One of the men in black looked at Dorian, then held out a hand. “Please, Dorian, you have to come with us.”
“Is Mom okay?” He refused to get up from his desk until the men answered the question.
David Harrison put on a stupid voice and repeated, “‘Is Mom okay?’” His stupid friends laughed some more.
The man hesitated for a moment and spoke again with great emphasis on the urgency. “You need to come with us right now.”
Dorian got up, gripping his Spider-Man lunchbox.
The other man in the black suit said, “You won’t need your lunch, Dorian.”
“I’m not goin’ without my lunchbox.”
“Fine, whatever,” the first man said. “Just come with us, please.”
Mr. Crumb stepped forward. “Look, I can’t just let some strange men walk into my homeroom and take one of my students.”
The second man reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper, then handed it to Mr. Crumb.
The teacher read it. His big moustache drooped as he did so.
“All right, fine,” the teacher said, handing the note back to the second man in the black suit.
The first man still had his hand out to Dorian.
JOHN GRAVAGLIA
• 43 •
“C’mon, Dorian, we have to go.”
“Yeah, Dorian, we have to go,” said David Harrison. His friends giggled.
Dorian muttered, “If I wanted any lip from you I’d jiggle my zipper.”
David Harrison sat there dumbfounded. His friends laughed at the remark while Clarissa and Serena were asking each other, “What did Dorian say?”
For everyone else the clever comback was too quiet for anyone to hear—except for Henry, who gave Dorian a smile.
Henry didn’t like David Harrison either.
Clutching the Spider-Man lunchbox to his chest as the men in black were leading him out into the school halfway, Dorian asked, “We’re we going?”
“You’ll see, Dorian.”
Dorian didn’t think that was much of an answer.
They went out the school’s front door, which was supposed to be locked after homeroom started.
But if these two men worked for his mother, it wouldn’t be the first time they’d done something they weren’t supposed to.
In face, they weren’t supposed to take him out of class like that. But they got Mr. Crumb to let them do it.
Dorian held the lunchbox tighter to his chest.
A big black car was parked on the street in front of the school, right under the red sign that said NO STANDING ANYTIME.
There was no ticket on the car.
DORIAN GRAY
• 44 •
Dorian knew something was happening.
Is Mommy sick? Am I in trouble? Did they find out something bad about Mom?
Or was it something even worse?
The second man in black opened the car’s side door. The car was so big, Dorian had to climb into it like it was a stepladder. He almost dropped the lunchbox.
Dorian sat in the backseat while the two men sat in the two front seats.
“Let’s boogie,” the one in the passenger seat said.
“Why do you always say that?”
“Say what?”
“‘Let’s boogie.’ It’s so stupid.”
“Will you just drive the goddamn car?”
“Hey, language! There’s a kid in the backseat.”
“Fine, will you just drive the gosh darn car, then?”
The big black car pulled out onto Main Street and they drove on for almost ten minutes. Throughout the whole trip the two strange men in the black suits were arguing about the phrase “let’s boogie.” It was a very odd debate between two grown men. However, the one in the passenger seat pled his case as he explained how boogie is a type of dancing, and in fact, dancing is a type of moving. Ergo what they needed to do was to move. It was simply a variation on “let’s get moving.”
Dorian wasn’t paying attention to any of this. He was too occupied on whether or not he was in trouble. Then he thought
JOHN GRAVAGLIA
• 45 •
about his mother. He hoped nothing bad happened to her. It always been him and her against the world, and if something did happen he wouldn’t know what to do. He felt a dark cloud formed above him and there was no shelter in sight.
The car came to a complete stop in front of a skyscraper. The two men vacated the vehicle and helped Dorian onto the sidewalk. They escorted him through the double doors that the building’s doorman held out for them.
The first man looked over to the receptionist at the registration desk. “Dorian Gray for George Lord.” The man announced to her.
The receptionist glanced at the sign-in sheet and found the name. “Ah, right here. He has been expecting you, gentlemen. You just need to sign here.”
“I’ll sign for all of us,” The first man replied, taking the clipboard from her, signed their names on the form, and brought it back to her.
The receptionist looked at the signature and gave them a small smile. “All right, you’re good to go. Thank you.”
The two men nodded in unison and brought Dorian to the elevator and his next stop was the Lords’ penthouse—his new home.
The smell of fresh-baked cookies wafted from all the way in the kitchen and seeped through the doorway and wrapped the tempting fingers of their aroma around Dorian. For a moment he was sorely tempted to abandon his vigil, but he
DORIAN GRAY
• 46 •
resisted. However, he did shift his posture so that he was sitting cross-legged.
Finally he heard footsteps again. He recognized them as belonging to George Lord. But he didn’t bother to turn around. Then he heard George chuckling softly, and that distracted him. He swiveled his head and regarded his guardian, who was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his arms folded.
“What’s funny?” Asked Dorian.
“You just remind me so much of your father, that’s all.” Said George. “Same serious face. I’ll show you pictures of him, if you want.”
Then Dorian took a deep breath and let it out unsteadily. “My mom isn’t coming back, is she?”
“No, Dorian,” George told him, as gently as he could. “She was killed in a car crash. It was an accident.”
“No,” Dorian said flatly. “It wasn’t.”
“It wasn’t?” Said George curiously.
Dorian shoved his hand into one of the bags and pulled out a stack of comic books.
“My mother and father were secret heroes. Like…monster hunters. And they were helping people, and a monster killed them.” He held up an old issue, spine-rolled and tattered.
George picked it up automatically, flattening it carefully and looked at the cover. He frowned, trying to understand the image.