The Less-Dead Read Free

about to reach out and give me hug, but then she sticks out her tongue and rolls over. “You’re a big fat liar! Go away!”
    “Hey, come on, Mel. All right, so I didn’t come home last night. So I’m not perfect. But, listen, there’s a reason.”
    She throws a stuffed lizard at me; its beady eye scrapes my cheek. “Yeah, like
what
?”
    “Ouch! Jeez, Mel! I stopped by Aubrey’s after our gig, all right?”
    Melanie’s quiet now and I can tell she’s thinking things over. She misses Aubrey almost as much as I do. Before the whole mess happened, Aubrey used to hang out at our house all the time. She’d braid Melanie’s hair, paint her toenails, give her advice about boys. Slowly, Melanie turns around. Her eyes are puffy, like she went to bed crying. I hope it wasn’t because of me. “So … what did Aubrey say? Does she want to be friends again?”
    “Well, it was late and she couldn’t really talk, but I’m working on it, okay?”
    Melanie sighs. Then she looks at me all serious and her chin begins to quiver. “Noah, I’m scared. I heard Mom and Dad talking last night. They said if you keep getting into trouble, they’re going to send you away. To a farm or something, where they keep horses and pigs and chickens. I don’t want you to go!”
    “Oh, come on, Mel. No one’s sending me anywhere. Besides, I’d never leave you.” I make a goofy face and tickle her; she starts to laugh. My parents think they’re hiding something, but I’ve seen the stuff that’s been coming in the mail lately—pamphlets about Christian farms for troubledyouths. The idea is that if you pay a butt-load of money, your delinquent kid gets his very own horse to care for. Which sounds pretty cool, right? But here’s the catch. The farms are like fascist right-wing military schools. No phones, no radio, no secular music, no coed mingling, and the only book you can read is the Bible. Screw that.
    I hear footsteps in the hallway. I can tell it’s my dad, because he’s got these brand-new tennis shoes that squeak. Melanie’s door is slightly ajar and he raps it a few times. “Noah, is that you?”
    “Oh, come in, Daddy,” Melanie says. “Noah’s here and he’s
absolutely
fine. The reason he was late last night is because he went to visit Aubrey. So, he’s not in trouble, right?”
    When my dad enters, I study his face, wondering if he’s seen the article in the paper about the murder suspect. It’s hard to tell. I brace myself for a proverb like
As a dog returns to its vomit, so a fool repeats his folly
, but instead, he just sighs and pats Melanie on the head. He looks worn out, which may not be a bad thing for me. “Well, sweetie, I’m glad Noah’s home, and I’m glad he’s fine, but—”
    Before he can go any further, I say, “Dad, I’m
really
sorry about last night. What happened was, I stopped by Aubrey’s after our gig and I didn’t realize how late it got.” I take a deep breath and try to look as sincere as possible. “I know I have a lot of work to do around the house, but, well, I was wondering if I could go to the Drag today. You know, with the youth group? Carson wants to go too. I’ll cut the grass and weed-whack and paint the fence and do whatever else you want tomorrow, okay? After church.”
    The “after church” insert was brilliant, if I do say somyself. Also, notice I didn’t lie. I never said Carson and I would be
witnessing
on the Drag. It’s one of those sins of omission, which, in my opinion, is about on the same level as coveting your neighbor’s ox or donkey.
    My plan seems to be working. I’ve definitely thrown my father off guard (his jaw is hanging open) and Melanie’s helping me out by making these big, sad pleading eyes. “Well, I suppose you could do your chores tomorrow,” he says. “But I’m a little confused, Noah. Why the sudden change of heart? And now
Carson
wants to join you? It’s all very odd, to say the least.”
    This is true. My father might be a