Under the Bridge (20 page)

She sat up, and tears came to her eyes before she spoke. “Maybe, but there’s not a lot I can do about it.”

“Break up with him, then. Get out.”

She laughed, wiping her nose. “You don’t know Will.”

“I need to find Indy. Help me, and I’ll help you. We’ll get you both out of this.”

She looked at me, and there was something in her expression that did scare me. I could tell she was trapped in something that she didn’t like and, most likely, didn’t know how to get out of. “I don’t know where he is now, but he parties almost every night at the warehouse on Second.”

When I got home, Mom and Dad sat in the living room, staring at me as I walked in the door. Ten minutes into both of them launching everything at me in their arsenal of parental weaponry, I finally exploded, yelling at both of them. “For the thousandth time, I don’t know where he is, I haven’t seen him for five days, he’s dealing drugs, I don’t know about Lucius, I took Will’s gun, and that’s it! God, you want me to leave, too?”

My mom spoke. “We’re actively working with the police to find him, Tate. This can’t go on like this anymore.”

“Did you tell them he’s dealing?”

Dad shook his head. “We’re not doing this to hurt him. We just need to find him.”

“Good luck with that one.
I
can’t even find him. Are we done? I have homework.”

At eight that night, I was hopelessly trying to study for a math test when the doorbell rang. Dad answered and I heard his voice, along with someone talking about “your son.” A minute later, Dad called me out.

Mr. Halvorson stood in our living room, apologizing for dropping in unexpectedly. He held Indy’s story. “Hello, Tate.”

“Hi.” I stuffed my hands in my pockets.

Mom came in from the bathroom, smiling and shaking Mr. Halvorson’s hand. She offered him a cup of coffee, which he declined, and he looked at her and Dad. “Mr. and Mrs. Brooks, your son came to my classroom and handed me this story.” He held “Stealing Home” out to my dad, who took it. “Have you read it?”

Dad frowned. “No, but if there’s anything in it that you found offensive—”

Mom interrupted. “No, I don’t believe we have, Mr. Halvorson.”

Mr. Halvorson went on. “Anyway, I told Tate I’d read it, and I have. In fact, I’ve read it four times. It’s far and away the best-written piece of fiction from a student I’ve ever seen. The voice is strong and personal, the narrative flows in an incredibly
true and natural manner, and quite frankly, it breaks out of all the stylistic bounds so commonly found today. Your son is a natural writer, Mr. and Mrs. Brooks, and incredibly gifted.”

Mom blushed, and Dad furrowed his brow.

Mr. Halvorson nodded to Mom. “As I told Mr. Brooks before you came in the room, I’m the department head for English at Lewis and Clark, and also the senior honors teacher. I’d like to invite Tate to my class for the rest of the year. I would also, with your permission and Tate’s, like to submit this story for the Greater Spokane Area Young Writers Competition. The deadline was yesterday, but I can get late approval.” He paused, then said, “Over two thousand writers compete for a writing scholarship, and I think it would have a good chance of winning.”

Mom was beaming, and Dad held the story, unmoved. I shifted, crossing my arms.

Dad looked at me. “Well, Tate, how about it?”

“I didn’t write it.”

Mr. Halvorson recoiled, confusion spreading across his face. He pointed to the story in my dad’s hands. “You didn’t write this?”

“No.”

Mr. Halvorson looked from my mom to my dad, then back to me. “Who did?”

“My brother.”

Anger cut Mr. Halvorson’s mouth into a slit. “Why would you—”

“Because you wouldn’t have read it if you knew who wrote it.”

Mr. Halvorson paused. “I would have read it, Tate. You didn’t have to lie.”

“I didn’t lie. I never said I wrote it in the first place. I just asked you to read it. Besides that, you don’t like Indy. Nobody at school does.” I gestured to our room. “He’s got a whole computer full of stuff in there. That’s what he does instead of studying.”

He nodded. “I wish you would have given me a chance before assuming, Tate.”

I glanced at my dad, giving him a wicked look. “My brother doesn’t have any more chances, Mr. Halvorson.”

He looked at Dad. “Why hasn’t his English teacher seen this? Or any of his other writing?”

Dad’s eyes flashed. “If he ever went to class, maybe she would have.”

I cut in. “She did see it. I took it to her.”

Mr. Halvorson looked at me, perplexed. “She read it?”

“She refused to.”

He grimaced. “That should not have happened. I’m sorry.”

I shrugged. “He wrote a regular assignment paper at the beginning of the year, and she wouldn’t accept it because it was ‘inflammatory and had foul language.’ Same old story.”

Dad took a breath. “Why wasn’t I told about this? I didn’t know he …”

I looked at him. “Why didn’t you ask?”

Tears welled in Mom’s eyes, and Dad looked like he was about to skin me alive.

Mr. Halvorson sighed, then nodded. “I’m sorry to intrude
on a family matter.” He paused. “Indy will be coming back to school soon?”

Mom looked at Dad. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Indy isn’t living with us.” With that, the tears in my mom’s eyes ran down her cheeks. She whispered an apology and left the room.

Mr. Halvorson looked at the story. “Well, the offer still stands for him to join my class, and I’d enjoy talking with him if he’s willing. May I submit this to the competition, Mr. Brooks?”

Dad handed it to him, his face a rock. “Do what you choose with it.”

At twelve-thirty that night I unlatched our window, slid it up, and hopped out, the cool night air prickling the hair on my arms. Three houses down from ours, I dropped my board and skated
.

