Lingering Echoes (22 page)

T
hrowing on a hoodie, I prepared to head out for the night. I was meeting the guys in the city. They said they had a surprise for me. Their only clue was to bring a bottle of pain pills. That didn’t sound very promising, but I wasn’t about to say no.

“What is it
, Jenna?” I asked, looking through my closet for shoes. When she didn’t answer, I looked back over at her. Her lower lip trembled, despite her obvious efforts to contain the tears.

I stopped what I was doing and crouched in front of her. “What is it?” I asked again. I put my hands on her shoulders. “What’s the matter? Did someone hurt you?” I looked into her honey-brown eyes, searching for the answer.

She threw her arms around my neck. “Damien, you’re not a bad person, right?”

“What?” I held onto her, allowing he
r to cling against my chest. Her small-framed body shook, releasing wet drops onto my neck.

I pulled her away after a minute,
still kneeling in front of her. “Why would you say that?”

She sniffled
and wiped her runny nose with the back of her hand. “Katie Ramsey said her brother told her you hang out with bad people.”

Kevin Ramsey. I recalled his name. He was
my neighbor, and also in my gym class. I’d had a few words with him the other day. He had wanted to bring to my attention to the gossip that was flying around.

“Rumor has it y
ou’ve joined a Samoan gang,” he’d said.

I l
aughed right in his face. “That’s absurd. I’m not part of a gang.” But he seemed to detect the discomfort in my expression. He had warned me to be careful, to get out while I still could. I brushed his comments aside.

I hadn’t thought any more of
that conversation until this moment.

“Jenna, I don’t hang out with bad people,” I told her.

“Katie heard Kevin on the phone. He said you are getting yourself into trouble—doing bad things with bad people. He didn’t say what. But maybe that’s why Dad gets mad at you all the time.”

I sighed, glancing at the clock on my dresser.
It was time to go.

“Listen, Jenna. I made some new friends, just like you hoped I would.
And they’re not bad. People are afraid of them because they look different, that’s all.”

Jenna seemed skeptical
.

“Really,” I assured her. “They’re more like brothers than friends. They look out for
me, and I’m safe with them.”

That was one thing I knew for sure.
Each of them carried a gun “just in case”, they had said, but I’d never seen the Samoans use them. They carried them discretely in the back of their pants or inside their oversized jackets. The only time they pulled them out was to let me admire them— holding the identical nine-millimeters in my hand. It was empowering. And it was just for protection.

I kissed the top of Jenna’s
head and stepped past her, looking over my shoulder. “Sorry, I need to go. Just remember, you have nothing to worry about, ok?”

S
he watched me leave, though I didn’t see her usual dimpled grin on her face, but I couldn’t worry about it right then. I had somewhere to be.

Hurrying
down an alley in downtown Oakland, I glanced over my shoulder as I walked. The door jingled as I opened the glass door to a room that was the size of a small studio apartment. The walls were covered from corner to corner in artistic drawings and posters. To my right was a long, flat table with a sheet pulled across it. Next to it was a reclining chair with armrests. Behind both of those were my Samoan brothers.

“Hey,
Palagi! My man, you made it.” Fanua stuck out his large hand and shook mine.

It wa
s then that I noticed the gangly white man beside him, his stringy hair dyed black and hanging long across his face. One ear was pierced multiple times from his earlobe all the way up his curved cartilage, as was his lip and nose. His arms were covered in tattooed sleeves. He showed his yellow teeth in what appeared to be a smile.

“
Hey, what’s up?” I said, still eying his artwork. “So what’s going on, guys?” I asked, sticking my hands in my pockets. They all gave knowing smiles.

“Damien, it’s time,”
Iona said, putting an arm around me. He guided me to the chair and sat me down. “You’re one of us, brotha.”

I eyed the needle
d contraption on the table.

“You got those pills?”
Fanua asked. I nodded. “And the cash?”

Pulling out the wad from my wallet, I
handed it to him. “Is this what it’s paying for?” I asked.

“In pa
rt. And for the after party,” Afona laughed deeply.

“Your tattoo is
already picked out,” Iona said. He held up the carbon paper that revealed three letters on it.

USO.

“What’s that stand for?” I asked, studying the paper in my hand.

Fanua
put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s pronounced ‘ooh-so’. Means ‘brother’ in Samoan.”

Afona
chimed in. “Nothing is more important in Samoan culture than family. Brotherhood means the same as loyalty. You always got each other’s back, no matter what.”

I could feel the magnitude of what they were saying.
To be a “brother” was not to be taken lightly, nor the significance behind accepting the branding.

“Yo
u’ll really be one of us,” Iona said again.

I
looked at each of them and nodded my head. “Ok. Let’s do it.” I shook the pain killers in my hand. “Am I going to need these?”

“That’s up to you,”
Fanua said, folding his arms across his burly chest, but I knew it was another test—a test of bravery and manhood.

I forced a tight-lipped smile and tossed the bottle to
Iona. He grinned in response, rattling the pills as he watched me try to relax my arm.

USO.

The constant pinching of the needles irked the nerves of my bicep as the word was etched into my skin. I grimaced but tried to ignore it. It was worth it to officially be a part of the Samoan brotherhood. I’d have their back, and they’d have mine.

I would never have to worry about anything again.

