Route 262

~8~

About an hour after I would've gotten out of school, the doorbell rights, and there's a policeman there.

"Are you Dante?" he asks. He's tall, broad shouldered, looks like he could beat you up with his eyes alone. I nod, feeling like this is too much for me right now.

"Cell phone records have given us reason to believe that you were with James yesterday afternoon," he says, "right before he disappeared. Could we ask you a couple questions?"

I nod, not wanting to say anything, and the police officer has me go back with him to James' house - his tape recorder is there. I haven't been in here since 4th grade, but the memories are coming back quick.

I follow the officer to the kitchen, where I see none other than Sydney Gates herself, leaning up against the counter. Her arms are crossed, her yoga pants are dusty, her eyes look tired. I could almost feel sorry for her, if I didn't hate her so much.

The officer has me sit down at the kitchen table, while he sits on the other side; Sydney is just standing there, God knows why she has to stay.

He presses the record button on the tape recorder, and he clears his throat. "What did James say to you right when you started your meeting with him yesterday afternoon?"

And right then, right then and there, I decide that I'm not going to help the cops. It's not because I dislike them, or that I don't realize they're only doing their jobs. It's that it's private whatever the two of us talked about. Clearly, wherever James went, it's his own business.

And in my screwed up logic, I decide to tell them nothing.

The officer thinks I didn't hear him. "I said, what did James say to you right when you started your meeting with him yesterday afternoon."

"Words," I say.

The cops eyes bulge slightly. "Right, well... did he drive you anywhere yesterday? Where did you drive?"

"On the roads." Behind the cop, there's a look on Sydney's face that I can't tell is a glare or a smile oddly enough, though knowing her it's likely the former.

His hands are folded and the knuckles are turning white. "Did he say anything about plans to skip town? Anything that might indicate future actions?"

I pretend I'm thinking for a moment, and then I shake my head no.

"Can you say it for the tape recorder?" The cop looks exasperated by now, he's gnawing on his front lip.

"I can't," I say, very pleasant by this point, although my stomach is flopping.

The cop shuts off the tape recorder, and he slams his hands on the table; I jump. He takes several deep breaths, his face red by now.

"We're going to break for 5 minutes," he says at last, "and then we'll see if you can be slightly more helpful."

"Five minutes nothing," I say, "I'm done."

And I push my chair back, and hop down the stairs outside, unsure of whether I've just helped James - or screwed him over for good.