Rush (21 page)

“Fatty!” Fez hops out, rounds the Jeep.

“You want to tell me what she's got to do with the club? With Kip? With quality control? This ain't on my hands.” Fatty looks at me, back to Salome. “I'll say you both did it. You don't need to do this, Salome.”

Fez grabs his buddy and shakes. “What's gotten into you?”

“Will you two look over here?” I grab Salome's camera from the seat and flash the night.

“What's that for?” Fez blinks.

“I want to remember the event. Salome?”

She gives Fatty a hug. The big fella stares at his hands like he's never had one before. He finally hugs her back.

Salome releases, smiles, and walks over to Fez. The slimeball stretches out his arms, and she kicks him in the kneecap. He starts a wild hop.

“Get in the Jeep, Fatty!” Fez winces and curses, and the big guy obeys. Fez hands us each a flashlight and massages his leg. “So both of you flash us at the same time. Be sure you're a distance apart, then we'll know you're both up there. After the dive, we'll pick you up at the bottom.”

Together, Salome and I set off into the night.

We snake the footpath, the wild crash of water strengthening with each step. I take her hand. “We've done a lot of crazy things together.”

“You've done a lot of crazy things.”

“Are you okay?”

“No.”

I stop.

“But let's get this story on the fire chief's desk and then in
The Mid-Cal Reporter
, page one.” She pulls me along.

The path cuts the pine forest, and we descend slowly to the river that falls off the edge of the world. Chisel Falls.

Ripples on the Chisel River glint and dance. They bubble into waves, then tiny breakers, golden in the moonlight. Then they disappear. It's where I'll disappear.

“I can't get much closer to the edge.” Salome stares at the drop a hundred feet from where we stand.

“You don't need to. Stay here. I'll head to the edge. Watch for my signal.” I gaze back toward the observation area. “From their angle, it will look like you're right up close.”

I run along the bank, stand on my launching rock, and spin. I raise my hand, Salome does, too, and we flash our lights. I race back. “Now we need to move fast. The path I showed you yesterday? Take it down to the sitting rock behind the falls. Take pictures all the way. Here”—I take off my jacket—“get a good shot of this, of me now.

“It's so loud,” I continue, I don't think you'll hear me hit water. But I'll flash you once with the light right before I dive. It's a tough swim beneath, so don't worry. It'll be a minute until I surface.”

Salome presses against me. “I don't know if I should be proud of you, or hate you or . . .”

“Or?”

Salome kisses my cheek. “For luck.”

I tingle and stroke her head. “You don't believe in luck.”

“You're right.” She kisses the other cheek. “For me.”

“We need to get you down there before they get there. Stick to the trail. Go.”

Salome vanishes. If she captures it all on film, the world will be right. Everyone will believe Scottie. No more kids will die trying to join the Rush Club. Then I'll finally tell Salome what I know—she's all the rush I need.

I scamper to my rock, strip to my trunks, and shiver. Spray coats the slippery rock. Now my job. It's not so tough, really—spring hard and I'll clear the falls. It's my takeoff angle. If I mess that up, I miss the pool below.

I swam it again yesterday to be sure. The deep pool holds plenty of rocks on the near side. As long as my feet don't slip when I jump, it's a piece of cake.

She should be there. I grab my light, shield the beam, and flash it once. Jump, splash, surface, then grab her and pull her in. We'll swim around the falls, get the camera, and leave. Mox's game will be over.

I stand, breathe deep, and jump.

It isn't real, not at first. Deep inside the mind, I expect to be caught, snatched back, like at an amusement park. But ten feet down the rush overpowers, and I wonder if this is what death feels like. A terrifying nothing. Not for just an instant, but long enough to be a new condition. It's a lifetime of acceleration and freedom and cold. I'm cold. Every part of me. Even my eyelids are cold—stuck open, seeing nothing. I glance down. More nothing. I've lost count. My entry count. There's no way to gauge it. I double over into pike position, lock frozen fingers together, and pinch my feet.

