Breaking Point (19 page)

The next day, Friday, I still felt a little sick. I didn't go to school. So, I didn't see Charlie again until Saturday, hours before we planned to do it.

“You'll sleep over at my house,” Charlie had said. And, of course, I'd agreed.

I didn't ask Mom's permission. I was beyond that. I just said, “I'm staying at Charlie's.”

She gazed at me a second before saying, “Please don't go, Paul.”

She reached to pluck a hair. Fine. Let her go bald. I met her eyes.

“He's waiting downstairs,” I said.

She didn't try to stop me.

We were celebrating that night. Charlie had won his tournament that afternoon, and Mrs. Good was out of town, so Big Chuck took us to Friday's for dinner. He ordered spiked drinks, sneaking them to Charlie and me when the waitress left and taking them back when we finished. “My boys deserve a treat,” he said, crunching Charlie's shoulder with one hand, mine with the other. I was flying. Music pulsated off walls, off hanging saxophones and sleds, my brain. Other people's conversations filled my head's acoustics. But I knew that tonight, all voices would go silent except Charlie's.

“How's Mandy?” Charlie asked. And, the way he said it, I knew he was roasted (one of my new words, from Meat) too.

“She doesn't like me anymore.” I figured he knew she was back with St. John. I mean, Charlie knew everything.

“Maybe we'll put a little gasoline in her locker,” Charlie joked. Then, he glanced at Big Chuck and mimed,
Shhhhhhh
.

We fell back into silence. Big Chuck was happy. He was drinking real drinks now, drinks without cute Friday's names or ice cream in them, and I wondered how we'd get home. I looked back at Charlie. He seemed unconcerned, so I was, too.

“You boys are quiet tonight,” Big Chuck yelled over the din. “When I was younger, I used to go wild on Friday nights.”

“Just reviewing the match,” Charlie said. Even drunk, he knew what to say.

“That's my boy.” Big Chuck chomped his steak-on-a-stick. “You're doing big things, Charlie. Big things.”

“Maybe I'll do something bigger than tennis.”

Mr. Good spoke through half-chewed meat. “Nothing's bigger than tennis.”

Behind his glass, Charlie rolled his eyes.

Later, I lay in my sleeping bag on Charlie's floor. The air was cool, dark. Down the hall, running water, a long fart. A flush. The drone of television news turning into Letterman's Top Ten list. Then, even that ended, and there was only the stop-start of central air, Charlie's breathing above me.

Finally, a whisper. “You awake?”

“Yeah.”

“Let's blaze.”

I rose in the silent darkness. We'd stayed dressed, needing only shoes. These we carried over our hands, stealing downstairs, through the living room, then out the front door, not bothering to lock it. I fumbled with my sneakers, lost the tongue beneath my foot, my fingers too stiff to lace them. Charlie stood above me, frowning, his eyes empty. Finally, I got the shoes on and we walked through the soft, mulched grass that clung to our shoes and ankles.

We'd parked the bicycles on the side of the house. It was too risky to drive, Charlie had said. Instead, we pedaled through the streets. It was hot. My backpack straps strained against my shoulders. The soda bottle thumped my back. A Coke bottle, making me think about what Charlie had said about moms and Coke syrup.

We said nothing, riding miles, miles until sweat clogged my pores and ran down my back. Sometimes, there was light, streetlamps, porch lights. Usually, black branches covered the moon. We reached the school's street. My legs were pudding beneath me. I stood on the bike, willing myself to pedal. I couldn't.

“Come on.” Charlie's voice in the dark. He'd ridden back around to meet me.

“I can't”.

“You're wimping out?”

I said nothing. Suddenly, I was terrified.

“We're doing nothing wrong.” Charlie circled behind, then ahead. “And you hate this place more than I do.”

The word
hate
hung like humidity in the silent air. We'd never said anything about hating the place, about wanting to do serious damage. It was just about scaring them. And fixing Charlie's science grade. Still, I thought about the people I hung with, a lot of the same people who'd made my life miserable when I started Gate, and I knew Charlie was right. I'd do it. It would feel good to destroy at least a little part of the place—as long as no one got hurt. My legs gelled, started moving again. Then, we were there, hiding the bikes in the bushes, hoisting ourselves over the fence, the hedge, barely feeling the bougainvillea scratching our arms. Charlie joined me this time. “Wouldn't miss it,” he'd said. The parking lot was just as dark, but my legs felt light. No fear. I was with Charlie now.

It was easy finding the building this time, easy to use a hairpin to jimmy the flimsy lock. I started to wipe away my fingerprints.

“Don't bother,” Charlie whispered.

“Why not?”

He pushed me forward, into the room. “It's no big deal. There's a million fingerprints on that knob.”

He was right, of course. And it was too late to protest anyway. We were inside. Charlie opened Zaller's file cabinet with his foot, snagged the file with his name on it.

I thought for a second about telling Charlie to just take the file. That would be enough to fix Charlie's grade.

But no. I wanted the other part, I realized. I wanted it as much as Charlie did. I wanted to be strong for once in my life. It wasn't just about Charlie's strength, but my own.

Then, Charlie was directing me to pull a desk to the room's center.

But it wasn't me who planted the bomb in the fluorescent light. Not really. It was someone else, everyone else maybe. Charlie, of course. And Mom. Binky. And David Blanco, his face smashed and bloody. And Pierre and Meat, laughing about it. And mostly Dad, because I wouldn't even have been there if he'd cared enough. They were all there with me. Maybe Pierre held the flashlight while the others clambered onto one another's backs to the ceiling. Binky was the lookout. Mom drew the panel away from the light. David held the gas-filled bottle because he had nothing to lose. Dad rigged the fuse. It couldn't have been just me. And Charlie, holding the flashlight while I stood in the light column, then climbed atop the desk I'd pulled out. “You have to do it,” Charlie said. “You're taller.” And I was. And I did it. But not just me.

