Swallowing Stones Read online

  It was all true, then. The nightmare was real. Michael could no longer pretend, as he sometimes did, that there was a chance he hadn’t fired that fatal shot. The bullet had come from somewhere in his neighborhood. The chances of someone else in such a small area shooting off a gun around noon on that same day were probably one in a million. He had spent weeks trying to get used to the idea that he had committed this hideous act. But always, somewhere, there had been hope. A bullet traveling a mile or more through the air could have come from as far away as the next town over. There had always been the outside chance that someone else had fired a gun into the air that Fourth of July afternoon. Now that chance no longer existed.

  —from Swallowing Stones

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  Published by

  Bantam Doubleday Dell Books for Young Readers

  a division of

  Random House, Inc.

  1540 Broadway

  New York, New York 10036

  Copyright © 1997 by Joyce McDonald

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address Delacorte Press, New York, New York 10036.

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  The trademark Dell® is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

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  eISBN: 978-0-307-81682-5

  RL 5.7

  Reprinted by arrangement with Delacorte Press

  August 1999

  v3.1

  For my mother,

  Mayme Elizabeth Schanbacher,

  and

  for Pamela Curtis Swallow

  acknowledgments

  For their helpful comments, support, and encouragement, I would like to thank Eugene Schanbacher; Dwaine McDonald; Kathryn Moody; Jack, Joni, John, and Jaime Schanbacher; the members of my writers’ group; my agent, Renée Cho; and above all my editor, Lauri Hornik, for her generous inspiration and expert direction.

  Contents

  Cover

  Also Available in Laurel-Leaf Books

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Michael

  Chapter 1

  Jenna

  Chapter 2

  Michael

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Jenna

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Michael

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Jenna

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Michael

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Jenna

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Michael

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Jenna

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  The Healing

  Chapter 25

  About the Author

  prologue

  there is no stopping it; the bullet rips through the hot summer haze, missing trees, houses, unsuspecting birds, coming to roost, finally, like an old homing pigeon.

  Jenna Ward’s hand hangs above her brow, a visor blotting out the sun. Above her, on the roof, her father squeezes the steel staple gun, aiming for the shingle beneath his fingers. The sun ricochets off the shining steel, pelting Jenna’s eyes. She can barely make out her father’s face. He is a dark shadow, moving about clumsily like a squatting troll traversing rooftops.

  For a single moment the sun dips behind a cloud. Jenna drops her hand from her forehead. Her father lifts his hand to wave, but it flops suddenly, the knuckles thudding against the new shingles. His eyes widen like dark coals; his mouth falls open, a silent black zero. Slowly his body folds over itself, and over, plunging to the porch roof below, rolling like a heavy log over the side, coming to rest, finally, by Jenna’s bare feet.

  Somewhere on the other side of Briarwood, over a mile away, in the woods behind his house, Michael MacKenzie gently strokes the silky stock of his .45-70 Winchester rifle while he holds it out for Joe Sadowski’s admiration. And because he could not wait to feel the smooth curve of the trigger beneath his finger, he has fired one shot into the air. It is the Fourth of July, Michael’s seventeenth birthday, and the rifle is a gift from his grandfather. His parents are throwing an all-day barbecue and pool party to celebrate. Before the sun sets, he will eat six hot dogs, four hamburgers, and a half pound of potato salad; he will sneak into the garage with Amy Ruggerio—even though his girlfriend, Darcy, is at the party—because Amy is a “babe” and wants him; he will drive the neighbors crazy with heavy metal blasting from his stereo. He will, in fact, think this is the best day of his life, because in that moment he does not know that he has accidentally killed a man.

  michael

  1

  michael MacKenzie had been awake since four that morning. His heart was pounding even faster than when he took his position at a track meet, waiting for the starter’s “go.” Finally, after what had seemed the longest year of his life, he would have wheels. Wheels and all the good things that went with them. The possibilities swarmed like bees inside his head.

  He had been driving on his permit for the past year, had taken the driver’s ed course at school, and now, one day after his seventeenth birthday, he would take his driver’s test. By noon he’d be a free man, free to go where he wanted, free to cruise without another licensed driver in the car. A free man with wheels—even if they were his dad’s. There wasn’t anything better on this earth.

  By six the sun had begun to spread its orange glow over the treetops. Michael swung his feet to the floor, absentmindedly combed his dark hair with his fingers, then reached to the foot of the bed, where he had tossed his cutoffs the previous night. Suddenly he was reminded of Amy Ruggerio and their sweaty ten minutes in the garage the day before. Darcy had been helping his mom with the potato salad. She hadn’t suspected a thing.

  He told himself Amy Ruggerio was easy, because that was what everyone said. And she had proved it, hadn’t she? But that didn’t change the urgent desire that rippled unexpectedly through his stomach and beyond. He could not shake the image of Amy’s sad brown eyes, her smooth hand on his cheek as she looked up at him. It wasn’t as if they’d really done anything. Just made out.

