Under the Bridge (5 page)

Indy sat back, flipping his napkin on the table. “No shit. Who wouldn’t be if they had to deal with you every—”

For a man who was built like a tank made of muscle, I had no idea my dad could move so fast. His chair flew behind him as he bolted upright, his thighs hitting the table and spilling all the glasses. A meaty hand jabbed across the table and the next thing I knew, Dad dragged Indy over the table, yanking him to within an inch of his face. Indy’s feet dangled a few inches above the floor as dishes scattered. Mashed potatoes smeared his shirt. Mom gasped in shock, and I couldn’t believe I was seeing what I was seeing. He’d never touched either of us before.

Dad, with his nose almost touching Indy’s cheek, spoke into his ear, his voice a low and vicious growl. “You can screw with me all you want, son, but”—his grizzly voice rose into a bellow—“if you EVER sit at your mother’s table again with dope in you, you’re out! Got it? You respect her,” he said, shaking Indy roughly as he spoke.

Indy smiled. “Go ahead. Do it. I know you want to. Hit me. You’re so fucking tough. Do it.”

For a moment I thought he would. But he spoke, pointing to Mom, still face-to-face with Indy. “Don’t do this to your mother, Indy.”

Indy sneered. “Or what?”

Dad reared back his fist, then hesitated, time stopping as he stared at Indy. In that moment, I knew that all the barroom-brawl stories I’d heard about him before he met Mom were true. The rage emanating from him was palpable, and I
knew right down to the core of what I was that any human being willing to mess with him was insane.

He didn’t hit Indy, though. He shoved him back, off the table. Indy sprawled on the floor, covered in potatoes and flecks of corn. I could see the fear in his eyes, even through the glaze of being stoned. Dad stepped around the table and stood over him. “Apologize to your mother.”

Silence. Nobody moved as we waited. Then my mother stood. Her voice shook. “Dan. Enough is enough.”

He clenched his teeth. “He’s going to apologize or he’s going to get more until he does. He knows the rules. Both boys do. He might act like some ghetto street punk, but not in your home.”

Mom took a breath, not sure of what to do because our family had just been turned upside down. “Dan, get your keys, get in the truck, and drive around until you’re cooled down. Then you’ll come home and we’ll talk.”

Dad stared at Indy, then slowly reached down, grabbed him by fistfuls of his shirt, and pulled him to his feet. He calmly brushed dinner from the front of Indy. His voice, bereft of anger, was slow and smooth. “Apologize to my wife.”

Indy looked at me, and something clicked between us. Things had changed. When we were younger and mouthed off to Mom, there’d always been hell to pay, but this was different. We weren’t six years old anymore, and I knew right then that when Dad said
Apologize to my wife
instead of
Apologize to your mother
, he wasn’t looking at Indy as a child to be
disciplined. A final boundary had been crossed, and it scared the crap out of me.

Indy took a breath. “I’m sorry.”

Without another word, Dad left. After a minute, Mom nodded and picked up a dish. “Well, let’s get this cleaned up, then.”

“I can’t believe you.” I sat at my desk, staring at my homework
.

Indy was sprawled on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He looked over, turning the volume down on his iPod. “Dad can kiss my ass.”

I shook my head. “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about Cutter.”

He shrugged, groaning. “So what? I got high. It’s not the end of the world.”

“We had a deal.”

He rolled his eyes, turning away. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“You knew just like I did what was going to happen when I got home. I just needed to chill.”

I grunted. “He was pissed for sure.”

He turned back to me, then sat up, running his fingers through his hair. “No, Tate. Not just pissed. You saw it. That was hate, man. He wanted to hit me so bad.”

“He doesn’t hate you. He just doesn’t want … He just wants you to do good.”

He looked at me. “You know what I wish?”

“What?”

“That I had a fucking cheerleader squad on my side for once. Why do you always defend him?”

“I don’t.”

“Bull. Yeah, you do.”

“Well, he doesn’t look for trouble, Indy. You do. Why can’t you just lay low for once? Give it a break?”

“Because he never gives me one.”

“Yeah, he does.”

“Like when? Remember when I asked him to build a half-pipe in the driveway? When we first got into skating?”

I nodded. “Yes. And he built it.”

“No, dude, he didn’t. He said we didn’t have the money, until you wanted one also—then we suddenly had the money. Same with everything else. You get an F on a test and he tells you to pick it up. Just try harder next time, right? I get an F and he goes off the deep end, telling me I’m wasting everything.” He paused, looking at the floor, then lay back down. “Whatever. I’m done talking.”

“You know why he does it, Indy.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Because you’re smart and I’m not. And he knows it. You’re, like, the most brilliant idiot in the world and everything could be easy for you. I have to study and work to do
anything good, and you don’t. You could pass every class you have without cracking a book open, but you won’t. So he rides you.”

“Great. Makes me feel so much better.”

“You know what I’m saying.”

“I know. And I didn’t ask for it. School isn’t for me, and as far as Dad is concerned, I’ve never been for him. You like wrenching on the truck with him and fixing stuff and watching sports and fishing. All that crap.”

