tim Kennedy countered. “And it was only one time I said that. One time!” He turned to Ryan. “We were out in Hyannis last summer, and if Matthews had kept his mouth shut, we coulda gone swimming right in front of—”
“You don’t even know if it was the right place,” Clay cut in. “And—”
“And nobody gives a rat’s ass,” Darren Bender pronounced, flopping down on Clay’s bed. “Father Laughlin sure doesn’t waste any time, does he?” he said, deciding he didn’t want to hear any more of the argument that had been going on between Clay and Tim since last summer. “Kip was here on Friday morning, and you’re here on Monday morning.”
“Kip?” Ryan repeated. “Is that who lived here?”
Suddenly the atmosphere in the room changed. “Yeah,” Tim Kennedy said, his voice oddly hollow.
Ryan frowned slightly. “What happened to him?”
The three boys glanced uneasily at each other, each of them waiting for someone else to speak first.
“I heard it might have been drugs,” Darren Bender finally said.
“It wasn’t drugs!” Clay Matthews instantly countered. “Kip didn’t do drugs, and you guys know it.”
“Then what do
you
think happened?” Tim demanded.
Clay’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know. Nobody knows.”
“Nobody knows what?” Ryan asked. “What happened to him?”
Once again the other three boys glanced at each other, but this time it was Clay Matthews who broke the silence. “Kip died,” he said, his voice so quiet that Ryan thought he hadn’t heard the words right. But the expressions on Tim’s and Darren’s faces told him he had.
“What do you mean, ‘died’?” he asked, his eyes flicking from Clay to Darren and Tim, then back to Clay. “You mean, like, he got sick or something?”
“He killed someone,” Clay said, his voice still barely above a whisper. “Some woman. And the police shot him. But it doesn’t make any sense—Kip wouldn’t do anything like that.”
“How does anyone know what anyone’s gonna do?” Tim asked. “It’s like…”
But Ryan was no longer listening. What kind of school was St. Isaac’s? Even the worst of the kids at Dickinson had never gone out and just killed someone, at least not that he’d ever heard of. Then he remembered the people he and his mother had seen on the front steps this morning. They had to have been Kip’s parents. And suddenly he remembered the last words the man had spoken:
…gotta be nuts if you leave your son here…not a good place for kids…trust me on that.
Trust me on that.
Welcome to St. Isaac’s,
Ryan thought. He hurt, he felt tired, and now it turned out he was taking the place of someone who was dead. And not just dead, but shot after he’d killed someone else.
Suddenly Ryan McIntyre just
Clay hesitated a second, then smiled. “Clay Matthews.” His eyes moved to the duffel bag that still lay where Brother Francis had left it. “You need some help putting your stuff away?”
Ryan struggled to a sitting position, then managed to stand up without wincing too much. “I can—” he began, but Clay had already swung the bag off the floor onto the bed.
Suddenly another boy appeared at the door. “Hey, Clay—” he began, then fell silent as he saw Ryan. “The new guy’s already here?” he asked, coming through the door with yet another boy right behind him. “What happened to your face?”
“Nothing, compared to what he did to the other guys,” Clay said before Ryan could answer the question himself. “His name’s Ryan Mc-Something.” He winked at Ryan. “These are Darren Bender and Tim Kennedy. They’re both assholes, but at least most of the time they don’t smell too bad. And don’t believe Tim when he tells you Ted Kennedy’s his uncle—he lies about everything.”
“That is such a crock!” Tim Kennedy countered. “And it was only one time I said that. One time!” He turned to Ryan. “We were out in Hyannis last summer, and if Matthews had kept his mouth shut, we coulda gone swimming right in front of—”
“You don’t even know if it was the right place,” Clay cut in. “And—”
“And nobody gives a rat’s ass,” Darren Bender pronounced, flopping down on Clay’s bed. “Father Laughlin sure doesn’t waste any time, does he?” he said, deciding he didn’t want to hear any more of the argument that had been going on between Clay and Tim since last summer. “Kip was here on Friday morning, and you’re here on Monday morning.”
“Kip?” Ryan repeated. “Is that who lived here?”
Suddenly the atmosphere in the room changed. “Yeah,” Tim Kennedy said, his voice oddly hollow.
Ryan frowned slightly. “What happened to him?”
The three boys glanced uneasily at each other, each of them waiting for someone else to speak first.
“I heard it might have been drugs,” Darren Bender finally said.
“It wasn’t drugs!” Clay Matthews instantly countered. “Kip didn’t do drugs, and you guys know it.”
“Then what do
you
think happened?” Tim demanded.
Clay’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know. Nobody knows.”
“Nobody knows what?” Ryan asked. “What happened to him?”
Once again the other three boys glanced at each other, but this time it was Clay Matthews who broke the silence. “Kip died,” he said, his voice so quiet that Ryan thought he hadn’t heard the words right. But the expressions on Tim’s and Darren’s faces told him he had.
“What do you mean, ‘died’?” he asked, his eyes flicking from Clay to Darren and Tim, then back to Clay. “You mean, like, he got sick or something?”
“He killed someone,” Clay said, his voice still barely above a whisper. “Some woman. And the police shot him. But it doesn’t make any sense—Kip wouldn’t do anything like that.”
“How does anyone know what anyone’s gonna do?” Tim asked. “It’s like…”
But Ryan was no longer listening. What kind of school was St. Isaac’s? Even the worst of the kids at Dickinson had never gone out and just killed someone, at least not that he’d ever heard of. Then he remembered the people he and his mother had seen on the front steps this morning. They had to have been Kip’s parents. And suddenly he remembered the last words the man had spoken:
…gotta be nuts if you leave your son here…not a good place for kids…trust me on that.
Trust me on that.
Welcome to St. Isaac’s,
Ryan thought. He hurt, he felt tired, and now it turned out he was taking the place of someone who was dead. And not just dead, but shot after he’d killed someone else.
Suddenly Ryan McIntyre just
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