Lunar Park

“That’s a wonderful novel you’re hold—”

“Oh, yeah, hi, hope I’m not bothering you.”

“No, not at all. Come in, come in.”

He looked away and blushed deeply, then shuffled into the office and carefully sat down in the chair across the desk from me.

“Well, I’m a big fan, Mr. Ellis.”

“Isn’t there a law against formality at this place?” I said with an expression of mock distaste, hoping to relax him since he was sitting so rigidly in the chair. “Call me Bret.” I paused. “And have we met before?”

“Um, I’m Clayton and I’m a freshman here and I don’t think so,” the boy said. “I just wanted to know if you could sign this for me.” His hands trembled slightly as he held up the book.

“Of course. I’d be happy to.” I studied him as he handed me the book, which was in pristine condition. I opened it to the copyright page and saw it was a first edition, which made the book I was holding an extremely rare and valuable copy.

“I have class in a couple of minutes, so . . .” He gestured at himself.

“Oh, of course. I won’t keep you long.” I set the book down and searched my desk for a pen. “So, Clayton . . . I assume all your friends call you Clay.”

He stared at me and then—understanding what I was getting at—grinned and said, “Yeah.” He waved a hand at the book. “Like Clay in the novel.”

“That’s the connection I made,” I said, opening a drawer. “Is there another?” I found a pen and then looked up. He was staring at me questioningly. “That’s the right one. You were correct,” I assured him, but then I couldn’t help it: “You look very familiar.”

He just shrugged.

“Well, what are you majoring in?” I asked.

“I want to be a writer.” It seemed hard for him to admit this.

“Did you apply to my writing course?”

“I’m a freshman. It’s only open to juniors and seniors.”

“Well, I could have pulled a few strings,” I said delicately.

“Based on what?” he asked, a snap in his voice.

I realized that I was flirting with him and suddenly looked back at the book and the pen in my hand, embarrassed for myself.

“I’m not really any good,” he offered, sitting up, noting the sudden, subtle shift in the room’s vibe.

“Well, neither are any of my other students so you’d fit right in.” I laughed dryly. He did not.

“My parents . . .” Again, he hesitated. “Well, my dad, actually . . . he wanted me to go to business school and so . . .”

“Ah yes, the age-old dilemma.”

Clayton purposefully checked his watch—another gesture that indicated he needed to go. “You can just sign my name—I mean, your name.” He stood up.

“Are you working on anything?” I asked gently as I signed my name with an uncharacteristic flourish on the title page.

“Well, I have part of a novel done.”

I handed him back the book. “Well, if you’re interested in showing me anything . . .” I left the offer hanging there, waiting for him to accept.

At that point I realized where I’d seen Clayton before.

He was at the Halloween party last night.

He was dressed as Patrick Bateman.

I had seen him when I was looking out Sarah’s window as he disappeared into the darkness of Elsinore Lane.

I breathed in, something caught in me and I shivered.

He was putting the book in his backpack when I asked, “So, you weren’t at the party my wife and I threw last night?”

He stiffened and said, “No. No, I wasn’t.”

This was answered so genuinely that I couldn’t register if he was lying or not. Plus, if he’d crashed the party, why admit to it now?

“Really? I thought I saw you there.” I couldn’t help but keep pressing.

“Um, no, wasn’t me.” He just stood in front of my desk, waiting.

I realized I needed to say something that would get him moving.

“Well, it was nice meeting you, Clayton.”

“Yes, you too.”

I held out a hand. He abruptly shook it and looked away, mumbling his thanks as I heard footsteps coming down the hall.

Clayton heard the footsteps too and, without saying anything else, turned to leave my office.

But Aimee Light bumped into him in the doorway and they glanced at each other briefly before Clayton rushed away.