Paranoid Park (9 page)

There were more articles about controversial priests. In Massachusetts, a whole town was suing one priest, and it got so bad the parish declared bankruptcy and sold the church. Then I found this conspiracy Web site that said the pope was trying to make everyone go into credit-card debt so he could take over the World Bank. Everything I clicked on just got worse and worse. Maybe confession wasn’t such a good idea

I gave up after a few minutes and lay down on my bed. Then my mom knocked on my door and came into my room. She was all flustered because my dad had come over. He was in the garage packing stuff up. She said he wanted to talk to me.

I didn’t trust myself to talk to my dad. I didn’t know what I would say. So before I left my room, I made a decision: Since I didn’t know if I should tell him, I wouldn’t. And then later, if I decided I should tell him, I still could.

The important thing was, I couldn’t break down and start bawling and blurt it out. That would be the worst situation, because then the firestorm between him and my mom would begin. And that would be too brutal to think about.

I went downstairs. I grabbed a couple carrot sticks off Henry’s plate as I went through the kitchen.

The garage was cold that night. I sat on the step and watched my father dig through the big storage closet. When he stood up, he held a small, single-burner Coleman stove. My heart sank when I saw that. We had used it when Henry and I and my dad went fishing two summers ago. It was the last thing we did together before everything fell apart.

Looking at that Coleman stove, I had a strange thought:
I might need that.
But for what? When I ran away? When I tried to camp my way to Canada?

“Hello there,” said my dad, when he noticed me watching him.

“Hey,” I said back.

He saw me looking at the Coleman stove. “I wondered where this was,” he said.

“Are you going to take that?”

“I’m just going to borrow it. Uncle Tommy and I are going to the lake this weekend.”

I sat and watched my dad in the fluorescent garage light.

He set the camp stove down. He brushed the dust from his hands. “I wanted to talk to you,” he said. “I’m not sure what you’ve heard, exactly. Or what your mother is telling you. I may not be coming back here anymore.”

I killed someone, Dad.
The words bounced through my head. I didn’t say them, of course.

“We’re still, you know, discussing things,” he continued, “and trying to work out logistics. And do what’s best for you and Henry. It’s not easy trying to work with your mother. As I’m sure you know...”

“... So I wanted to check in with you, see how you were doing,” he said calmly. “I mean, obviously it’s hard. It’s certainly not an ideal situation.” My dad studied the shelf in the storage closet as he said this. He was looking for other things he might need at the lake. “So, is there anything you want to say? Any considerations you have?”

I watched him. He began to move paint cans to the side. He found a flashlight.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Not really.”

“Well... I guess that makes sense. The whole situation... is so difficult.” He stared into the front of the flashlight and tried the switch. It lit up. “How’s school, by the way? How are your classes?”

“Okay.”

“How are Parker and those guys?”

“They’re fine.”

“I saw Parker’s dad the other day at Outdoor World.”

“Yeah?” I said.

“You still skateboarding?”

“Sometimes.”

He set the flashlight next to the camp stove. Then he turned back into the closet.

He dug through some gardening stuff. I cleared my throat and stood up. “I actually have some homework,” I said.

He looked at me. He shrugged helplessly. “I’m really sorry about this, son. I really am. I never wanted something like this to happen.”

“I know the feeling,” I said back.

“All I really want to say is ... Well... if there’s anything I can do ... any way I can help you...”

“Can you bring the stove back?” I asked.

He gave me a surprised look. “What are you going to do with it?”

“I dunno. Go camping.”

“Yeah, sure, I’ll bring it back,” he said.

But I didn’t think he would.

The next day at school, I slipped into the library before class and grabbed the newspaper. I took it to one of the back tables so the librarian wouldn’t see me. I flipped through it slowly, scanning each page. I looked for anything—accidents, deaths. A Hispanic man had been hit by a car in Hillsboro. A house burned down in Northeast. A mayor of a small town on the coast had taken some bribes for something. And of course there was tons of stuff about the new Trail Blazers coach.

But nothing else. I folded up the paper and put it back without letting the librarian see me. Then I went to class.

Before lunch that day, a bunch of people played football in the back parking lot. I got on Parker’s team, and he threw me three touchdown passes. We kicked ass. It was the first time I actually smiled in days.

Then at lunch, I felt hungry again, for the first time since Saturday night. I ate all my food, had seconds, then ate all of Parker’s and James’s food. I told them I’d had a stomach virus and hadn’t been able to eat. They said I looked a little weird on Monday.

Later, Jennifer came by my locker, and I was actually happy to see her. She was being flirty and cute and just for the hell of it I gave her a big kiss, right there in the hall-which got her all giggling and hopping around like she does.