And open up too soon. I'm in position too soon, and I lose vertical. I brace. I need the water now. I need to hit now, or I'll land on my back and—

Smack!
My shoulders and upper back strike water, and I plunge deep. I bring half a breath with me. It's enough. My hands skim the river's pebbly bottom, and I place my feet, power toward air and life and Salome. And propel backward. Undertow surges against my chest. It steals oxygen and upward motion and pins me against rock. Weighty water crashes down, twists, and holds me tight. Air is gone, and I go limp, gulp water.

I'll die.

Salome's still waiting.

I bend into the flow, and the undertow squirts me away from the rock wall. I kick up, I think, and pop out fifty strokes from the falls. Sputtering and coughing, I reach for the shore and haul up. It's been seconds, or minutes.

I stumble, vomit, and stumble on toward the falls, toward the ledge.

I see her, standing and shouting into the water.

“Jake! Can you hear me? Jake!”

“I'm—okay, I'm—” I cough, but the falls' crash devours my sputter.

“Are you there?” she screams, and I see her gray form dive straight down into the swirl.

“No!” I stagger around the falls to the ledge. I drop onto the bank beneath, wade in, and scream. Her hair whooshes gently around my knees. I reach down, see the gash where her head struck rock, and press hard against it.

“Help!” I stand and scream and stare at the limp girl in my arms.

OUTSIDE THE HOSPITAL ROOM
, nurses laugh. Their lives are smooth and full of hope. They will hop on elevators, throw off pastel uniforms, and forget her. But I will stay in this room. I won't move. I have nowhere else to go.

I'll sit here until she wakes.

I have so much to tell her—but I need her to come back. Wherever Salome is, I need her back, and I promise she'll always get the truth. Because now I can't hold it in.

Grim faces no longer scurry like rats, rush to every beep. She's stable. Their machines keep her alive.

They say Salome won't wake up, that she can't.

But they don't know her. Not like me.

I stare at my brother's face, cold and lifeless. There is nothing left of Scottie. My hands fold, and I count the freckles on floor tiles.

I rise and walk to the bedside table, reach through the tangle of IV drips, and finger the book, the tattered book. It's a Bible. Shouldn't be hard to open, but it is. I flip through. The words are small and many, and I wouldn't know where to start, though she'd want me to. I carry it to my seat and collapse.

And listen. The low hum from the vent, pushing the air that inflates Salome's lungs; the steady beep from a monitor near the bed; and a clock—a cheap wall clock. Its tick grows louder, pounds in my head.

Again tears fall, like they do every hour. I can't take this room, can't take that clock.

I stand and rip it off the wall, hurl it to the floor. Glass shatters. My brother doesn't flinch. I plop into the chair, throw the Bible onto broken glass, and lift the clock. I set my pointer against the hour hand. I turn back time. Three hours. Seven.

“What are you doing?” A nurse stands in the door. “You can't—”

One day, now another hour.

“Can you hear me, Jake?”

Two days, three days. Four. I stop. 1:00 A.M. I stare at the dead clock that jerks in rhythmic seconds against my finger. It tries to live. Four days ago, I did, too.

I stare at the nurse, old and thick, through swollen eyes.

“I did it all,” I whisper.

“Things fall, accidents happen.” She tiptoes toward me, lays her hand on my shoulder. “We'll get housekeeping.” The nurse turns to leave, stops when she sees the Bible. “This shouldn't be on the floor.”

She picks up the book, lays it on the nightstand.

I listen to the machines, grind shards into the floor with my boot, slump down, and close my eyes.

“Jake? Scottie?”

We both jump to our feet. Mrs. Lee stands in the doorway.

The nurse smiles. “I'll see to this mess. Be careful, Carol. An accident happened over there.”

“An accident is still standing over there,” Scottie mutters, does not look my way.

Mrs. Lee walks between Scottie and me, straight toward her daughter, the one I did in. She strokes Salome's hair, kisses her forehead, and whispers.

