Identity Theft and other stories (collection)

It was the route Jerry would have to take to get to school, but he was in no rush to see that old prison any sooner than he had to. He canceled his turn signal and continued straight through the intersection.

Jerry went along for another mile, then decided he’d better not overdo it and headed back to the man’s house.

“So,” said the man, “what did you think?”

“It’s a great car, but …”

“Oh, I know it could really use a front-end alignment,” said the man, “but it’s not that bad, is it?”

Jerry hadn’t even noticed, but he was clever enough to seize on the issue. “Well, it will need work,” he said, trying to sound like an old hand at such matters. “Tell you what—I’ll give you two thousand dollars for it.”

“Two thousand!” said the man. But then he fell silent, saying nothing else.

Jerry wanted to be cool, wanted to be a tough bargainer, but the man had such a sad face. “I’ll tell you the truth,” he said. “Two thousand is all I’ve got.”

“You worked for it?” asked the man.

Jerry nodded. “Every penny.”

The man was quiet for a bit, then he said, “You seem to be a fine young fellow,” he said. He extended his right hand across the gearshift to Jerry. “Deal.”

* * *

Today was the day. Today, the first Tuesday in September, would make everything worthwhile. Jerry put on his best—that is, his oldest—pair of jeans and a shirt with the sleeves ripped off. It was the perfect look.

He got in the car—his car—and started it, pulling out of the driveway. A left onto Schumann Street, a right onto Vigo. Jerry didn’t have any real choice of how to get to school, but was delighted that some of the other kids would see him en route. And if he happened to pass Ashley Brown … why, he’d pull over and offer her a lift. How sweet would that be?

Jerry came to the intersection with Thurlbeck, where there was a stop sign. But this time he was trying to impress a different audience. He slowed down and, without waiting for the front of the car to bounce up, turned right.

Thurlbeck was the long two-laned street that led straight to Eastern High. Jerry had to pick just the right speed. If he went too fast, none of the kids walking along would have a chance to see that it was him. But he couldn’t cruise along slowly, or they’d think he wasn’t comfortable driving. Not comfortable! Why, he’d been driving for months now. He picked a moderate speed and rolled down the driver’s-side window, resting his sleeveless arm on the edge of the opening.

Up ahead, a bunch of kids were walking along the sidewalk.

No … no, that wasn’t quite right. They weren’t walking—they were standing, all looking and pointing at something. That was perfect: in a moment, they’d all be looking and pointing at him.

As he got closer, Jerry slowed the car to a crawl. As much as he wanted to show off, he was curious about what had caught everyone’s attention. He remembered a day years ago when everybody had paused on the way to school as they came across a dead dog, one eye half popped out of its skull.

Jerry continued on slowly, hoping people would look over and take notice of him, but no one did. They were all intent on something—he still couldn’t make out what—on the side of the road. He thought about honking his horn, but no, he couldn’t do that. The whole secret of being cool was to get people to look at you without it seeming like that was what you were trying to do.

Finally, Jerry thought of the perfect solution. As he got closer to the knot of people, he pulled his car over to the side of the road, put on his blinkers, and got out.

“Hey,” he said as he closed the distance between himself and the others. “Wassup?”

Darren Chen looked up. “Hey, Jerry,” he said.

Jerry had expected Chen’s eyes to go wide when he realized that his friend had come out of the car sitting by the curb, but that didn’t happen. The other boy just pointed to the side of the road.

Jerry followed the outstretched arm and …

His heart jumped.

There was a plain white cross on the grassy strip that ran along the far side of the sidewalk. Hanging from it was a wreath. Jerry moved closer and read the words that had been written on the cross in thick black strokes, perhaps with an indelible marker: “Tammy Jameson was killed here by a hit-and-run driver. She will always be remembered.” And there was a date from July.

Jerry knew the Jameson name—there’d always been one or another of them going through the local schools. A face came into his mind, but he wasn’t even sure if it was Tammy’s.

“Wow,” said Jerry softly. “Wow.”

Chen nodded. “I read about it in the paper. They still haven’t caught the person who did it.”

* * *

Jerry finally got what he wanted at the end of the school day. Tons of kids saw him sauntering over to his car, and a few of the boys came up to talk to him about it.