Rush (18 page)

All warmth seeps from the car, and she wriggles away from me and into her seat. She flattens her dress and puffs out air.

I sit by a stranger. Salome stares straight ahead. I am alone and desperate. “Talk to me.”

She doesn't move. “Take me home.”

There's quiet, and there's something deeper. More than no noise, it's no possibility of noise. We drive back to Brockton in that hideous vacuum.

I pull into the Lees' driveway. “I'll do what I said.”

She nods, looks down. “Do whatever you need to. Do what you want.” Salome gets out, walks slowly toward the house.

“Hey!” I holler. “Sorry about messing up your prom.”

She pauses, raises a hand, but doesn't turn.

I SPEND THE NIGHT
in my car in front of the villa, and wake up with my back on fire.

Two things I know.

Life is miserable without Salome, and I destroy whomever I touch.

I need to apologize, or at least string more painful words together.

I drive to the Lees'. My legs usually lighten as they walk up her driveway, but not now. Whatever went horribly wrong with her adds weight to my feet.

My hand suspends in midair, preknock. Mrs. Lee throws open the door.

Her gaze wanders over my wrinkled tuxedo, comes to rest on my boutonniere. She reaches out and unpins my limp flower.

“Come in, Jake.”

She leads me to the living room, where we both sit on couches and say nothing. But her face seems fixed and unreadable, as if she has plenty to say. The silence kills me, and slowly I rise to my feet.

“I said some things, and I need to see—”

“She's back at school.” Mrs. Lee looks down, clasps and unclasps her hands. “She's hurt.”

“I know.” In my heart, I feel a snap. “I need to speak with her in person so . . . uh . . .”

She doesn't respond, so I say good-bye and let myself out. I jog back to the Beetle and hit the gas.

Last year, we visited this campus often. I know it, know where she is. In the turret room in the mansion-like stone building on University Avenue. She always said she wanted to live there, and she can talk her way into any place.

I squeal to a stop in front of the mansion, run up the porch, and knock. Two girls throw open the door, raise their hands to their mouths, and break out laughing.

“Rough night, huh?” Left Girl says, reaches out her hand. “Maybe I can help.”

I stare at her face. “Salome Lee. Is she here?”

Left looks at Right, and both lose their smiles. “Upstairs.” They gesture toward the stairs.

I nod, push between them, and bound upward. Three staircases later, I throw open the turret door.

“You didn't give me much chance to explain—”

Beautiful arms I know wrap around broad shoulders I know. The kiss ends. Scottie turns, and our gazes lock.

Salome runs her hands over her thighs, then through her hair. “Jake, I—”

I turn and race down the stairs, split Ms. Left and Ms. Right, and sprint to my car. I dig frantically for my keys, yank them out, and whip them across the road.

My hand comes down on the hood, dents, aches, and comes down again.

I race to find my keys. My angry search is filled with curses, and I rage in the grassy field in which they landed.

“Jake!”

I ignore her, search on.

“Please, Jake. I want to talk to you.”

I see a glint, grab the key ring, and storm toward the car.

“Go on, Salome. Go stick your face on my brother.”

“Who gave you the right to control my life? You shut up. You shut your mouth.”

“Done.” I jump in, slam the door, jam the key into the ignition, and squeal away. I look in the rearview. Salome kneels on the grass; Scottie leans over her.

I want to crush something, because something in me is crushed. Salome can kiss anyone she wants. But she just kissed me.

I drive fast and hard and squeal into Brockton. I pant and screech to a halt at the YMCA gym. I don't know how I got here, only that I need to move something heavy, something Scottie heavy. I need to force a 205-pound something into the air, and scream at it again and again.

I pound inside and make for the locker room. I smash shut my locker, kick the door open, and stomp into the Y's weight room. And freeze. Mox and Fatty and Fez high-five on the far side of the gym. Mox and Fez grab a fistful of Fatty's belly, laugh and joke and stare into the mirrors.

