Chapter 15 Disturbance
Disturbance
“Your Uber is here,” Patricia says, looking at her phone.
She has to get back to work (that waiting room was horrifying, after all), so she ordered me a ride home.
As we walk towards the exit, I consider whether or not I should tell her about the whole Nash situation. I know she has a lot of wisdom, so she could probably guide me to do the right thing—or she just might take over the entire situation and resolve it all herself. She’s that kind of person.
Just as I’m about to say something to her, a couple paramedics and nurses round the corner, urgently pushing a police officer on a gurney down the hallway toward us.
One of the nurses says, “Where’ve you been, Patricia?”
Patricia quickly scans the police officer with her eyes. “What happened?”
“Multiple gunshot wounds. He tried to stop a robbery.”
The gurney passes us, and Patricia starts to follow it, picking up her pace so that she’s moving as fast as everyone else.
While moving, she turns her face to me. “I’ll call you when the test results come in, Hunter. Love you.”
And with that, she and the whole team disappear behind a set of swinging double doors.
It’s actually kind of peaceful in the backseat of this Uber.
The driver, a small twenty-something girl with a big silver nose ring, keeps her eyes fixed firmly on the road and her hands at “ten” and “two,” and she isn’t the talkative type, and her radio is off.
This means I can just sit and think about the whole Nash/Alessandra situation.
I can’t just do nothing. If the police do find the body (or parts of it or pieces of her clothing) and if Nash uses my shoelace to connect me to Alessandra, then the murder might get pinned on me.
And even if her body never turns up and nothing happens with my shoelace and her killing turns into a cold case, then her death would weigh on me for the rest of my life.
I mean, if I never secretly recorded my brother and uploaded his videos to a porn site, then Nash and Alessandra never would’ve gotten into an argument about it and she wouldn’t have ended up dead.
But even if I can rationalize my behavior and convince myself I’m not responsible for her death, then not bringing the murderer to justice would permanently stain my conscience.
And I know I’m not all that religious, but I would still think about God’s wrath and eternal hellfire.
I can’t just call my parents. I mean, what would I even tell them?
“Hey, Mom, Dad, Nash murdered his girlfriend, and I know all this because I installed a spy cam in his room. Here’s the evidence.
Watch. Oh, and all that stuff Nash and Alessandra are talking about, about me recording him jerking off and then posting the videos to a porn site?
Yeah, that’s all true. By the way, I’m gay, and when I masturbate I think about Nash. ”
I can’t just send the video of Nash killing Alessandra to the police.
I mean, yes, that’s hard evidence that he’s the murderer.
But there’s still the matter of my shoelace and fingerprints.
While the recording proves Nash’s guilt, the shoelace could be used to “prove” that I was involved somehow.
I can imagine the police concocting a whole lurid story about two obsessed brothers planning Alessandra’s murder together.
I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.
I think the first thing I have to do is talk to Nash. Maybe I can convince him to turn himself in. Maybe he hasn’t done anything with the shoelace yet. Maybe this, maybe that.
The Uber arrives at my house. I thank the driver, and she nods her head.
As soon as I get out of the car, I see Victor’s old Honda Civic parked in my driveway.
Victor, Oscar, and Oscar’s girlfriend, Blanca, are dancing sexily around the car, as all the car windows are open and a catchy Spanish-language song blasts from the stereo, one that Oscar plays a lot whenever I’m over at his house.
Blanca, a third- or fourth-generation Mexican American (her family has been in the U.S. for decades), starts twerking and backs up her ass into Oscar’s gyrating crotch.
Even though I feel terrible right now about Nash and Alessandra, I can’t help but smile at the sight in front of me.
“‘Sup?” I say.
Victor is snapping his fingers in the air, in time to the beat. “Dance, Hunter!”
Oscar, still pressed up against Blanca’s butt, turns to me. “C’mon, Hunter, this shit slaps!”
Sensing something, I look behind me and see my old white-haired neighbor across the street, Mrs. Prentiss, peeking out her window.
She’s looking at us, while speaking urgently into her cell phone.
I guess it’s not every day she (a Caucasian woman in a mostly Caucasian neighborhood) sees three Latino kids dirty dancing in a driveway while playing Chucho Flash at high volume.
I hope she’s not calling the police. She’s just the type to do something like that.
I start walking towards the car. “Victor, turn the music off.”
Victor keeps dancing. “You can’t stop a song in the middle, dude.”
Blanca stops twerking and runs her fingers through her hair (black with blond highlights). “Don’t ruin our fun, Hunter. God, we were waiting for you for an hour. Where were you? Emma’s been blowing up my phone, looking for you.”
I command, “Turn it off!”
Like last night, Oscar looks a little afraid of me. I guess I have been acting weird and losing my temper in front of him lately.
