Gotcha (8 page)

“Just give it to him!” I yell into Joel’s ear.

He either doesn’t hear or chooses to ignore me. I throw my arms around his waist, fighting to remain upright. People behind Tyson pull on him, creating an advantage, and now Joel falls forward, taking me with him. He lets go of the crutch and we crash to the floor. I scream as my ankle twists under me. The room erupts with applause and cheering. Joel and I untangle ourselves, and he quickly tucks his arm through mine while I hunch over, cradling my throbbing foot in both hands. It’s only fear that’s keeping me from sobbing in agony. I look up at a sea of monster faces laughing down at me, like in a nightmare. Tyson’s swinging the crutch over his head and dragging Jason around the kitchen in a dance of victory. Then I feel hands all over me, trying to pry me away from Joel. We cling to each other, anger fueling my strength, but I can feel myself losing my grip. I look at Joel and see panic on his face. His hands clutch at my arms, but there are too many people pulling on him, pulling on me...

And then a familiar voice booms out over the ruckus. “What the hell is going on in here?”

There’s a hush and Joel and I are released. We all turn to stare at the imposing figure who has replaced Paige and
gang in the doorway. It’s Warren, class president, and he’s linked with Jenna.

“Well?” he asks in a voice that commands an answer.

But no one says a word. It’s like Warren’s voice has dropped us back into the real world, where people are civilized. Paige may be the mood czar, but Warren’s voice works like a slap of cold water, startling us out of this crazy hallucination. I look around at the faces of my classmates. Expressions that were hostile and vicious just one minute ago have become sheepish, and no one makes eye contact with anyone else. The rush of adrenaline that precipitated the mobbing is retreating as quickly as it arrived, and I sense no one really understands what just happened.

Joel climbs to his feet and bends over to help me up. The pain shooting from my ankle is intense, and I’m afraid I’ll keel over if I get up too quickly.

“Katie, you okay?” Warren asks, spotting me on the floor.

I can only shake my head, and I stay where I am. Joel sinks back down beside me, linking my arm protectively. Someone passes my crutches to him, and the volume on the stereo is turned back up. I can hear the
psst
from beer cans as they are cracked open, and the party slowly resumes. Everyone moves away from where I’m still sprawled out, as dignified as a squashed spider.

Warren comes over and squats in front of me, pulling Jenna down with him. “What happened, Katie?” he asks, looking concerned. His buttery smooth voice almost makes me forget my pain. Almost.

“Just an attempted assassination,” I tell him.

“Huh?”

I shake my head. “I pissed Tyson off, and he was trying to get even.” I look around and the party is back on track, as if nothing had happened. “I can’t believe these people.”

“Was it about your bead?”

“Sort of.”

“You still have it?”

“Yeah.”

He gently runs a finger across my ankle, which I’ve stretched out in front of me. “Whew!” he exclaims and whistles softly. “Did this just happen now?”

Oh man. Just as Warren begins to get to me with his intoxicating voice, charm and knight-in-shining-armor-to-the-rescue style, I remember why I’ve never been attracted to him. He’s not very bright. It’s too bad.

“No, Warren,” I explain, as patiently as I can given the pain I’m in. “It takes a while for an ankle to get that swollen and bruised.”

He nods.

“I came on those crutches.”

“Oh yeah. Right.”

“Thanks for coming along when you did,” I add, feeling a twinge of guilt for what I know is soon to be a traitorous act.

“You’re welcome.” He grins like a little boy, pleased with himself. Now I feel even worse about what I know I have to do, sooner or later.

As he stands back up, I wonder if he has a better understanding of how he stopped the mini-riot than those who were part of it understand how it happened. Does he purposely command respect or does it just happen when he opens his mouth? Either way, I’m glad he did.

Joel and I slowly climb back up, and with my crutches firmly under my arms, we slink out of the house and back to his car.

“Katie,” he says, turning to me before starting the engine. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, not your fault.” And it wasn’t. But I’m feeling so mortified and abused and foolish that I can’t look at him. I just want to be home, in my bed, with my head buried under my pillow. I clench my teeth, willing the flood of tears I know is coming to hold off a little longer.

“I brought you to the party and I helped create the story. I feel responsible.”

