Page 132 of Random in Death

“Then I didn’t feel right, and I got sick. The yelling was so loud my head started banging, and my arm was on fire, then my legs felt wrong. I don’t remember much after. It gets blurry, then I was in the ambulance.”

“Let’s go back. You saw his face when you turned. He was behind you.”

“I started to turn,” Kiki corrected. “He was kind of beside me and behind. Beside my bad arm.”

“Did he say anything?”

“No. Maybe. It was loud, then I was screaming. Nothing’s ever hurt like that did. I remember that. I really remember that.”

“David, you saw him when you were getting popcorn.”

“Sort of. Pieces of him. The shoes, the trench. I think sunshades. I tried to go back in my head.”

“A white kid.”

“Yeah, short dude. I was just sort of glancing around like you do when you’re waiting. But mostly the four of us were talking and getting the vid snacks. I didn’t pay attention. He was just some dude with crappy shoes who didn’t know enough to beat up his trench. Trying to look chill.”

“Fail,” Kiki said, and made him smile.

“Major fail.”

With the third pizza on the table, the moms took a seat.

“David’s parents are fine with him working with the police artist, too.” Connie slid a slice onto her plate.

“We appreciate that. Kiki, can you think of anyone who reminds you of him? Someone at school, at the boarder park, around the neighborhood?”

“No, not… Barry Finklestein!”

The name had Lola letting out a wild giggle.

“From school?” Eve pressed.

“Yeah. It wasn’t him, for abso-poso, but you said remind me. And not so much me, but what David said.”

“Tell me about Barry.”

“Oh man, I don’t want to get him in trouble. It really wasn’t him.”

“We’ve got that, so you won’t. Why does he remind you?”

“Well, he’s short, and not just white, but pasty-like. And he’s short, pudgy, too.”

“That’s unkind, Kiki.”

“Mom, I’m just trying to answer.”

“He is, Ms. R.” Lola backed her up.

“So, short and white and carrying some extra weight. That’s why he reminds you.”

“Some of it. I don’t think the murdering guy was pudgy.”

“No.” David shook his head. “He wasn’t. I think I’d have noticed that. I remember Barry. He wouldn’t have known to beat up his trench.”

“He wouldn’t! That’s what I mean. I don’t think he has one, but he dresses like his aunt Matilda picks out his clothes. I mean, he’s just clueless. He’s got a real brain. I mean he’s super smart, but clueless on real stuff.”

“Aces everything. I mean everything. He can be a real… Twenty-four hours on the language rules?”