I shrugged. “You don’t like those things.”

“No shit. But why can’t he like anything I do?” He pointed at his computer. “When was the last time he read one of my stories? Huh?”

I clenched my teeth, frustrated. It was funny, because while Indy hated school and everything about it, he wrote stories constantly. And they were good. But Dad didn’t like them because Indy wrote about life. Real life. And that included sex, drugs, and cusswords. Things that Dad thought were ruining our country. “I don’t know.”

“I do. I don’t fit into his stupid redneck world because if you don’t like football or trucks or shooting shit with guns, you’re not good enough for him.”

“He doesn’t see things that way, and you know it.”

“Whatever.”

A few moments passed. I knew it was useless to talk anymore, because every time we did, he just got so worked up that he exploded. “Just don’t get high again, okay?”

He closed his eyes. “Sure.”

“Promise.”

“I promise,” he said, then opened an eye, peering over at me. “Dork.”

I smiled. “Bigger dork.”

Gunmetal clouds blanketed the sky, and a few claps of thunder rumbled through the neighborhood, threatening to bring rain. Dad hadn’t said a word that morning to Indy, and they avoided each other until we left for Under the Bridge. There was a silence in the house that I couldn’t really describe, other than being reminded of a funeral home, and I was glad to get out
.

As we hit the curb in front of the house and dropped our boards to head out, Dad came out of the garage and called to Indy. I stayed at the curb for a couple of minutes while they talked, and when Indy came back, his face could have been cut from stone. I sighed. “What’s up?”

“Dad bought a home drug-testing kit at the store last night. I’m also grounded to the house every day after school to do homework, which he’ll check. And if I skip again, Mom will drive me to school every day and pick me up, and I can’t leave the house at all for the rest of the year, including summer.”

“Wow. Hard-core. Did you tell him you weren’t going to smoke anymore?”

“No. Why would I?”

I rolled my eyes as we began walking. “Well, because you’re not going to.”

He shrugged. “He has the drug test for that, and besides, I guess I’m a liar now, too.”

“Did he say you were a liar?”

“Tate, why would he get a fricking drug test if he thought I’d be honest about it? I’ve never lied, man. Every time they’ve asked, I’ve told them.”

“What are you going to do?”

He laughed. “Well, if I’m a liar now, I guess I’ll live up to his expectations.”

“Dude, don’t.”

“Why not? I’ve got nothing to lose.”

“Only your freedom. You want to be stuck in the house for the rest of the year?”

He dropped his board, the clatter echoing down the street as he hopped on it. “Ain’t gonna happen, bro. Come on, the crew is there already.”

The park was crowded when we arrived, and as we sat back watching some guys trying to tackle the Monster, Indy relayed to Sid and Piper “last evening’s entertainment.” I was surprised that he left out the part about getting high, but I didn’t say anything about it.

Piper munched on a bag of Doritos, stuffing chips in his mouth. “Let’s hit the six set at the church, huh? Too busy here.”

Sid stood. “I’m out. My aunt Carol called this morning and offered me twenty bucks to do yard work.”

Piper laughed. “You? Work? What’s wrong with that picture?”

Sid grabbed his board. “My dad blew all our money gambling again, and I need lunch money for next week.”

We bumped fists. “Cool. See you later.”

Sid left, and as the clock on the church tower reached four o’clock and the bells sounded, we skated across the empty parking lot. When we rounded the corner, a few junior high kids were skating the set of stairs. Piper spit. “Grom action.”

Groms were different than the kidlets skating the park with their pads and helmets and their moms clapping every time they pulled a manual for longer than two seconds. Groms were younger street skaters. With dirty clothes, long hair, worn-out sneakers, and street attitude, groms skated the city looking for good stuff to roll on. They were us a few years ago.

I nodded as we neared. “Cool. One of ’em is Mitchell.” Mitchell was a seventh grader at Sacajawea Middle School, and the kid and his crew lived on their boards. I saw him everywhere, and I mean everywhere. Sometimes I wondered if he ever went home.

Mitch saw us and waved, threw an ollie down the six set like it was nothing, and skated toward us. Brown dirty hair down over his collarbone, bangs in his eyes, a small nose, and
big ears made him look almost like a mouse. He smiled, showing a gap in his teeth. He’d taken a fall last year, trying to ride a grind rail at the Bank of America on Riverside Avenue, and knocked a tooth out. “Hey, Tater. What’s up?”

“Park’s busy.”

He laughed. “Park sucks now. I like ghetto fabulous better.”

Indy and Piper skated off to the far side of the parking lot, piling two concrete parking dividers on top of each other to kick-flip over. I looked at Mitchell’s board. “New deck, huh?”

He beamed. “Yeah. Saved for two weeks raking lawns, and my dad said he might get me some trucks in a while.” He turned his board over, showing me. “Axle thread is stripped. Wobbles, you know?”

The last time his dad put out any dough for Mitchell was paying the hospital for his birth. I nodded. “I’ve got an extra pair sitting around until then if you want them.”