“Watch out,” Charlie said.

A glance down. Odor met my nostrils. Gas. Charlie shone his light on the black pool. “Should we clean it?” I asked.

“No, it will evaporate. Just finish.”

I looked up again, and Dad's hand slid the panel back in place. He didn't look at me. Dad never looked at me.

“No one's getting hurt,” a voice—Charlie's—intoned.

I climbed down.

“And if they do,” the voice continued, “who cares?”

“Who cares?” I repeated.

Then, I was back in my sleeping bag in Charlie's room. The tile felt hard, bumpy beneath me. And cold. Across the room, the wood-slatted blinds let in the seeping starlight. I watched it grow lighter, brighter, invading my pupils so I had to close my eyes. I didn't sleep. Above me, in the comfort of his bed, Charlie breathed evenly, childlike, sleeping the sleep of the righteous.

Monday, 8:05. I sat on my hands in chapel. I sat alone, too, watching Charlie and Meat arrive after me and take seats in the opposite pew. I couldn't catch Charlie's eye. Was he ignoring me? Reverend Phelps called us to worship. The choir started its first deafening hymn. I waited, listening through their singing for the sound. Any second. Class started at eight twenty-five. By then, it would all be over.

8:10. Amanda came in late. Just about everyone turned to watch her walk down the aisle, hair flaming. The color of temptation. The choir was singing:

She sat across the aisle. St. John scooted close to her.

8:11. A senior I didn't know was doing the reading. It was “If Thy Arm Offend Thee, Cut It Off.” I barely heard it. Was that a siren screaming? Stupid. Just a sour note on the organ.

Why hadn't it gone off?

Mom sat with the office staff. After chapel, she'd go back to the classroom building. I remembered her, Saturday, saying,
Please don't go, Paul
.

The bomb still hadn't gone off. The bomb still hadn't gone off!

It was a dud, I told myself. It just didn't work. But I knew. No one had turned on the lights yet. It would go off when everyone got to class.

8:14. Reverend Phelps was praying.

Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those…

Oh, God.

And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil
.

I twisted to look at Charlie. He sat, hands in lap, neat. Innocent. When I turned back, Reverend Phelps was glaring at me. But still, he was praying. He'd finished the Lord's Prayer and prayed for a litany of other things, the academic success of Gate's students, the victories of our sports teams, the warmth of our school lunches.

“And Lord, help us find another family to assist in the caretaking duties of the school.” A chance line, thrown in. Reverend Phelps continued, praying for the grass to grow, the weeds to die.

I nudged the kid beside me. “What did he say?”

The kid shook his head. “He said a lot—too much.”

“About caretaking duties?”

He didn't answer. I knew the reverend was looking at me, but I had to know. I had to know. I didn't look up. I nudged the kid again.

The kid said, “Guess they're still looking for someone to replace Old Carlos.”

“Replace?” A hiss.
Still?

The kid didn't answer. I nudged him harder. Finally, he whispered. “He left Friday—okay? He and his wife. They just took their stuff and cleared out.”

Cleared out. Because of David, of course. Of course. I'd missed Friday. But Charlie had been there, and Charlie knew everything. Charlie knew Old Carlos was gone, knew there was no janitor to turn on the lights. He'd lied to me! He'd lied to me! I rose without realizing it and threw my hymnal to the pew. I had to go. If Old Carlos wasn't there, Zaller would be the one to open the door. Zaller, and everyone in her class. I couldn't let that happen. I'd only wanted to scare people, not hurt them. Not kill them. I could hear it already, above the choir. Screaming. I shoved the kid back and ran up the aisle, past the startled seventh graders and out the heavy wood-and-glass door.

A rush of cool air hit my face. The hissing sound of trees. Then, silence. And my own breath. I stopped a second, couldn't move. I checked my watch—8:16.

“Where are you going?”

It was Charlie. Charlie behind me. I didn't hesitate. “To Zaller's room. To stop her.” I started forward again.

Charlie's voice stopped me. “Why would you do that?”

“I don't want anyone hurt.” I knew that was right. I started walking again. Charlie followed me closer to the main building.

“No one's getting hurt, Paul. We were just screwing around. It'll set off the sprinkler system.”

I wanted to say something about him knowing Old Carlos wasn't there, but I didn't. I didn't have time to fight with him.

So, I said, “Look, it was a stupid idea, Charlie.” I thought I knew what his problem was, so I said, “I won't get you in trouble. They won't notice the missing file right away. We could do something about it, but—”

His tennis-enhanced arm grabbed mine. “This isn't about the file anymore.”

Still, I tried to walk away.

“I thought you knew that, but apparently, you're really that stupid.” Charlie's voice was flat. Behind me, I could still hear the outline of Reverend Phelps's shouting. “This is much bigger than the file. We're in deep shit if you tell.” For a second, his face wasn't Charlie's face at all. It was scary.

“It
is
a big deal, Charlie. Really big. People could get hurt.” He didn't understand, and I couldn't make him, so I walked, pulling him with me. He was strong, but I was bigger, and finally, I pulled away. “I can't do this.” I was yelling, not caring who heard now. “People could get hurt.”

Then, I turned my back on him. I'd never done that before. I walked down the gravel path toward the oaks that divided the chapel from the main building. 8:17. The sun blazed through the cool air like fire, fire in my mind, fire maybe everywhere if I didn't stop it from happening. I had to go. Had to get away from Charlie. Had to stop it. But again, Charlie's voice stopped me.