The Secret

You receive a phone call from your two best friends. 'Hey, we’ve done something terribly wrong and need your help. We can’t talk about it over the phone. Please meet us at the spot where we made our pact back in high school. You know the place.' Nervously, you grab your coat and car keys.

           

Squelching the doldrums of Spring Break was no easy task.  Left incapacitated by a viral infection from earlier in the month, my options of afternoon entertainment were restricted to watching The Ellen DeGeneres Show with the decontaminated remote control in a Zip-Lock baggie or seeing how far I could run around my neighborhood before my sickly stomach upchucked whatever it contained.  I chose the former, letting the slick plastic container slide and crinkle to the floor, my arms hanging limp.  I managed to convince my guilty conscience that I would only get sicker from being exposed to the elements.  My vision blurred and my thoughts drifted to the solar warmth that radiated off my German Shepard when he came through his doggie-door after a long siesta in the summer sun. 

Summer.  Only seven months ago I was sitting on the porch of my Senior Week house in Ocean City, Maryland waiting for the rusted-out grill to singe all the bacteria off the hamburgers that were soon to accompany my breakfast of three beers in a 7-Eleven Big Gulp.  It was the best four days of my life and the perfect Segway between the giant circle-jerk that was the second semester of high school and the wet t-shirt contest that was Penn State summer session. 

On day four I began to see our group falling apart, half our house’s male population falling prey to the overwhelming amount of liquor and lack of adult supervision.  A majority of our school was down the shore within a mile radius warranting flocks of our compadres gathering each night.  Our friend’s birthday came and my best friend Troy was beyond blackout drunk but still forging his way through the haze.  Too intoxicated to find his own way to the party he enlisted the help of our friend Pete, who I’d warned earlier in the day that Troy’s drinking had become a problem.  After pleas from the house’s girls and my shouting after them, they disappeared from view around the corner.  That was the last time I saw Troy in perfect health, if you could call it that.  Tending to our other friend Rob, who was babbling drunkenly on his bottom bunk we got a garbled call from one of the party house’s occupants, “…ambulance pulled up…shit-housed…Pete ran off…”  I punched a hole in the drywall next to the bed, “How the FUCK could this happen?  I’m going to find Pete and kick the shit out of him!”  I ran out the back door to find the rat sitting in the driver’s seat of our van.  Seeing my eyes bulging out of my head, he quickly fumbled with the car’s automatic lock.  I hit the side of the mom-mobile at top speed, denting the side.  Flecks of spittle coated the window, “You motherfucker, you left him! You’re dead!”

I snapped out of my daze in a giggle to my dog’s wet nose vacuuming the inside of my ear, one of my favorite childhood sensations.  I looked at my phone to find 2 NEW VOICEMAILS flashing across the screen, hitting redial.  Troy’s voice crackled over the speaker, “Hey, we’ve done something terribly wrong and need your help. We can’t talk about it over the phone. Please meet us at the spot where we made our pact back in high school. You know the place.”  

My nerves on edge, I grab my keys and coat and hop in my soccer-mom van, still dented on the side.  I pull up to the disc golf course separating our suburb from the downtown area and wait for a sign of motion.  There’s crunching behind me and I spin to find Troy and Rob.  “We came by to check on the body…the hole’s been dug up…we have to leave town.”