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.”
“Yeah.” I run my hand through dark hair. “Maybe I am.”
Salome starts the slow walk to the house next door. She pauses halfway, turns. “I wanted to come tonight. But I can’t see them hate you like they do.” She steps nearer, raises her arms, and lets them flop at her sides. “Why can’t anyone see past the outside? No one knows you. How can you stand it?”
I lock fingers behind my neck and stare at the sky. “You know me.” I lower my gaze. “That’s one.”
Salome nods. “You have one. You’ll always have one.” She vanishes into her home.
Crickets fill the silence with irritating chirps, and I raise my gaze to Scottie’s window. My big brother stands in the dim light with his arms crossed. I smile weakly and raise my hand. He rubs his face. His blinds drop.
I stare at my house and fight backward through a foggy mind . . . to last Friday. There. I glance at the bottom step, where I stood when Dad pushed past me with Scottie. That’s when I had the idea. By the top step I had planned the climb. I did it right. I did everything right, but . . . I gaze into the family room, where Dad sat quietly that night while I told him I likely killed Scottie’s best friend.
It’s been three days. Kyle has to hear “I’m sorry” from me.
I run inside and grab the keys. Dad’s already in the shower, scrubbing and muttering and cursing.
I burst back out onto the drive. Salome waits on her steps. Writing, always writing in that journal. She reads my mind, again, and knows where I’m headed.
“I’m coming with you.”
WE STEP INTO BROCKTON MEDICAL. Still and spotless, with the stench of sick people. Filled with old folks, the barely staffed “hospital” is more a glorified nursing home. Not many here are under seventy, nurses included.
Salome leans into my shoulder, pats my chest. “Kyle might not want to see you.”
“I’m not thrilled to see myself.”
“Come on.” She grabs my arm and yanks me down the hall. Ms. Roberts stacks up her Sudoku books. Another busy day at the information desk.
“I’d like to see Kyle,” I say.
She stares up from behind her spectacles, her face emotionless. “Why?”
I’m not ready for that, and for once my mouth stays shut.
Salome kicks me in the calf and shoves me to the side. “We’re here to see how he’s doing.”
I reach down and rub my leg. I scowl and glance at my attacker. She looks great from any angle. Really great. One hundred percent pure compassion. She tosses back blond hair and blinks those extra-strength blues. If she’d have crushed Kyle, they’d probably have given her a medal.
“I’m sure any young man would enjoy seeing you, Salome.”
My calf throbs, and I massage again, mutter, “From a safe distance—”
Salome’s hand smacks my face and covers my mouth. Hidden by the desk, Ms. Roberts can’t see her brutal side; nobody else can.
I’m no longer in this conversation. I roll my eyes, stand, and step back. When you two work this all out, call me. I’ll be in the waiting room.
I turn and haul toward the chairs. More words of compassion behind me. Salome’s working hard; she always does.
“Get back here, Jake,” Salome calls. “We have five minutes.”
I hustle back to the counter. “Thanks, Ms. Roberts.”
Her eyes stay fixed on my best friend.
Salome sighs, reaches over the counter, and squeezes Ms. Roberts’s hand. “Thank you.”
The fossil breaks into a smile. “You’re so welcome, dear.”
“Crap,” I mutter, and follow Salome to the elevators. “You could kill someone and—”
“No, I couldn’t. Now shut up.” Her finger toys with the Up button, then pulls back. “His dad’s here.”
I nod. “Press it.”
We reach the third floor; the doors open. Mr. Ramirez stands legs apart and arms folded. His face is blaze red. He sees Salome, looks down, and curses. Once again, I disappear.
“Why are you here, Salome?” Mr. Ramirez asks.
“My friend is here to visit your son.” She looks at me and smiles. “I’m here with my friend.”
“Visit my son . . .” Mr. Ramirez says, and elevator doors begin to shut. He and I both stick out our arms. They touch. He recoils, and Salome and I step out of the elevator.
“Why did you do this to my Kyle?”
I close my eyes and watch the railing fall. It smashes the car, and my eyelids jolt open. He won’t believe me. He’ll think I was up there with a hacksaw waiting for Kyle to drive beneath me. But I wasn’t. I didn’t yell bull’s-eye. I wanted to throw up.
