Under the Bridge (17 page)

I looked at her, thinking about it. “Serious?”

“Yes.”

I thought about Indy and all the crap that was going on, then thought about skating in the arena. I’d have to practice big-time. Excitement rippled through me. Maybe I could do it. Maybe it was time to look after myself for once. “Deal.”

She held out her hand, and we shook. “Deal,” she said.

As we walked out the door, she stopped. “You know what I think you should do also?”

“What?”

“I think you should take that story Indy wrote and make her read it. The Greater Spokane Area Young Writers Competition is taking entries, and if it’s as good as you say it is, you should enter it. The only thing is that since the schools sponsor it, it has to be recommended by a teacher.”

“A competition?”

She nodded. “I entered mine already.”

“You like writing?”

“No, but my honors teacher insisted.”

I laughed. “Is there anything you’re not great at?”

She smiled, and that sad flicker came to the corners of her mouth. “Yeah. Being myself. See ya, and thanks. I had a great time.”

I said goodbye, tempted to kiss her, but I didn’t. I liked Psycho Girl. I don’t know why, but I did. Maybe it was because she was totally different than what she seemed.

Kim and I had lunch the next day—7-Eleven nachos that were just about the grossest thing on the planet—and we talked some more. She’d told her parents she was quitting orchestra, and World War III had broken out, but she’d held her ground. Well, not exactly, she explained. She’d locked herself in the bathroom for three hours while her mom railed on her through the door. I smiled, visualizing Kim crouched up in the tub yelling at her mom to go away
.

I looked at her, surprised at first, but not on second thought. I guess that no matter what people look like, we all have the same feelings. Just different shells protecting us from who we really are.

As we walked back to campus, I took her hand in mine. “We all have our crap, huh?” I said.

She swung our hands between us, then laughed. “I guess we do.”

We walked half a block in silence after that, and I couldn’t help myself any longer. “I’m not very good at this.”

“This what?”

I looked ahead at the campus. “Liking you.”

She laughed, squeezing my hand. “Is it hard for you to like people, Mr. Tough Guy?” she said.

I laughed, thinking of Ms. Potter. “Well, yeah, it is.”

When school got out, I skated to Under the Bridge. Sid and Pipe were nowhere to be found, so I sat on the concrete wall as late students filtered across the grounds. I unzipped my pack and took out “Stealing Home,” staring at the title page. Indy’s English teacher came to mind. What a crack. She’d never accept it.

I looked up, staring across the street at a bum wheeling a shopping cart down the sidewalk. He wore camos, patent leather dress shoes, an old turquoise sweatshirt, and a baseball cap. His cart was loaded with all his stuff, and I wondered what he’d been like before he’d become a living throwaway. Maybe his coach screwed him, too.

I shook my head. There had to be a way to get Indy away from Will. Frustrated, I stuffed “Stealing Home” in my pack and headed across the street to the school. I had to try again, but couldn’t bring myself to deal with his bitch of a teacher.

Mr. Halvorson—the teacher who had thrown Indy up against the locker for skating down the hall—sat behind his desk, the empty chairs in his classroom almost cold now that the butts of twenty-eight Honors English seniors were no longer in them. He didn’t like Indy. I couldn’t think of a teacher who did, though.

He looked up when I came in. “Can I help you?”

I looked at the foot of his desk. A baseball bag, cleats sticking out the open top, lay there. “I’m Tate Brooks. We met the other day.”

He nodded, indifferent. “Yes. Your brother Indy. The skater.”

I nodded. “The person.”

He sat back, crossing his ankle over his knee. “What can I do for you, Mr. Brooks?”

I shifted on my feet. “I was wondering if you could read something.”

He pursed his lips. “You’re a writer?”

I shrugged. “I was just hoping you could take a look. Maybe let me know what you think.”

He contemplated. “Why not give it to your English teacher?”

I balked, digging for an answer. My teacher would know in a heartbeat that I hadn’t written “Stealing Home.” I shrugged again. “I heard you had a book published, so I was figuring you’d be the best judge.” I smiled. “That and you’re the department head.”

He smiled, taking the compliments as intended. “What is it?”

I dug in my pack, taking out “Stealing Home” and handing it to him. “It’s not very long. Just a short one.”

He studied it. “ ‘Stealing Home,’ huh?” He grinned. “A baseball story?”

“Yeah.” I played dumb, pointing to his baseball bag. “You’re the coach?”

He nodded. “I guess you could say by default. I’m the only faculty member with college ball under his belt, so I was nominated. We lost Coach Xavier two years ago to the University of Arizona.”

“Cool.”

Mr. Halvorson tucked the story in his satchel. “Depends on who you talk to, huh?” He stood. “I’ll get to it as soon as I can.”

I smiled. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

I stared at the blackness of the ceiling for over an hour, my mind running over all the things that could solve our issues, and anger bubbled up in me. I was used to dealing with things head-on. Have a problem, either bust your knuckles on it or blow it off. This was different.