I felt like everything was right with the world again. Or I did until I took my world literature test. I had totally forgotten about it. I mean, I wasn’t so great in English anyway. It was this book called Notes from the Underground, and I hadn’t even bought the book. So I got burned on that. But I told Mrs. Hall I was sick all weekend, and she said I could take it again next week if I wanted. I figured I could get the SparkNotes and do a makeup.

Then after school, Jared and some of those guys were playing S-K-A-T-E on the steps by the parking lot. I sat on the steps and watched.

“Bro, where’s your board?” Jared said, when he saw me.

“Home.”

“You don’t bring it to school anymore?”

“I don’t have room in my locker,” I said.

“What are you talking about?” he said, sneering like this was the stupidest thing he had ever heard.

“I dunno, I just... didn’t feel like bringing it.”

Right then, Christian Barlow ollied the lower steps. Everyone stopped to watch him ride it into the parking lot.

Jared immediately spun his board and took off, to see if he could match it. He couldn’t; he bailed and got a “K.”

I watched the other guys try to ollie the lower steps. Paul Auster fell on his ass and smashed his hand. He was in serious pain, rolling around, holding his wrist between his legs.

Jared tried it again, for the hell of it, and bailed again and ran into the parking lot.

“This is lame,” he said, retrieving his board. “We should go to Paranoid.”

“Paranoid Park?” said Christian Barlow.

“Sure,” said Jared.

“That place is skanky,” said Christian.

“Bro! Paranoid kicks ass!”

“Yeah, if you, like, just got out of jail,” said someone else. “Some guy got stabbed there.”

“It’s rad, though,” said Jared. He looked at me to confirm this.

I shrugged. “I only went there once.”

“Yeah, but you liked it,” said Jared. “We should all go. This weekend. We could go there right now.”

Christian didn’t want to. Paul had no opinion. I couldn’t. “I gotta hang out with Jennifer,” I said.

“Yeah?” said Jared. “You got anything off her yet?”

“Not really,” I said.

He laughed. “What? Is she giving you the good-girl treatment?”

“Nah, she’s just... you know.”

“I’d do her,” said Paul Auster. “With that body? And you know she wants it.”

“All those girls,” said Christian. “Petra practically attacked Mike Paley.”

“It hasn’t really developed that far,” I said, trying to defend myself.

But nobody cared anyway; they were all waiting for Christian to do his next trick.

The next couple days were more of the same. At school, I’d have an hour or two when I would feel like myself. I’d play hoops or hang out or whatever. Then at some unexpected moment—at my locker, or sitting in class—I’d remember the security guard. I’d see him in front of me, mangled on the tracks. Sometimes I could get away and go sit in a stall in the bathroom for a few minutes. But other times I’d be stuck with it.

Home was the same. I’d kill time, try to stay occupied. I would play video games for a couple hours, watch some TV, even do a little homework. Then it was up to bed. That was the hardest part. At least I was sleeping better now. I started taking these allergy pills my mom got me. If you took a couple, they kinda knocked you out.

Then on Thursday morning, on my way to school, I noticed this church down the road from my school. It was in this big building that used to sell lawn mowers and gardening stuff. I figured it probably wasn’t a very good church if they put it in an old lawn mower shop. But it made me think about the church thing again.

So that day after school, I took the bus downtown to the church my family went to on Christmas. It was weird being downtown. I hadn’t been there since Saturday. Getting off the bus, I was checking all around like I was a fugitive. When I saw a cop car, my whole body froze up.

But I kept moving and eventually found the church. It was a big stone building with thick oak doors. The lawn out front was perfectly groomed, with flowers and green grass and little walkways on the sides.

I went up the smooth stone steps in front. I pulled open the heavy door and instantly got an eerie feeling in my stomach. Inside, it was quiet, hushed; the red carpet was spongy under my feet. I proceeded cautiously forward.

No one seemed to be there. Which seemed odd. It was totally empty. Was that possible? Wasn’t there supposed to be someone there?

I figured you must be allowed in, since the door was open. I crept forward and looked around. It was completely empty.

I didn’t want to go too far inside. I sat on one of the benches, near the back. They were beautiful polished wood. Everything was super nice. I started to wonder if a priest in a high-class church like this would understand something like what happened to me. Probably stories involving skateboarders and Paranoid Park and people named “Scratch” were not their specialty.

I sat. I stared forward. The quiet and the stillness started to get to me. For some reason I thought of Henry. I pictured him at home, ignored, overlooked, crashed in front of the TV night after night. No Dad. Mom freaking out. His big brother locked in his room with his own terrible secrets. My family: We were disintegrating.