He steps away from Blanca. “Yo, Victor, kill the music!”
“Okay, okay,” Victor says. He reaches through the driver’s side window and turns off the stereo.
“Chill, Hunter,” Blanca says. “You on your period or something?”
Oscar turns to her. “Shut up, Blanca.”
“You not my daddy, Oscar. You shut up. We’re doing Hunter a favor, taking him to the mall, and we can’t even listen to a song. It wasn’t even that loud.”
“Look, I don’t mean to be a dick,” I say. “But I think the lady across the street might’ve called the police.”
“Why?” asks Victor.
Blanca’s face turns red. “That’s straight up racist!”
The three of them look across the street and make eye contact with Mrs. Prentiss. She immediately backs away from the window, out of sight.
Hoping the old lady will hear, Blanca screams, “This is our friend’s house, bitch!”
Victor starts laughing.
Oscar waves his hand at Victor. “You shut up too, Victor.”
Victor can’t stop laughing. “Blanca’s gonna cut that bitch.”
Oscar takes hold of Blanca’s shoulder. “Get in the car.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Get in the car, Blanca!”
Blanca pushes Oscar’s chest. He wraps his arms around her from behind, trying to wrestle her into the backseat.
There are tears streaming down Victor’s face at this point because he finds this all hysterically funny.
A police car pulls up in front of my house.
Mrs. Prentiss comes outside and quickly approaches the police vehicle.
She exchanges a few words with the male police officer who has now gotten out of the car.
While she speaks to him, she points toward us.
Well, by us, I mean, just Victor and Oscar and Blanca, who are at a considerable distance from where I’m standing now.
It looks like I’m not a part of their group.
My friends finally notice the policeman. Victor stops laughing. Oscar lets go of Blanca. And Blanca . . . well . . .
Blanca takes a few steps forward and yells toward Mrs. Prentiss and the officer. “We weren’t doing anything! We came to pick up Hunter, and we weren’t doing anything!”
The policeman takes a couple of steps into the driveway. His left hand is by his side (near his gun) and his right hand is raised, his palm facing us.
The officer says, “Calm down! Stay where you are, and calm down!”
Oscar pulls on Blanca’s shoulder. “Stay back, Blanca.”
Blanca yanks her body away from him. “Let go of me!”
The officer shouts, “Everybody put your hands up where I can see them!”
Victor’s and Oscar’s hands shoot straight up in surrender. Blanca’s hands are on her hips. I’m completely frozen.
Blanca says, “We didn’t do anything! What’s your badge number?! We didn’t do anything!”
“Hands up now!” says the officer, firmly, forcefully.
I notice the officer’s left hand move closer to his holster.
That’s when I raise my palms in the air and hurriedly (but non-threateningly) step completely in front of Blanca.
I say, “I think there’s been a misunderstanding here. My friends came over to pick me up. That’s all. Mrs. Prentiss, you’ve seen my friend Oscar before. Remember?”
This doesn’t seem to diffuse the situation because the officer’s hand is now touching his holster.
Victor’s and Oscar’s hands go higher. Blanca is shaking her head angrily at Mrs. Prentiss.
I pray for this to end without anyone getting hurt.
Then, a voice: “I can vouch for these kids, officer.”
We all turn and see Mr. Hilton on his front lawn, walking towards us.
He says, “Hunter and Oscar are in my AP English class. And I’ve seen these other students at school. I teach at Point Liberty High. I live next door.”
The officer’s body relaxes, and he nods at Mr. Hilton.
“Is it policy to show up and scare a bunch of children?” Mr. Hilton asks, a tinge of condescension in his voice.
“I was just responding to a call. A disturbance.” The officer gestures toward Mrs. Prentiss.
“I understand,” says Mr. Hilton.
The officer and Mr. Hilton shake hands. They have a quiet conversation with one another. Mr. Hilton looks like he’s reprimanding the officer, and the officer looks ashamed.
After about a minute, the officer looks toward us. “All right. Keep the music down.”
As the police car pulls away, Blanca yells, “What’s your badge number?!”
I approach Mr. Hilton. “Thank you.”
“No worries,” says Mr. Hilton.
Then, all of a sudden, he clenches his teeth and his cheeks start to turn red. He points a furious finger at Mrs. Prentiss, who’s been watching all this from the sidewalk across the street.
Mr. Hilton yells, “Mind your own fucking business, Janet!”
Thoroughly shocked and offended, Mrs. Prentiss rushes back into her house.
Blanca shouts across the street, “Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way in, bitch!”
“Stay out of trouble, guys,” says Mr. Hilton before walking back into his house.
Blanca watches Mr. Hilton’s ass as he walks.
She asks me, “Which teacher is that? He’s hot as fuck.”
“That’s Mr. Hilton,” I say.