***

A week before Christmas, we packed up and made the
two-hour drive to our vacation home. It resided in the most northeast corner of Hidden Pines and sat on top of a hill, overlooking both the lake and neighboring lodge. We stayed there two or three times out of the year for short trips. My father ran a ski resort called Eastridge, not far from our house. Sometimes that was why we were “vacationing” at our house in the first place—so Dad could check in on one of his many business venues.

This trip
, I had plenty of other places I’d rather be. I didn’t feel like playing “happy family,” especially with how unhappy my father was with me on a daily basis. I had overheard him discussing my “ill-mannered behaviors” with my mother and questioning what to do about me and my alarming group of friends. It was some mumbo-jumbo about them being a bad influence on me and tainting the Michaels’ name.

My mother was sure we just needed more time together as a family
—to get away from work and school and be together. It was her solution that elicited this extended trip. Rather than our usual five days, we were going to be stuck together for the next two weeks, long enough to absorb my entire Christmas break from school.

I found ways
around my mother’s proposed torment. It wasn’t hard to convince Fanua, Iona, and Afona to make the drive and meet up with me during the first week. Once they arrived, all expenses were paid for, including three nights at our lodge. My father might own the lodge and run the business, but I had connections of my own that got me what I wanted. It paid off to be the son of an overly busy, thriving businessman.

It was the trips into
town that got us into trouble. We ran out on quite a few meals, when I had been unsuccessful in pilfering extra money from home. Getting caught vandalizing on the restaurant property didn’t help either, but they deserved it for ratting me out to my father.

I guess ditching o
n the bill wasn’t the smartest decision. All the locals knew my father. He was the “big man in town”—one of the wealthiest and most generous visitors that returned throughout the year. Of course, they would give him anything he wanted. And, of course, they knew very well who his wife and kids were, and that made things difficult on my part. It was tricky to slip by unnoticed.

One
night, I got caught shoplifting for the second time that week. It had been a dare. Iona said they made bets on how many items I could walk away with. Unfortunately, I wasn’t quick enough. Before I knew it, an employee had grabbed me and pinned me against the counter.

Wh
en the cops finally showed up, my Samoan friends were nowhere in sight. I ended up spending the next few hours in the local jail, waiting for my father to come and pay the fine for the second time that week. When he did, it wasn’t pleasant.

He grabbed me by
my shirt and yanked me out of the building. Livid, he turned me around. “All I wanted was a son to make me proud.” He shoved a finger hard into the center of my chest. I grunted but settled for scowling at the angry man before me.

“You,” he said, “are nothing but a screw up. Look at me when I
’m talking to you!” He didn’t seem to care about drawing more attention. Heads turned our way, curious voices whispering.

Resentful,
I lifted my head to look my father in the eyes. Having inherited the silvery-grey color, it was like looking into an aged version of my own.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you this year.
Your grades have slipped, you’re falling asleep in class, and you sneak out at night and come home smelling like cigarettes, alcohol, and who knows what other garbage you’ve gotten yourself into. But I’ll tell you this much,” he said, shoving his face close to mine. “I meant what I said last week. If you don’t shape up this next month, I swear I will send you to military school where you can be someone else’s problem.”

I ground my teeth together, but maintained the apathetic expression on my face. “I meant what I said, too.”

My father paused his march to our Audi. “Which part, exactly?”

I swaggered past him
and pulled open the backdoor of the car. I looked over my shoulder and spoke. “The part where I said I wished you all were dead.”

***

The next evening, Jenna answered the unexpected knock on our front door. We heard her let out a frightened cry as she came running back into the dining room.

“
Daddy, there are some giant men at the door!”

My father
and I jumped up at the same time. Neither of us moved far. Fanua, Iona, and Afona strutted through the hallway.

“
Yo, yo! Damien, my man! You ready or what, bro?”

My father
turned to me and grabbed my arm. “What are they doing inside the house?” He looked at the three of them. “None of you thugs are welcome here. Leave now, before I call the cops.”

Iona
took a step towards my father, glaring at him. “What did you call us? You want to start something here, old man?” He touched the inside of his jacket, where I knew the nine-millimeter lay hidden.

I jumped betwee
n them, putting my hands on Iona’s shoulder. Pushing him back towards the door, I said, “No—we don’t need to go there. Come on, I’m with you. Let’s go.”

“Your old
man better watch himself,” Iona said, throwing another intimidating glace towards Dad.

“Damien, you are not to go anywhere with them. Do you hear me?”

I kept walking and didn’t turn around. “I’m out. See you later.”

I jumped in the car with my buddies, surprised to see a
thin, white kid in the back. His blond hair was short and spiked with gel. He was slouched in his seat, leaning against the side window.

“Uh, hey,”
I said. I turned to Afona on my right and whispered, “Who’s this?”

Afona
spoke up. “This here is Tom.”

“Um, actually, it’s Tommy. Tommy Miller.”
The feeble voice came from the pale figure to my left. He stuck out his hand.

I shook it.
“I’m Damien Michaels.” I looked at my Samoan brothers for an explanation.

“Tommy’s been
hangin’ with the crew in the city this last week while you been away on vacation,” Fanua explained from behind the wheel. He smiled into the rearview mirror. “He’s from your part of town.” He nudged Iona, who was sitting in the passenger seat. Iona laughed.

“We go to the same sc
hool,” Tommy said to me. “We’re in English together.”

“We are?” I asked, somewhat baffled. I’d never seen this kid before in my life.

“Yeah. Front row, in fact. You always sit in the very back, right corner. But I don’t suppose you would see me because your head is always down.”