Rush (3 page)

Scottie and I stare at each other. Today was inevitable. The feds and his homecoming were inevitable. But he could've waited until tomorrow. I try to speak, but kind words stick.

“He shouldn't be so hard,” Scottie says. “He was talking like you were coming to dinner, too, until the high school called. What happened today?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

“Nothing,” he says, and tongues the inside of his cheek. “It doesn't have to always go down like this. Lose the death wish.” Scottie gives my shoulder a gentle shove, glances down at my bloody legs. “Some of us would like to keep you arou—”

His mouth hangs open, but his gaze is locked, fixed on what dangles from my hand. He leans over and lifts the limp, leathery arm of the Immortals jacket.

“Yours?”

“Course not. Found it in Carver's Gorge.” I extend it for Scottie to inspect. “You see any of these in Montana?”

“Yeah. There was one walking around.” He shakes his head. “The guy wearing it wasn't the type to answer questions.” Scottie lets go of the leather. “Does Salome know you have—”

“No, and she won't, right?”

Scottie exhales loud. “You're messing with a curse, brother. It starts with those jackets and fills this whole town.” He takes a step toward the truck.

I force a smile. “Yeah, Troy told me. But you came back anyway.”

“I did. Have my reasons.” Scottie turns, pauses, and looks over his shoulder. “You might want to lose that.”

There's a joyful dad, a shaken boy, and a still-sobbing girl. They call me Spider-Man. They call me the Good Samaritan.

Good Samaritan.
I pace the garage.
Salome will like that.

I can't be in this house when the two Musketeers return. I turn the brown jacket over in my hands, then plop down onto concrete. I bury my head in my arms and slow my breathing. Dark clouds roll into my mind, and their shadows eclipse clear thoughts. One way out: that's all I have. Only a rush of adrenaline clears the head, and I won't find that while crumpled on a slab of cement.

I squeeze back into the jacket, scooter across town through the black night, and park in the shadow of Brockton High.

I'm in search of climbing rope and know where to find it. I race around to the back of the gym and scan the entrance. The athletic door stands thick and gray and windowless. It opens freely, and I slip inside.

The sounds of bouncing basketballs and teachers' voices echo through the halls. Their Friday-night pickup game is a heated affair. I scamper past the open gym door and duck into the boys' locker room. There I weave around benches to the equipment storage.

“Bingo.” The thin climbing rope coils in the corner. I'll bring it back on Monday.

I grab it, hoist it over my shoulder, and slip out of the school. Minutes later, I hide my scooter in tall grass beneath the old water tower. And climb.

The evil clamp around my brain loosens a turn, and I increase my speed. If little Maddie from my YMCA climbing class were here, I'd slow down and lecture her on the importance of good footholds. But tonight my only friend is the invisible one who never leaves.

Depression. Panic attacks. Suicidal tendencies. Professionals have given my head many labels. But they've never
heard
me. This darkness in my head, it's a separation from the world. A confusion thick as soup.

It's a brain cloud.

“Hey, Monkey Boy. How high are ya going?”

I peek around the tube of concrete on which I hang and stare down at Winders Street, lit and quiet on a Friday night. The street is dead, except for a plastic bag that flutters like a drunken butterfly along the tar. It dodges and weaves and stops—pressed beneath the foot of a beautiful girl. A beautiful girl who isn't Salome. She bends down and picks it up, carries it toward the tower, and stares up. My stomach drops.

“This yours?” she asks. “Hey! Did you join the Immor—”

“Go on home, Brooke.”

“Ellie's mom is in San Diego for the weekend.” She talks so loud, Ellie's mom is liable to hear her. “Why don't you stop in after you're finished doing . . . whatever you're doing?”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

She flips her hair, folds her arms, and watches me. Like she's witnessing the postman out delivering mail. Like it's downright common to see a guy hanging from an old water tower in the middle of the night.

My arms swing from one twisted shaft of metal to another. Higher, always higher. Rough hands grasp rusted gray rungs, the remnant of a ladder not climbed in years. Callused feet strain for a toehold, and I push toward the peak, toward the word BROCKTON.

