and his father wasnât around much except for puttering in the basement.
âThat boy loves his pranks,â Bee had said one afternoon while Codman and Bertucci tried to clean out the study downstairs. Bertucci told his mother that it was because he couldnât stand the mess any longer, but Codman and I knew the truth: he had to empty the room to make space for her hospital bed, the kind with electric up-and-down functions, the kind that hospice brought in as a last little comfort. I kept Bee company upstairs, feeding her leftover Passover matzo ball soup with a baby spoon. Which was worse, that Bee had kept one of Bertucciâs baby spoons and now had it turned on her? Or that the soup was another symbol of freedom from our family Seder, while Bee was trapped in her body? I fed her tiny bits while Codman helped our best friend set up his motherâs deathbed, something so cruel and sad I could hardly breathe when I thought about it. The only thing worse, I guess, would be having a mother do the same for her child.
âActually, Iâll tell you something, Bee,â Iâd said as the bed got delivered, clanking through the metal screen door as Codman swore. âIâm not convinced itâs all Bertucci. It just seems like a lot of planning and execution for one person to pull off.â
Bee looked up at me, her unwashed hair in oily ribbons on the pillow, her lips dry. âI donât for a second think you doubt Bertucci. Heâs a master of planning. Even as a boy, thatâs what he did. Formulas, elaborate dinners that involved chemistry and smoke, chess matches.â She fell asleep as I continued a Bertucci story, but I told her anyway, feeling that some of her sonâs grace and skill would filter into her dreams.
Senior Start Day was always a big deal. Seniors started a day after the rest of the schoolâpresumably so we wouldnât be bothered by the bumbling newcomers. When we finally arrived on campus, banners wriggled in the new fall wind and potted begonias from the Parent Committee flanked the main doors. Everyone shuttled past the pillars and into the familiar hallways that already seemed small and distant, as though we were looking back on ourselves yearbook-style. Seniors had their own hallway of lockers reserved for them, and the entrance to that hallway was known to all as the Senior Doorway. The doorway itself was nothing special, just double-wide and with the school logo painted on either side. But it was something, to have a door just for our grade, the top of the student hierarchy. Iâd arrived early like I always did, and stood around outside talking to Lissa in the hopes she might produce Codmanâthey liked each other alreadyâall the while scanning the tops of peopleâs heads for Bertucci. He was always my savior in crowds, anchoring me.
It was good luck to stand in the Senior Doorway, lingering as if under mistletoe, and I had a plan to make a wish as I stood directly under the center. But when the first group of us made our way toward the Senior Doorway, something looked weird. âThe doorâs gone!â Codman said in his whisper-yell. I shook my head, sure he was wrong, but by then the football team had noticed too, and Mark Denvers, drama king in a lacrosse jacket, was pounding the newly-scrubbed walls to confirm it. âWhat in the hell happened? Where the fuckâs our door?â
Did we have proof that Bertucci was behind the hack? No. But I knew. Or at least I thought I knew. Heâor someoneâhad covered the doorway with sheets of plywood, then placed fliers and announcements on the plywood so it blended in with the rest of the wall. The entire entrance was covered, camouflaged.
âWho manages to hide an entire wing of the building?â I had asked him at lunch. âDid you plan for long?â Bertucci had his napkin on his lap as though we were fine-dining, though he scarfed up the daily sloppy