I walk in, take hold of Mox's shoulder, and spin him. His eyes grow big, then turn to slits. He reaches for my hand, vise-grips it, and tries to peel it free, but my fingers aren't moving. I grab his other shoulder and squeeze. I squeeze until his face twitches and his knees buckle.

“Tell me why you left Koss and me on that last drop. I'm losing everything. Everyone. Since finding out about the Rush Club, life's . . . been . . . torture.” I topple him onto the mat and stumble backward. Everyone stares at me.

Mox massages his arms, stands slowly. “How does it feel to kill a man? To be the reason Koss is dead.” He breathes in deeply. “To breathe air and know that your father should be mourning. What does that feel like?”

“I—I didn't mean—”

“You didn't mean to hurt him?” Mox slowly circles me. “You didn't mean to join my crew? What in your life do you mean to do?” He stops, leans in, and hisses. “Little victim.”

I stagger out of the Y. There is an emptiness so big, I can't fill it. It's time to leave this town.

SUITCASE FILLED, I TAKE ONE
more look around the villa, at the wall I spray-painted, the red circle. I've now failed Salome
and
Koss. I'll leave alone, and the Rush Club will live on.

“What do you know?”

I glance back. The three stooges fill the front door. I ignore them.

Mox repeats, “I said, what—”

“Heard you the first time.” I turn and look. He isn't so everything now. But neither am I.

“Before you run off again, would you be so kind as to tell me where you found out about the Rush Club.” He glances at the dried-blood circle on the wall. “Scottie? Troy?”

“I watched you emcee Troy's ceremony.” I grab hooded pullovers from the front closet. “You kill firefighters. Don't know how you live with that.”

“It's not that different from what you did,” Mox hisses, tongues his cheek. “I don't force the spin on anyone. Face it. You have no idea why we do it.” He winces and stretches his shoulder. “But you could.”

I drop my suitcase.

Mox continues, “There's room for you.”

“No. It's the rule. Only twenty.”

Mox looks down. “Don't suspect he'll object now. You took care of that.”

Fez eases up to Mox. “What are you thinking? You saw what he did.”

I reach for my suitcase handle, then pause. My fingers stretch and ball into a fist.

Mox wants me dead. He hates me. He hates my being young. He hates my having been forced on his team. He hates my dad, my brother, and what I did to Koss.

I stare at his smirk. This isn't an offer. It's an opportunity for all that hate of his to come out.

“You want me in.”

He smiles and says nothing.

Mox is playing. He rocks like he's close to a blaze. He wants to extinguish my life.

I straighten, face him square, and whisper, “You want me dead.”

His lip curls up.

“If you let me in, I'm coming after you.” I say.

“I'd be disappointed if you didn't. So are you—”

“In.”

Mox rounds my shoulder with his arm. Like Dad did at the administration building. Like Scottie did at the mill. Like Koss did on the trail and Salome did at the shack. But they're all gone. All of them. Only my would-be murderer remains in my world. An adrenaline junkie like me.

My eyelids shoot open, and I'm wide-awake. I needed a day to think of the right words to tell her, but she beat me to the deal. She's here. A quiet tap on the window. I flop over and jam my head under the pillow. A minute later, I poke out my head. The world is silent.

“Get out from beneath that pillow!” Her voice cuts into the room, grabs me by the neck, and yanks. I walk over to the glass and stare out at Salome, her hands cupped around her face.

Come with me, she mouths.

I let the shades clap down and turn back toward the bed.

More tapping. I whip on my clothes, pound out the door, and round the villa.

I glare at my best friend, say nothing to my best friend.

“Can we talk?” she asks.

“Depends on the topic.”

“Fine,” she says. “About what you saw—”

“How long you been seeing him?”

“That's not tonight's headline.”

“Oh, I think it is. ‘Girl Acts All into Jake, Runs Off with Brother.'”

“How about ‘Stupid Guy So Blind He'll End Up with Brooke.'”