Wind whistles and hints at another storm, but each upward swing whooshes away more of the cloud that muddies my mind. With each reach, the distance between me and Brockton stretches like taffy. The town's grip weakens, its tentacles bust. Give me food, and I'll stay up here forever.

“Jake!” Brooke's sharp laugh cuts through the breeze.

I climb higher, reach for the final rung, and wish this tower were sixty feet taller. My hand brushes twigs. I pull up, my face level with a bird's nest. Five little mouths strain at me.

Mom bird screeches, flies toward me. I duck and bash my forehead against metal. The angry crow flies at the back of my neck.

I scamper to the top and stare out into blackness, waiting for my heart to pound. But it thumps on, slow and steady and dead.

Laughter, faint and harsh. From the villa, temporary housing for firefighter crews that blow in for the fire season. The villa stands vacant now, except for the year-round crazies who sleep during the day and come out at night. They say the Immortals are like vampires. Only wilder.

Their husky voices vanish and Brooke's figure disappears and silence thickens.

I start to uncoil the rope, and pause. My brain feels like it's shrinking. I toss the rope to the side.

I stand and close my eyes and lean back out over the railing. No relief. I drop down and sit and dangle my feet. My brain still feels black. I grip the rail, slide legs forward off the catwalk, and let my body hang. I look down sixty feet below, at the headlamps of a toy car. It creeps directly below me and falls dark.

The distance from me to it, it's beautiful.

Night gusts blow strong. I close my eyes and release one hand. High above the town, my heart flutters, and I smile. Forearm muscles fire and relax. My brain cloud breaks. I stare up at my grip, slowly slide my pinky off the rail.

A jolt deep in my gut kick-starts my heart. I let my ring finger slip free.

I dangle from two fingers and a thumb, and the day feels right.

My hand shakes, tenses. Wind, chill—I feel it all.

Pain shoots through my palm, and my pointer finger twitches rhythmically.

The railing cracks.

My sight sharpens, locks on the next section of catwalk. I need to latch on to keep from falling, but my thoughts clear. In this moment, I'm falling and alive.

I'm Jake King, small and stupid and reeling with a glorious panic.

My free hand shoots up toward solid pipe, and I slide my cramped claw onto the secure section.

Metal snaps, and the busted section falls away.

I watch the chunk of metal fall silently through the night, and my stomach sinks with it. I know where it will land; I see the toy car.

It smashes the windshield, and all is quiet. A horrible quiet. There is no scream, no horn that blares. Just a twisted metal rail stabbed into the top of a car.

I pull myself to the catwalk and peek over the edge. There's a twinge in my gut, then a slow burn. It finds dry tinder and ignites. I should climb down. The Good Samaritan should help, but I can't. I double over and squeeze my chest.

From below, a noise.

A car door creaks open, and a leg fights its way out.

“Oh,” I whisper. “Oh, no.”

“THE SCHOOL BOARD VOTES
to expel Jake King for the remainder of the year and to deny his candidacy to graduate in the spring.”

I turn to Dad and whisper, “I didn't even
use
their rope.”

There are murmurs behind me, satisfied whispers. I glance over my shoulder. Faces smirk and heads nod. If Dad turned around, those happy lips would squeeze tight, but he doesn't.

“Finally, justice falls on this criminal!” Mr. Ramirez rises, double-fists the table to my left, strides around toward us. He leans over me, hands balled tight. His gaze shifts from Dad to me and back again.

“Control your son, Hank,” he whispers. “Or someone else will.” Mr. Ramirez slaps the table, and I jump.

“I'm so sor—”

He vanishes out the door.

Dad doesn't even twitch. He sits and stares at the Council of Eight who just ruined my life.

Three of them wriggle beneath that stare, reach for water glasses. Their lives at Hanking's Mill just became much more uncomfortable.

But not Superintendent Haynes. He's in his glory. The pockmark-faced geezer stares at me.