  Still, there was that thing with her bikini top. He had accidentally torn one of the straps. He couldn’t even remember how it happened. But Amy hadn’t said a word. She’d just knotted it around the thin strip of material that tied in the back. Such a simple thing, but it made her seem so vulnerable. He had said he was sorry. And he was. She had smiled and said it was okay, she’d fix it later. But somehow it
didn’t seem okay. He wished he hadn’t gone into the garage with her in the first place. He should have stayed with Darcy.

  He shot one leg into his cutoffs, then the other. Why was he thinking about Amy Ruggerio anyway, especially today? He had better things to think about, like getting his license.

  By six-thirty he had bolted down two blueberry Pop-Tarts and a glass of orange juice and was headed over to Joe Sadowski’s. Joe was the only one of his friends who had his own car, a Mustang, fire-engine red with mag wheels. And he was letting Michael take his driver’s test with it. Michael’s dad had offered to go with him, had even offered him the family Honda Accord. But Michael explained that he’d already made other arrangements. Not that he minded his dad going with him. He didn’t. It just looked better to go with a friend.

  Joe was still in bed. So was everyone else in the family, except for Mr. Sadowski, who was getting ready for work and who showed up at the front door, towel in hand, with his flannel robe clinging to his dripping wet body. He stared at Michael as if the boy were a door-to-door salesman he was about to shout down.

  “Joe ready?” Michael fisted his hands in his pockets, trying to look casual.

  “It isn’t even seven o’clock.” Mr. Sadowski rubbed the bald spot on the top of his head with the towel. It gleamed a polished pink in the morning sunlight. “He doesn’t usually get out of bed till noon when he has to go to work.”

  Joe worked at Burger King. It was a year-round job, although he put in longer hours in the summer, working afternoons and evenings. During the school year he worked only late afternoons and Saturdays. That was how he paid for his car insurance and gas.

  “I know,” Michael explained. “But I’ve got my driver’s test this morning. He’s going with me,”

  Mr. Sadowski seemed to consider this. Finally he stepped aside and cocked his head toward the stairs. “Good luck getting him up.”

  A moment later Michael stood over Joe’s bed, studying him. Joe had kicked off the covers. His knees were drawn up to his chest, as if he couldn’t get warm enough. He wore only black briefs, and his skin was puckered with goose bumps, even though it was already seventy-five degrees outside. Michael fought off a sudden urge to pull the top sheet over him.

  “Hey, man,” he said, giving Joe’s shoulder a slight punch. Joe rolled over to his other side and pulled his knees deeper into his chest. Michael clamped his hand on Joe’s shoulder again and rocked him back and forth.

  Joe blinked twice and closed his eyes. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he mumbled. His tongue was still swollen with sleep.

  “We’ve got to be at the DMV by nine,” Michael said.

  Joe opened one eye and glanced at the window. “What time is it?”

  Michael cleared his throat. “I thought you’d need some time to get ready, eat breakfast maybe.”

  Joe reached for the digital alarm clock. The bright blue numbers flashed 6:54. “Oh, man.” He lifted one leg and booted Michael in the stomach with his foot, sending him up against the wall. “You’re crazy, man. You know that?”

  Still, by eight-thirty the two of them were on their way to the Division of Motor Vehicles. Heavy metal blasted from the car’s speakers, drowning out everything else, cocooning them in the throbbing, pulsating bass that seemed to come from the gas pedal. The music climbed Michael’s leg and flooded his belly with sound. He beat his hands on the steering wheel in time to the rhythm.

  They had decided Michael would drive the car. He wanted to memorize the feel of the steering wheel, the amount of pressure needed on the brakes to bring the car to a slow, easy stop. As they cruised through town he decided to practice parallel parking one more time, although he’d done it hundreds of times over the past year.

  Michael pulled up next to a beat-up blue Citation. Neither of the boys noticed that the music on the radio had stopped. A commercial for radial tires squawked out at them, followed by a brief traffic report. Michael put the car in reverse and began slowly backing up, careful to turn the wheel enough to angle the back end of the car into the empty space. The front of the car was still in the middle of the street when he felt Joe’s hand on his wrist. The pressure of his friend’s fingers burned into his skin. Joe was staring down at the radio as if it were a time bomb about to explode.

  “What?” Michael asked.

  “Shut up,” Joe said, his voice a low, raspy whisper. “Listen.”

  The news reporter’s voice was as smooth and even as a freshly planed board as he talked about the bizarre death on the Fourth of July of a man from Briarwood, New Jersey. The man had been repairing shingles on his roof around noon when a bullet from nowhere had dropped from the sky and killed him instantly. The reporter concluded by making an appeal to anyone in the area who might have information that would help the local police solve the case.