I rub my face with my hands and press my fingers into my eyes, a dam to the tears. My ankle’s throbbing. My head’s aching. I take a deep breath. “Joel, it’s the game. You said yourself that people get crazy playing Gotcha. I’m dropping out.”

Joel starts the car and pulls away from the curb. “Do you think they’ll let you?”

“How can they stop me?”

“I don’t know. But who would get your bead and the name of your victim?”

“Whoever I give them to. You.”

“Somehow I don’t think we’d get away with that, especially after the episode tonight.”

I can only shrug. Right now I don’t care. I need painkillers so badly, and I want to get my foot elevated. How could an evening that started off so special turn sour this fast? I don’t even want to think about Gotcha anymore.

Joel helps me unlock the door to my house. “You’re going to be okay?” he asks, handing me my key.

I nod, but I still can’t look at him. It’s getting harder to hold back the tears, but I don’t want Joel to know how I’m feeling. It will just make him feel worse.

He hesitates, blocking the doorway, and I get the feeling he wants to say something else. But there’s nothing else to say. The awkwardness is too much.

“Joel, I need to go in. My foot is killing me.”

He jumps out of the way. “Sorry, Katie,” he says, sounding almost defensive. He moves out of the way and holds the door for me.

“Bye, Joel,” I say and pull the door shut behind me. I slump against the wall and unleash the tears.

Mom has gone to bed but she’s left some lights on and a plate of cookies on the counter. She must have figured I’d invite Joel in. When the sobbing finally lets up, I drag myself off the floor and swallow a couple of Tylenol. I’m exhausted, totally spent, my eyes are burning, my ankle’s throbbing, but I know I won’t sleep until the painkillers kick in. I decide to check my e-mail while I’m waiting.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Subject: sprained ankle

Hey Katie,

How is your ankle doing? It breaks my heart to hear you sounding so down.

Listen, honey, I know you’re feeling the pinch, money-wise, but do you have any cash at all? The reason I’m asking is I’ve just been given a hot tip on an investment that promises to triple your money almost overnight. I have very little to invest myself, but I’m sharing this tip with everyone I know. Depending on what you have, it just might be your ticket to the finest of grad dresses, maybe even college tuition.

Anyway, I hope you’re feeling better, and let me know about this opportunity. Keep that pretty chin up!

Love Dad

PS. Your father has not left you, your mother is not a cow, and you have a great future ahead of you.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Subject: Re: sprained ankle

drop dead

Serious agony finally drags me out of bed and into the bathroom, where my next dose of painkillers await me. Given the kind of day it’s been, I would have expected it to be one of those nights where I tossed and turned relentlessly, torturing myself with regrets and thinking of the perfect comebacks for things that were said. But no. Tonight any body movement at all—even from my upper body—disturbs the quilt, which then slides across my foot, and even that light caress causes me to jolt awake with the pain. I’m forced to lie flat on my back without twitching a muscle. It doesn’t make for a restful sleep. I’ve been staring at the ceiling for hours.

But now it’s safe to take a couple more Tylenol. I’d thought of leaving them on my night table so I wouldn’t have to get up, but it’s impossible to carry a glass of water, or anything, when you’re using crutches. I left them on the bathroom counter, and I swallow them by bending over the sink and drinking water directly from the flowing tap. I’d like to get a fresh ice pack, but it’s too far to go to the kitchen.

Sitting on the side of my bed with my reading light glowing, I take a closer look at my ankle. It looks much
the same as it did late yesterday afternoon, even though it is hurting so much more. The banging around at the party probably aggravated the damage that was already done.

I gently place the quilt over my foot and lie back, waiting for the pills to begin their magic. I’m going to ask Mom if she can get me something stronger tomorrow. These pills help, but not enough.

As I begin to float back into a semiconscious state, I think of Dad’s e-mail. It’s been ten days since I’ve seen him. I try to picture his face in my mind, with his kind smile and warm brown eyes. My response to his note will bring sadness to those eyes. I feel a twinge of guilt.