“Next order of business—”

Dad leans into my shoulder. “Come on, son.”

I stand, and we walk out side by side.

One step outside the administration building and I know my life has changed. People who came to support the Ramirezes turn their backs, pretend to mill about. Angry people who'll never know about Dusty. They whisper and mutter, then whisper again. “Jake had it coming. It's about time.”

I know Kyle Ramirez is busted up bad—face, ribs, arms. It's my fault that he's sliced and scarred. But I only wanted to lose the confusion for a little while.

My gaze flits and searches and locks onto the Lees, silent and still. Salome's parents push forward. Jacob pats Dad's back, and Mrs. Lee hugs me tight.

“I love you, Jake,” she whispers. “Salome's waiting up.” She straightens, breathes deep. “She couldn't bear to see it. Come over tonight.”

Our neighbors spin and walk away. I fix my gaze on them, and the crowd goes mute. I want them back.

Dad stares at his employees, daring them to speak. His arm rounds my shoulder. “We walk together.”

It's been years since I felt this hand, and then only to welt my rear. I glance at him, at his proud face. My punishment is about him; it has to be. He takes this personally. Otherwise, that hand would be at home, flipping channels from the couch.

Officer Rogers steps up. “You could've been charged. You got off easy.”

“Nobody gets off easy,” Dad says. “You know this wasn't deliberate. Do your job, Max.”

Max disperses those gathered, and Dad pulls me through what's left of the self-righteous pack, down the walkway that leads to our car. Dad's steps slow. I know he's tired, that I make him that way.

I swallow hard. “Dad, I—”

He grabs me by the jacket and jams me hard against the Suburban. Muscles in his face tense, and his teeth grind.

“You screwed up.” He presses harder, then releases. Presses again, and lets go. I let him try to squeeze the bad out of me, the hungry monster he doesn't understand and Mom never understood and I can't explain.

Dad stares into me. “Do you have any idea how much I love you?”

I mouth no and shake my head. He yanks me close and whispers. “Why, Jake?”

The two of us stand and hug, surrounded by all the anger Brockton can muster.

 

SALOME LEE PACES IN OUR
driveway, squints as our headlamps cross her face. She bites her lip, folds and unfolds her arms. She walks up to the Suburban and, like a trick candle Brockton can't blow out, brightens my dark night. I step out, and she hugs me.

I put my arms around her and let my face fall into her hair. I breathe deep and inhale a scent I smell nowhere else in this town. I'm not worth this moment, because Salome won't hug another guy—least I haven't seen it happen in eighteen years. Every young man within one hundred miles has tried to worm his way to where I am, but she's too smart. Salome knows what they want. Besides, she says they're a waste of her time. She says she already knows.

I know what she means. Though I act dumb, I know exactly what she means and what she wants. I want it, too. But I can't. Not tonight, not ever. Because everyone who touches my craziness gets hurt; just ask Kyle. And I won't let her hurt. I'd die first.

“Salome, they booted me,” I whisper.

The squeeze tightens. “How far?”

“The super has a big foot.”

“For the entire year? They won't let you graduate?” She steps back, away from me, and forces a smile. “
The Brockton High Gazette
asked me to cover the hearing. I only got as far as the angle: ‘Why Do Accidents Equal Expulsions?'”

“They'll change your headline. Something about stolen school property used in Jake's latest screwup.”

Salome frowns. “So their decision's final? I mean, maybe if you confess to all the physics answers you stole from me, they'll let you out on parole.” She runs out of air and closes her eyes. Salome rubs her arms on a suddenly chilly evening.

Dad's car door slams. “Say your good-byes, Salome. Jake? Inside.”

I grab her elbow and lean closer. “You've cheated off me, too.”

“When?” Her hands shoot to her hips.

“Preschool. I peed in that little potty, and who took the credit? Huh? What do you say to that?”

Salome balls up her hand and swings. Her knuckle finds the sweet spot on my shoulder and deadens my arm. “You're sick.”