  Michael never finished parking the car. In fact, he was a mile down the road, heading no place in particular, before he realized he was still behind the wheel and presumably in control. Neither of the boys spoke for several minutes. Joe never bothered to tell Michael he was headed in the opposite direction from the DMV.

  When Joe finally did speak, he said, “It could have come from anywhere. It could have been anyone.”

  Michael’s hands were so wet he was barely able to hold the steering wheel. He wanted to believe his friend. Joe was right. Lots of people had been shooting off firecrackers the day before. Probably shooting guns, too. Especially if they couldn’t get their hands on a few packages of illegal fireworks. Anything to make noise. That’s what the Fourth was about, right? Making a lot of noise. Guns probably had been going off all over the place.

  Michael squeezed his eyes shut, as if he were fighting off a headache. Who was he kidding? The reporter had said it had happened around noon. That was when Michael had been showing off the Winchester to Joe. He looked over at his friend, saw the limp dirty-blond waves of his shoulder-length hair brush his pale cheek as he stared down at the floor, and he knew Joe was thinking the same thing.

  “I shot it into the air,” Michael said, scarcely able to breathe. “In the air, man. The bullet wasn’t supposed to go anyplace.” He pulled the car over to the shoulder and stopped. He did not trust himself to drive. Joe looked at him and shook his head. Michael couldn’t tell whether he was disagreeing with him about the shooting or saying he didn’t want to drive either.

  The two of them sat in the car, letting the sun bake them through the roof. It never occurred to Michael to turn the engine back on so that they’d at least have air-conditioning.

  Finally Joe pulled himself up straight and brushed his damp hair behind his ears. A single gold earring in the shape of a skull dangled from his earlobe. He grabbed Michael’s upper arm as he might have grabbed the arm of a drowning man. “Listen,” he said, leaning forward, “it was an accident.”

  “But it’s still manslaughter, right? You could go to prison for something like that, right?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” Joe shifted his gaze away from Michael’s eyes. “Anyway, I think when it’s an accident it’s called involuntary manslaughter or something like that.” He tightened his grip. “Look, nobody has to find out. Not if you get rid of the gun.”

  Michael felt the crablike pinch of Joe’s fingers digging into his bare flesh. He yanked his arm away. “I’ll know,” he said.

  “Get serious, man. Even if they don’t send you to prison, think how this is going to look on your record. You can kiss off all those fancy colleges you were thinking of applying to.”

  Michael thought about the stack of university catalogs and applications on his desk at home. He might not have been Ivy League material, but he was counting on going to a good school, Lehigh maybe, or Lafayette. The full impact of what Joe had just said was beginning to sink in. This was his future they were talking about, everything Michael had been working for.

  “There’s some things you just got to live with,” Joe was saying. “Things you do. You know? Stuff you don�
��t want anybody to know about.”

  Michael looked over at his friend. He’d known Joe since second grade. They’d been best friends all these years, even though they were as different as night and day. He also knew he was Joe’s only real friend. Most of the other kids at school had more or less written Joe off back in eighth grade when he’d been caught smashing roadside mailboxes with a baseball bat at one o’clock in the morning, drunk.

  But no matter what kind of trouble Joe got into over the years, Michael still believed he was basically a decent person. And, even more important, he was the most loyal friend Michael had ever had.

  Michael licked his lips. They were dry and tasted like salt. “Yeah, well, what would you know about it?”

  “Come on, man. I’ve done things I ain’t proud of. Nobody knows that better than you.” Joe nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing to dark slits. “You just live with it, that’s all.”

  But Joe was wrong. Michael knew he couldn’t live with this. How could anybody live with this? Joe was watching him carefully, as if he expected him to suddenly lunge from the car into oncoming traffic.

  “Anyway,” Joe said, “we can’t be sure. That bullet would’ve had to travel over a mile.” He wiped the sweat from his face with his Woodstock II T-shirt. “Doesn’t seem possible, you know? It would’ve hit a tree or something before it got that far.”

  Michael wanted to believe him, but something in his gut told him otherwise. What were the odds that someone else had fired a gun into the air right around noon? He knew what he’d done. He knew that a bullet, unobstructed, could travel as far as a mile before it finally headed back toward the earth. His stomach was churning violently. With one swift movement, he flung the door open, leaned over the side, and vomited.

  Joe slid further down in his seat. He covered his eyes with his hand and shook his head. “We got to make a pact,” he said as Michael let his head flop back against the headrest. When Michael didn’t respond, he said, “Neither of us says anything, okay? I mean, I was there, remember. I was a witness. And if I don’t come forward, that makes me an accessory to the crime. I’m in just as deep as you, man. But I’m not about to help you screw up your future.”