Bright Eyes

26. The Sins of Our Fathers

"Hang on, so you're telling us", said Max, his hands moving in circles before him, "that TJ might know something we don't?"

    Lyn let out a quiet sigh, wishing what she said wasn't true. "That's pretty much the gist of it."

    After lunch together in The Raven's Nest, the five of them made their hike up to Mr. Brighteyes' cabin. Surprisingly, Max had joined in for the meal: he was usually off-campus with his family at noon.

    "Just a change of plans for today," he had said, back in The Raven's Nest, when Sander had asked. Said the words, and followed them off with a bite of his grilled-cheese sandwich, as though the simple statement was enough to explain the circumstances that led to his early arrival.

    As they trekked their way through the woods, Lyn went on to tell them about TJ's phone conversation, recalling as much as she could from what she overheard, stringing his words as she remembered them into coherent sentences. But she hadn't told them yet about what she found in the book from the library: there was more weight, more urgency in TJ's phone call than a story she found in a battered paperback.

    Besides, talking about it within the confines of the café, within TJ's earshot, would be foolish. Like an honest whisper to an enemy, a revelation of the worst kind.

    It was only when they had entered the shelter of the forest, where no other ears but their own would hear the words they confided amidst the trees, that Lyn managed to ease up and tell them all she knew of TJ's conversation with the unknown caller.

"Question is," said Sander, "who was he talking to? Because this can go two ways, and we've only got a part of TJ's side of the conversation to help us find out."

"Well, let's see," said Jack. "There are the creeps"—he held out his index finger—"then there are the jerks." His middle finger unfolded from his hand. "Pick your poison, bruh."

"I'd pick neither," said Damien. "I'd rather have it that he's just TJ from The Raven's Nest, and nothing more. No sides, no suspicious phone calls, no stress." He heaved out a sigh. "Man, things were way easier when we were kids. Stupid, innocent kids."

"Not exactly my case, but still true," said Sander, glancing up at the pale gray gloom overhead.

Jack draped an arm over Sander's shoulders. Sander shook in surprise at the sudden contact, then relaxed and turned to his jock of a friend.

"Wish we could turn back time," sang Jack.

"—to the good old days," joined in Damien, catching drift of the familiar Twenty One Pilots tune.

    A moment's silence. Then five voices came together and sang:

When our momma sang us to sleep, but now we're stressed out
Wish we could turn back time to the good old days
When our momma sang us to sleep, but now we're stressed out

"We're stressed out," sang Max, his voice a bright tenor, ever melodious, a ribbon of gold that swirled through the air. He shut his eyes momentarily, holding his right fist up to his mouth, an invisible microphone in hand.

    Lyn laughed despite herself.

    And they walked on, and sang, and Damien and Jack made feeble attempts at rapping Tyler Joseph's verses to their friends' comical delight.

    And in the remaining minutes as they made their way to Mr. Brighteyes' cabin, everything didn't seem so bad, and life seemed a little less stressful.