“Hello, darling. I'm back. The Kings were kind enough to let me sleep a bit.” She winks at me, turns, and likely does the same toward Scottie. “They're both such nice boys. You're very fortunate.”

I peek at Scottie. He cries again. I can't take it. All the niceness. Yell or curse or shout, but don't kill me with this niceness I don't deserve.

“I—I need to leave.”

Neither turns their head. Mrs. Lee strokes. Scottie seethes.

“Maybe I'll come back tomorrow?”

“Don't bother.” Scottie's jaw tightens, and muscles in his face twitch.

Mrs. Lee straightens and smiles. “That would be nice.” She walks toward me, tiptoes through the glass. “You are so special to her. She needs you here.”

I nod and bury my face in my hands. I feel a hand gently pull my fingers down. Mrs. Lee reaches into her purse and pulls out a small journal. Salome's journal. I'd know it anywhere.

“Here.” She presses it into my hand.

I swallow hard. “Why give it to me?”

Mrs. Lee smiles. “This one's all about you. Cover to cover.”

“Things have changed,” Scottie hisses, leans over Salome. He picks up a hand and kisses it.

“Maybe.” Mrs. Lee's gaze stays locked on me. “Time will tell. Come back tomorrow, Jake.”

I squeeze Salome's book and step out past the house-keeper in the doorway.

I drive into Brockton. There is nothing left here for me. My solve-it-all plan ruined everything. I pass Dad's place, the home he wanted me to visit. The bushes are overgrown; the lawn's unmowed. A week of flyers stuff the mailbox. Dad's dead. I killed him, too. I could have outed the Rush Club from the outside, he'd say. I should have listened to him, he'd say. I know what he's doing—he sits on the couch, knowing his son destroyed his town.

I glance back at the Lees', quiet and sad. Wreaths lean against the door. There is no place for me to lay my head. The villa is closed pending investigation. My interviews after that black night, Salome's photographs, and the sweet life I destroyed see to that. Firefighters, heroes in this world, hate me, too.

Mox is suspended. To the town, an icon has fallen—chopped down too soon. It doesn't know why; it feels no relief that other fighters are safe. All Brockton knows is that a Jake King stunt put Salome in the hospital.

I drive up the mountain, to the only place I know I'm welcome. I sit among the junk with Salome's journal.

Hour after hour. I forget why I'm there there, remember, and forget again. I think about fifth grade and Mom's salmon dinners and the journal I don't dare open. I remember my first home run and Dad's whoop, my last home run and his empty seat on the bleachers. Night falls, and I still sit.

I lose strength, let my body fall. Alone, I cry.

I WAKE, STAND UP
IN the heat of morning, and hop on the dirt bike.

I race laps around my jump, tire of the view, and turn into the trees. Away from Brockton. Up the mountain. I've never been here before. I ride hard and straight and can't shake her sheet-white face from my mind.

Soon thighs burn, the engine scalding me through denim.

I break free into a clearing and throw down my bike. Sweat stings my eyes, and I swipe beads away with a soaked T-shirt. I squint forward. Trees stretch on forever.

I turn around, stare back down. The wind blows hot, scorches my already hot cheeks.

I race down toward the salvage yard. Faster I fly. Trees blur by me.

The voice is small, but real. I ease on the throttle.

I reach my jump, rev the engine, and power up the takeoff ramp.

I do.

I look down over the twisted metal. Ahead, there is weightlessness and everything I've known.

I glance at hands covered with Salome's blood. And I think. All is still. My mind is at rest. All urges are gone—the monster's grip doesn't hold.

I let the bike roll back down to solid earth.

From here, I see clearly. I feel it all. I am free, free to stay with the one I love.

I walk my dirt bike to the road, hoist it high, and strap it on top of the Beetle. Won't need it up there anymore. I wind down to Dad's.

Once there, I stand on the step and pound. I've pounded for minutes. The man's in there. I kick the door with my boot, and it slowly opens.