It's been a while since I've posted anything (or even written anything for that matter). Anyways, here it is and I want brutal honesty!!!
Benji
Wilcox Private High School
Tuesday, 9:52 a.m.
I hear whispers around school, but they aren’t the kind I’m used to. They aren’t the kind that seem to follow you where ever you go, just loud enough that you overhear little pieces of conversation, words like “mother”, “sister”, and “dead”. These whispers don’t stop when I enter the room. They don’t end in everyone turning to stare at me, but they are joined by looks of pity, looks I know all too well.
Everyone is talking about what happened to Leon. Two cops came into my homeroom class and announced that “Napoleon Frederick McCartey IV is no longer with us. He ‘died’ late last night.” I have heard rumors about how he died. Some say he was knifed, others say he hung himself, and the bitter say he choked on his thousand-dollar-a-spoonful caviar.
But they all agree on something: that my dad is investigating his death and that I therefore know something no one else knows. All day long I have been pounded with questions. No one seems to care about Napoleon dying, just how and who did it. They don’t care that they will never pass him again in the hallway; they will never again hear his sarcastic comments in class.
They ask me if my dad’s told me anything. When I tell them no, they don’t hear me. Instead they ask if it was an accident or if Leon was murdered. When I tell them I don’t know any more than they do, they accuse me of lying.
At two o’clock, the TVs in all the classes come on, playing the news. My dad is on the screen, addressing reporters. He has dark circles under his eyes and sounds tired. He is always tired these days. He stands on a platform, behind a podium in front of the police station.
Behind my dad is Mr. McCartey. His eyes are red and puffy; his face is blotchy. He looks like he wants to cry, but he holds it together on camera. His wife doesn’t though. She just keeps crying silent tears. She doesn’t make a scene like some mothers would, just sobs quietly.
Her normally perfect blonde hair is up in a messy ponytail. His face is covered in stubble. They look disheveled, and they, like my father, look tired. They are not the successful lawyer and mayor that everyone knows. They are just two people with a dead son. They stand together, but do not touch each other. They do not hold hands or even look at each other. Mr. McCartey stares somewhere past the camera, and Mrs. McCartey keeps her eyes focused on the ground in front of her. Neither one speaks.
“Hello everyone,” my father addresses the crowd. “I am Special Agent Rembrandt. By now I’m pretty sure you all know what happened to Mayor McCartey’s son, Napoleon. I am here to address the matter, but I will take no questions. Late last night, between two and four in the morning, Napoleon Frederick McCartey IV was shot once in the chest on 31st Street. He died within minutes and was found the next morning by an officer patrolling the area. We would like anyone who knows anything about the incident to come and talk to us. Even the smallest things that you think don’t matter will help. Once again, I’d like to state that we won’t be taking any questions. Thank you for your time.”
As he finished speaking, reporters began to shout questions at my father, but he ignored them and continued into the police building, the McCarteys and some other officers trailing behind. Then the TV feed went black.
Principle Pewter’s voice came over the loudspeaker, booming throughout the halls of the school. “We would like to express our deepest sentiments to the family of Napoleon McCartey. Please keep them in your prayers tonight.”