When I was younger, Dad never worked at one job for very long, so we hung out a lot. He loves the outdoors and we’d go on what he called explorations. Our town is nestled in a valley, so when the weather was good we’d pack a picnic and go hiking. I loved the feeling of my small hand in his large one as we walked along the wooded trails. He often pulled me into a squat and we’d carefully examine wildflowers or mushroom clusters, noticing how exquisite each one of Mother Nature’s gifts was. We’d rest often, admiring the meandering mountain streams or the way the early morning sunlight filtered through the trees and mist, slashing the air with gray stripes.

When we sat down on a fallen log or rocky outcrop to eat our peanut butter and honey sandwiches, we’d play “name that bird.” I glowed right down to my toes when Dad gave me that look that said I’d correctly identified a bird by
its song. Occasionally one would stump us, and Dad would pull the bird book from the backpack and we’d pore through it, looking for possibilities. Out of the pack would also come the binoculars, and we’d peer into the foliage, looking for a bird whose plumage matched the pictures in the book.

On sticky summer days, Dad would plunk me in a child carrier on the back of his bike and we’d cycle on the bike paths around town, letting the breeze dry our skin. I’d lay my cheek on his strong back and doze, and then we’d stop for ice-cream cones, chocolate fudge for me, French vanilla for him. Sometimes we took Paige on our outings. Her dad and mine were friends, and Dad wanted me to have company my own age.

Feeling stiff, I try to plump up my pillow without moving my legs too much. I end up just flipping it over and then press my cheek into the cool pillowcase, sinking back into Dad thoughts. When did this idyllic childhood begin to unravel?

It wasn’t until I was in school, a few years later, that I grew aware of how miserable Mom became when Dad wasn’t working, so when I’d come home and find him lying on the couch, unshaven, newspapers scattered around the living room, I’d do a quick pick-up-and-tidy routine so she wouldn’t go ballistic. Those were the days he started going out after dinner instead of hanging with me, and he wouldn’t be home until after I was in bed. I didn’t ask where he went. There was something about Mom’s body language that gave me the feeling it was a taboo subject.

Before he left, Dad had started spending every morning at the computer. He called himself a day trader. I didn’t really understand what he was doing, but it was nice to see him so interested in something again, and it made him happy. But Mom didn’t like seeing him happy. She accused him of throwing away our money. He kept bizarre hours, waking early to “work” at the computer, sleeping all afternoon and then going out again after dinner to who knows where. When he did get home, late, I could hear them through the bedroom wall. She was all over him, blaming, accusing, threatening...

I guess I shouldn’t have been so surprised when he finally packed up and left. I just wish he’d taken me with him.

I’m staying in bed, maybe forever. Mom’s hauling herself up and down the stairs, bringing me food and painkillers. She asked about the party on her first visit, but my curt response shut her up. I also told her I wasn’t taking phone calls or going back to school. She looked concerned but kept her thoughts to herself and simply tucked my ratty old stuffed bunny under the quilt with me.

I’ve watched the light in the room change as the day has dragged on, and I can tell without even looking at the clock that it’s late afternoon. One day closer to the end of the school year and my freedom from all things crazy, like Gotcha. And grad. Do I even want to attend graduation ceremonies with people who can turn into savages at the slightest provocation? I don’t think so. They may blame it on the game, but the panic I felt last night when they’d worked themselves into that frenzy and were swarming Joel and me...well, they’re all lunatics.

Except Joel. Joel Keister. I feel smiley just thinking of him. I pull the stuffed bunny out from under my quilt and caress his satin ears. Joel’s the only sane one. I remember
the warmth of his arm pressing against mine last night. For a while we were totally connected, playing our own private game. The empty ache I’ve had since Dad left evaporated as we leaned into each other, allowing that warm current to run between us. When he looked at me it was as though he was really seeing me, and I was seeing him.

I feel a stab of remorse as I remember how our evening ended, and I chuck the bunny across the room. It hits the wall, drops onto its head and sprawls helplessly on the floor, looking just as stupid as I did last night. That was the most humiliating moment of my life. And so then what did I do? I pushed Joel away when he was being kind and caring. I bet he hates me. I should call him, tell him it’s me who’s sorry. I started the stupid story. He got it, and he totally understood why I had to make something up. And then when all hell broke loose, he stuck with me. That’s more than I can say for Paige. I bet she was gloating when she saw what they were going to do to us. It’s like she cast an evil spell on the whole room.