Paranoid Park (19 page)

As we parked, a blue sedan drove by. It looked like Detective Brady’s car. I tried to see inside it, but I couldn’t make out who was driving. Also, I didn’t want the other guys to see me staring. So I sat back.

That would be my strategy for my return to Paranoid. Just lay back. Keep my mouth shut. Stay out of trouble.

We parked and grabbed our boards and climbed up the dirt embankment. On the cement platform, we stood for a moment and checked out the park. It looked different from how I remembered. It looked cleaner somehow, smaller, not as threatening. The floodlights were on; the heat of them warmed the cement and made everything seem safe and okay.

The other guys didn’t hesitate. Christian dropped into the main bowl. Paul and Jared were right behind him. Christian tried to grind the lip and fell and almost hit Paul. But everyone was psyched. Everyone was into it.

I dropped in and worked my way around. I was careful, though, scanning the dozen or so people for anyone I remembered, checking the parking lot on the opposite end for any familiar faces. I didn’t see anyone. It seemed pretty safe. Besides us and the Hawaiian crew, it was a pretty quiet night at Paranoid.

I started to relax. I tried a lip-grind and almost got it. An hour went by, and I forgot my problems. I began to enjoy myself, and I realized how much I loved Paranoid. I wondered if I should have come back earlier. Maybe all I needed was to face my fears.

That’s when I looked over my shoulder and saw a group of people arriving in the lower parking lot. They were Streeters, guys mostly, with boards and forties of Olde English 800. There were two girls, too. One of them looked familiar. One of them was Paisley.

I didn’t panic. I worked my way around to the far bowl and popped out and stood behind two other guys standing along the lip. I watched the Streeters file into the park. I watched Paisley. She looked different in winter clothes. She wore a big newsboy hat. But her hair was the same, dyed black, and her face still had that stone-age look to it-that pale, wasted look. She stopped by the big cement wall and talked to the other girl. I did my best to blend into the scenery.

It didn’t work. She saw me. I don’t know how; she wasn’t even looking around. But suddenly she stared straight at me. A look of shock and surprise came over her face.

I turned away. I was wearing a wool hat, which I now pulled closer down around my face. But it was too little, too late.

Paisley said something to her friend and began walking in my direction. None of her friends seemed to notice what she was doing. Still, it was not a good situation. As she got closer, it became very clear she had something to say to me. I could feel my heart pounding in my throat as she approached. When she got close, I kinda smiled and nodded to her.

She didn’t nod back. “What are you doing here?” she hissed.

“Nothin’. Hangin’ out.”

“You better leave. Scratch’s friends are here.”

“So?”

“So, they’ll see you!”

I looked passed her at her friends. “But I didn’t do anything.”

“Are you kidding me? Scratch had to leave town. They almost caught him. Why are you even here?”

“But it was an accident.”

“Not according to those guys. They think you did it, and they blame you for all the police coming around.”

I hadn’t seen any police around. Except for that blue car when we first pulled in.

Behind Paisley, I could see a second group of Streeters coming up from the parking lot. There were six or seven of them. Paisley saw them, too. “You better be careful,” she whispered. “You shouldn’t even be here.”

With that, she turned and walked quickly back to her friend. I turned my back so the others wouldn’t see my face.

I still wasn’t clear what the Streeters had against me. Or why it was my fault. Shouldn’t they respect me for standing up to a security guard?

I decided to bail anyway. Why push my luck? I’d think of some excuse to tell Jared later. I stuck my iPod buds in my ears and casually ambled toward the dirt embankment. Without looking back, I dropped onto the dirt path and crawled through the fence. I slid and skidded down the embankment to the bottom. I dropped my board and started skating. I thought I’d made a pretty smooth escape, but when I looked back, someone was standing at the fence. He seemed to be watching me.

Then he pointed at me and shouted something to his friends.

I could feel the panic rising inside me as I pushed down the road. I turned right and coasted through the main industrial area. Some bums were drinking beer on one of the loading docks. I pushed harder, got past them, and turned left behind the big United Textile building. I checked behind me at every turn. At the train tracks, I hopped off my board and ran across the gravel. I didn’t know where I was going, or why exactly I was running.

But I was running. I couldn’t stop myself. My heart pounded violently in my chest. I was scared to death. Still. After two and a half months. I was so scared every joint in my body shook. All this tension and fear, it had been inside me all this time, and I hadn’t even noticed.