The barrel of that pistol aimed at my face scared me more than I liked to admit. And the flashing image of Will with his finger on the trigger and that cold look in his dark eyes, telling me he’d like to pull it, shook me to the bone. Fistfights were one thing, but staring at your death was over the edge for me.

I’d always known what to do. Even if I didn’t think about all the different angles of something like my mom or Indy did, and even though I used my fists instead of my mouth more than I should, I’d always trusted my instincts to deal with what was right and wrong. Now I realized the barrel of that
pistol was forcing me to think, because I was afraid. I hated being afraid, but I had to figure this out, and I had to figure it out before Indy got in too deep.

I had to get to him. Talk to him. Find out the whole story. Tell him Mom wanted to see him, and that Dad would lay off him if he came home. I rose from bed and dressed in the dark, slipping my shoes on and opening the window. Throwing my board onto the lawn, I crawled out, and the night met me with as much foreboding as I met it with.

There were two places I knew Indy might be, and I ran a pretty good chance of coming across Will at either. Will and his damn gun. Will and those cold eyes. With a shudder, I realized he was the first person I’d ever
really
been scared of. A person who rubbed me so the wrong way that I wanted nothing to do with him ever again. I realized what it was then. Will didn’t care. I did. And my dad had always said that if you’ve got nothing to lose, you’ll do anything to win.

I just wanted out of this situation because my dad was right. I couldn’t win. But I couldn’t get out, either. I couldn’t give up on my brother.

Fifteen minutes later, I was across the street and in the shadows Under the Bridge, waiting to see Indy come out of his hidey-hole to peddle drugs. I waited. Must be a slow night. No cars, no sign of movement. Then a car rounded the corner and idled down the street.

They stopped at the curb, waiting, and a figure came out of the shadows a moment later. I could tell right away it wasn’t Indy. The figure was much bigger, tall, skinny, and
slope-shouldered. Not Will. Somebody else. Probably some kid they’d sucked in just like Indy.

I waited around for a half hour and four cars more, but the same guy came out each time, so I split, skating further downtown to the Coldstone. I couldn’t knock on the door, I knew that, but I figured if I hung out long enough, he might come out or go in. Not much of a chance, but the only alternative was to lie in bed all night staring at the ceiling.

As I skated, I thought about Mindy, the prostitute I’d talked with, and wondered if she’d be there. I wondered if everybody down there had a story like hers, sad and screwed up and full of all the things nobody wanted to hear about in a world painted with just the right tones. I sighed, kicking my board up as I reached the corner of the building.

And almost ran into Will. I stepped back, my breath catching at the surprise. He smiled, the streetlight over us casting a glowing bubble on the dirty sidewalk. “Well, if it’s not Tatertot.”

I gripped my board, not wanting this. “Where is he?”

He shrugged, grinning wider. “Not here. But I am.” He walked closer, facing me. “You want to settle our little problem, skater boy? Your bro isn’t here to see what I’m going to do to you.”

I met his eyes, and everything I’d seen in them before was there now, but just bare and raw. Nothing to lose. “I don’t have a problem with you, Will. I just want to know where he is.”

He shook his head, his teeth flashing. “You don’t seem to
get it, Tater. Your brother is finished being second dog to you.” A wicked look came across his face, and he nodded, enjoying this game he was playing.

“I’m not top dog to him.”

“You’re right.” He leveled his eyes at me. “I am.”

The gun I knew he had on him loomed huge in my head. “I don’t give a crap about what you do or anything, Will, and we don’t have a problem. He doesn’t belong here. That’s all. I’ve got nothing against you.”

“Oh, he belongs here, all right. It’s you who doesn’t, and maybe we should settle that score right now, because I’ve got something against you.”

“I don’t want to fight you.”

He laughed. “It ain’t going to be a fight, you stupid fuck.”

I shook my head, my heart hammering. I could feel it coming. “Stay away from him, Will. It’s not worth it. You can pick anybody else. Just not him.”

He smiled, reaching behind his back. “You don’t have shit to say about—”

I hit him with the flat of my board square on the side of the face, and he went down like a lump, crumpling to the sidewalk, his cheek split open, deep and bleeding. He moaned, and before he knew what was going on, I reached down and fumbled at his waist, bringing out a snub-nosed revolver and stuffing it in my pocket. In an instant I knew I was so far in this that there was only one way out.

I should kill him. I should put the barrel of the pistol to his head and pull the trigger. I should end it the only way it
would truly end, because if I didn’t do it, he’d end up doing me. I took the pistol out of my pocket. He opened his eyes. I put the barrel to his forehead. I cocked the hammer back.

But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t be him. I was more. Better. Kim watching me beat that jackhole up in the parking lot flashed through my mind. No. I would be better. But I could scare him. I bent close to his ear. “You don’t care, Will. I know that. And I was afraid of it. But I’m not anymore. You picked the wrong family. The wrong kid. Leave him alone.” Then I was gone, walking down the sidewalk with my bloodied board in my hand, my knees shaking and a pistol in my pocket.

And I knew I was in trouble.