Night skating is one of the coolest things to do in the world. With everything still and quiet but for your wheels rolling on the pavement, it’s like skating in a dream. The glow cast from streetlights and the emptiness of the city either freak you out or make you feel like the pavement and rails and sets were made just for you. I wished Indy was with me.

We’d snuck out a few times to carve the bowls Under the Bridge on midnight prowls. The clattering echo of our boards ratcheting under the open cavern of concrete, along with the occasional late-night traveler rolling on the freeway above, was peaceful. Under the Bridge would be ours on those nights, and those were the times having a bro was the best.

I skated downtown, past the school and the park and
further, until I reached Second Avenue. Five blocks west of the school and set in an old industrial-storage area, the warehouse sat brooding like a dark beast, its huge roll-up doors closed and locked and the upper-story office windows dark and foreboding.

I’d been to a rave here before, and the warehouse was the perfect place for it. No houses around, no businesses open late, litter and garbage strewn in the gutters and along the barbed-wire-topped fences, with the occasional bum wandering around collecting empty pop cans, meant hundreds of teenagers could listen to live music, get stoned and plastered, and stumble around puking without much hassle from anybody.

Down a narrow alley on the side of the building was a small door with a big guy standing to the side of it. Long dyed-black hair; leather jacket; black fatigues; combat boots; pierced nose, ears, and lip; and tattoos running up the sides of his neck told me he wasn’t a guy to be messing with. As I neared, he crossed his arms over his chest and waited for me. I nodded. “Cover?”

“Seven.” He held his hand out. “Any fighting and you’re out permanently, plus you get to deal with me. Bring your own booze and drugs. There’s no water in the toilets, so if you piss in them I’ll make you drink it back out with a straw.”

I dug in my pocket, took out a ten, and handed it to him. He stuffed it in his pocket. I waited for my change. It didn’t come. “You owe me three.”

He shook his head. “I’m not a bank. Go in or split.”

“You know Indy Brooks?”

He stared at me. I took that as a sign that I should get out of his face, so I walked past him and went inside. A single bulb hanging in a hallway dimly lit the way to a small alcove at the end, where two Goths stood smoking at a steel door. The beat of heavy music came through the wall. Another kid, this one sitting Indian-style, his hair covering his face, rocked back and forth slowly, chanting something low and indecipherable. I looked at him, and one of his buddies laughed. “Does it every time he trips the acid, man.” He dug in his pocket, taking out a Baggie. “Five bucks a tab. Good stuff.”

Good was all in the eye of the beholder, I thought, glancing at the tripping kid on the floor. “No thanks,” I said, and the Goths stepped aside for me. I pushed the door open, and the smell of pot mixed with sweat hit me. At the far side of the huge room, a screamo band blasted the amps, and at least a hundred people formed a pit center stage, moshing and stage diving while groups of people—from hard-core punks to Goths to straights out for a night of the other side of life—listened, talked, smoke, drank, and watched the band.

I walked through the crowd, looking for Indy before I found Paul Higgins. He and five guys sat in a circle in the far corner, old car seats and half-rotted couch cushions under them as they passed a bong around. He waved when he saw me, yelling over the music, “Tater! Duuuude!”

I nodded, sitting next to him. He slapped me on the shoulder, calling for the bong and yelling, “Bring it over, guys. This is Tater. Old skater buddy. Best in the whole fucking city if you ask me.”

I waved the bong away, looking around. “Busy place.”

He nodded, leaning to my ear. The band raged. “Not even. You should see this shithole on Saturday nights. Packed with the dregs.” He laughed, cackling at his stoned joke.

I sat back, listening to the band and glancing through the crowd. “Seen my bro?” I yelled to him.

He shook his head, taking a hit from the bong. He held his breath, then exhaled. “He usually doesn’t hang on the floor.”

I glanced at my watch, pushing the light button in the dimness. One-fifteen. “Where, then?”

He waved behind him, to a hallway. “There’s five or six offices down there. No-man’s-land. The hard-core hang there.”

I studied the dark entryway littered with garbage, then stood, leaning down to Paul’s ear. “Thanks, Paul. I owe you.”

He smiled, shaking his head. “Just get him the fuck out, dude. He doesn’t belong in there.”

As I made my way through the crowd and walked down the hall, the music faded, and it took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the deeper shadows. I came to the first door, which stood open. Complete darkness greeted me, so I kept going. After three more empty rooms, I came to a closed door. Light flickered from beneath it. I put my hand on the doorknob, taking a breath and tensing. Will might be with him, and it would mean a fight. A big one. I wished I’d kept the gun, but it was too late for wishes.

I turned the handle and opened the door. At least a dozen people sitting and lying on ratty sofas, beanbags, lawn chairs,
and old recliners dotted the room, all high or zoned out and talking in low murmurs. A cloud of smoke encapsulated my head—weed mixed with a toxic, harsh smell. Several people looked up, giving me indifferent stares before going back to talking. The tang of burned meth stung my nose.

A card table with a broken leg taped together stood in the center of the room, a half dozen lit candles on it, and bottles, cans, and garbage lay scattered between the groups of people. Two dim forms, a guy with a shaved and bristly head and his girl, lay on a mattress in the corner having slow-motion sex under a blanket, and I had to peel my eyes from them. From the look of disinterest everybody else had about it, I figured privacy wasn’t too important when you were trashed out of your mind.

I scanned the room for Indy, peering through the shadows and the smoke at each guy until I came back to the couple on the mattress. Then I did a double take. I clenched my teeth as I walked across the room, standing above them. “Get up.”