I skated across the big parking lot toward the river. It was the same parking lot I had fled across on September seventeenth. Above me was the same cold sky that had haunted me since that night. That deep, black, crushing sky ...

I was at the far end of the parking lot when they appeared. They came from the right. It was totally dark now, and I heard them first-that low rumble of wheels on pavement. Then I saw them: four guys-four Streeters—all on boards, all pushing hard and gaining on me.

“Hey, kid!” one shouted, an evil grin on his face. “Where ya goin’?”

The others grinned as well. This wasn’t just about defending Scratch’s honor; it was also a golden opportunity to beat the crap out of a defenseless Prep.

They were pushing as hard as they could. I pushed hard, too.

“Hey! What are you running for?!” yelled a different one. “We just wanna talk! ”

There was an incline now, in the direction of the river. I pushed as hard as I could and went into a low crouch for maximum speed. They did the same. They were getting closer. I waited until they were a few feet behind me, then swung hard to the right, cutting across the nose of the closest guy. He lost his balance and fell on his ass. I stayed in my crouch and aimed for the thick brush along the side of the parking lot. I had gained some ground. If I could get to the brush I could lose them, I could hide. I felt like I had a chance.

But then I saw the fence, chain-link, between me and the brush. Where did that come from? I veered to the left. At that moment, the next closest guy got to me. He grabbed at me and we bumped into each other. By some miracle he lost his speed and I didn’t.

But the others closed in. Another guy pulled even with me, about five feet to my right. “Hey, kid!” he hissed. “We got something for you! From Scratch!”

I swerved straight at him and kicked my board at his ankles. He tripped and fell; and I sprinted for the brush. I ran so fast my legs barely stayed under me. I jumped for the fence and scrambled up the chain-link.

I didn’t make it. One hand grabbed my leg, another got my ankle. A third found the back of my pants. The weight of the three of them ripped me off the fence. I landed hard, on my side, on the cement.

For a moment I lay stunned. I think someone spit on me. “Way to go, Prep!” said a voice. “Way to sell out to the cops!”

I tried to roll over. “But I didn’t!” I groaned. “I swear I didn’t say any—!”

Someone kicked me hard in the side, knocking the wind out of me. “Whud you say, Prep? What was that?”

“I
swear—”
I croaked.

Another kick in the back. I tried to roll away from them. I tried to cover my head. All I could think was:
I am so dead. I am so, so dead.

Then a siren squawked. A bright light flashed across the fence, illuminating the group of us. It was a police car, driving very fast, headed right toward us. It skidded to a stop, and my attackers scattered in every direction.

I could hear the footsteps running away. Slowly, carefully, I unrolled myself and lifted my head. I was staring into the headlights of an unmarked police car; the red police light turned circles from the dash. I looked to my right and saw two plainclothes cops chasing the Streeters.

One of the cops stopped at the end of the fence and jogged back to see if I was okay. I was still in the headlights so I couldn’t see who it was at first. But the voice was familiar. So were the thick hands that helped me up: It was Detective Brady.

Of course it was.

Brady didn’t say anything. He helped me up and got me inside his car. Then he jumped into the driver’s seat and we tore off.

We picked up the other cop. Brady whipped the car around and floored the accelerator. He wanted to head off the Streeters. His partner called other squad cars to help, referring to the “suspects.” In my muddled brain, I tried to figure out what had happened. Did he think the Streeters had committed the train-yard murder? Or was he after them for beating me up? Or was he after them because they were Streeters, and were always the natural suspects in any situation?

Brady couldn’t find them. His partner barked at the other cars on his radio. One of them, a normal police car, came rocketing around a corner and almost hit us. Detective Brady cursed him out.

Then a different squad car reported four young men running toward the River Walk. Brady spun his car around and drove there, screeching into the River Walk parking lot and skidding to a stop. He and his partner jumped out and ran down the grass hill.

I got out of the car, too, but Brady waved for me to stay put.

So I did. I stood next to the unmarked police car and watched Brady and his partner jog across the grass in the moonlight.

A moment later, another cop car pulled in beside Brady’s car. These policemen, in uniforms, walked quickly in the same direction. They all disappeared under the Morrison Bridge.