“I'm going to bed.” I show her my back and take a step. My left foot snags on her shoe, flies up, and I flop onto the ground.

She kicks my thigh. “No, you're coming with me.”

I scowl at my tripper. She's beautiful. I hate that about her.

“You left me.” I push up to a kneel. “I needed you, and you left me.”

“You don't need me.” She walks toward her waiting car, looks over her shoulder, and gestures. I rise and join her, climb into her car. Together we speed out of Brockton.

“We've got a long way to go together.” Salome looks over. “So maybe it's best if you don't speak. It'll keep you from saying something stupid.”

“Where we going?”

She says nothing.

“I'll play along, just don't take me to your boy-friend.”

Tires squeal. “You can't keep that mouth shut. I warned you.” She grabs my ear. “Scottie's not my boy-friend. And if he was, would that bother you?”

I reach up, free my lobe from her pinchers. “Not at all,” I lie.

Salome leans back and breathes deep. “Mom was right.”

“About—”

“Everything.”

 

HOURS LATER WE REACH OUR
destination, the town of Canton, specifically the brick house with a twelve-foot metal sculpture dominating the front yard. I named it the
Weeping Rose
. The sculpture is alive with flowers that cascade down from the multiple beds built into it. I remember hauling junk with Salome from the salvage yard to Mom's place. We dumped it on her lawn and she made it into something beautiful.

I follow Salome out of the car and into the backyard. Mom's home sits on a private pond. She has a tiny dock and a hidden patio littered with sculptures and statues. And on that dock sits a small person on the one small lawn chair.

I know her. I know her from behind and in the dark and from a distance. I know her and love her and quicken steps toward her.

My feet pound the deck boards. She jumps up, and I freeze.

There are things I want to say now, words that should fall from my mouth and surround my mom. I want to tell her everything that's happened these last months, but I can't. It's not where we're at anymore. Though my mind is clear, I stand and stare at someone I know less each time I visit.

“Jake,” she says, and buries her hands in her pockets. “It's been a long time.”

Her voice peels years from me, and I feel ten years old again. I hate that.

“Too long,” I say, and jam my hands in my pockets, too. “How are you?”

“I'm feeling much better. In fact, I told Scottie—”

I straighten. “Is he here? Where is he?” I push away from Salome and storm toward the back porch.

Mom calls gently, “Why are you mad at your brother?”

I pause and throw my arms in the air. “Doesn't matter. He wins again.”

Mom approaches me from behind, strokes my head, and continues on around toward the front of the house. “Let's walk.”

I lock my fingers behind my head and exhale hard. My legs feel like lead. But Salome nods gently, and I follow my mom.

We walk in silence, twice circling the neighborhood. The third time around, Mom presses into my shoulder. I stare down at her.

“Why didn't you call these last months?”

“Of course, that's the question you should ask.” Mom's voice wavers. “Scottie told me you were rappelling and making new friends. I didn't want to intrude.”

I breathe deep. “Isn't that a mom's job?”

“And, I suppose, you could have called me? Your e-mails are always so short.”

“Things are complicated.” I exhale. “I'm into stuff that needs working out. Doesn't make it right, though.” A burn ignites in my gut. “Is that how things were for you when you left? Just too complicated?”

I shoot Mom a glance. She faces me, but her gaze can't stick, and it falls to the pavement.

“I wasn't well, Jake. Up here.” She touches her head. “I felt so overwhelmed. I was frozen.” She slows way down. “I needed to escape, maybe not so unlike you. So I used art. And you have your own wild trapdoor to freedom.”

I see it now. I see the replays of Mom years ago, the feeble mom I knew I needed to protect, but didn't know the enemy. I see her trembling and remember sitting on her lap, turning the pottery wheel. The kitchen, my kitchen, and weeks of mac and cheese as she lay on the couch. It didn't seem strange then; it was life and Dad's absences were normal fireman behavior.