“None of it was on purpose. I want to tell him how sorry—”
“You’ll tell him nothing until you tell me the truth.”
I glance at Salome. She looks down. I know she’s praying.
“All I know is why I climbed. Well, I sort of know.” I massage my forehead, then look at him square. “I climbed the old water tower because it’s the tallest thing in Brockton, because all the way up the ladder is busted, and anytime I could fall.”
Salome shifts. I know she can’t stand hearing what I do. I peek at her. She fidgets with her heart-shaped locket.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
She shakes her head, and I turn back
to Mr. Ramirez.
“I reached the top because I’m strong and I never fall. I climbed around the tower on the old catwalk. I found the soundest section of railing and hung.” I scuff the white hospital floor, wipe off the smudge with my boot. “But the metal wasn’t strong enough. I didn’t know who was beneath me. I didn’t think the rail could break.” I breathe deep and look him in the eye, whisper, “I didn’t know.”
I clear my throat. “I like Kyle. I mean, he’s Scottie’s best friend. I’m sorry.”
Mr. Ramirez balls his hands. “You’re a crazed menace, Jake King.” He lowers his voice. “Leave.”
He doesn’t know how it feels when blood explodes from your heart, whips through your body, and, for a second, everything is clear and real. He doesn’t understand why I climb or jump, why I can’t stop climbing or jumping.
“Okay.” I get back on the elevator. “Tell Kyle I was here. Could you tell him that?”
“Mr. Ramirez, you don’t know Jake.” Salome shakes her head. “I know you think you do, but—”
“Stay, Salome.” Mr. Ramirez lowers his voice, and I stick out my foot to hold the elevator door.
“Kyle’s weak. Cut up real bad,” he says. “He lost blood, and there’ll be many scars. He protected Allison with his own body. Must be that firefighter’s instinct.” He straightens. “It’s a good thing he’ll have time to heal before fire season. But you must know that he used to speak of you often. Seeing you would cheer him up.”
Salome looks into the elevator, frowns, and mouths, He was protecting Allison?
Out loud she says, “Wait for me in the lobby.” She gently pushes my toe with hers. “Be right down.” She smiles and stares at me until the crack in the doors disappears. I bury my head in my hands. The car starts down, and I punch the Stop button, hang between floors. It feels right. Mr. Ramirez doesn’t want me up, Ms. Roberts doesn’t want me down. And Dad will be furious when I slink back home.
CHAPTER 5
EXPULSIONS SUCH. They’re like house arrest, except I get to leave, but when I do it feels like I should be somewhere else. Everything is always wrong.
Normal guys wouldn’t have this problem. Study in the morning and work the night shift at the mill. That’s what they’d do. They’d take the GED and get on with their life. That’s Dad’s plan for me, too, which means even if I could do it, I wouldn’t.
Instead, I pace the basement like the lion at the San Diego Zoo, stepping over plastic Wonder bread wrapping. I’ve squeezed and shaped eight slices into mushy, warped animals, but now the loaf is gone.
The cloud that fills my head thickens. It’s only been two days—
Eight steps, turn.
—and already I can’t think.
Eight steps, turn.
Can’t escape either—Dad shifts to silent gear, the one he uses when he’s had enough of me. Above my head, he and Scottie make up for my lost words with Forest Service talk. Wildfire stories, wildfire strategies—the season is months away, but they can’t stop. Safety zones, fire lines, and the disaster at Mann Gulch are all that matters.
I check my watch: 2:30 P.M. I take the steps and bound up two flights into my room.
“Please, Salome,” I whisper. “Come home early.”
She knows me, knows I’m losing it. Had my punishment been chopping wood at Boys Town, I could have survived. But it’s not. I’ve been sentenced to a private hell of boredom.
I stare out the window and wait for her to walk up the drive. The doorbell rings. I don’t move; it’s the best part of the day.
Scottie’s footsteps race to the door, and I press my ear to the screen.
“Hi, Salome.”
“Hi, Scottie.”
I drink in the awkward silence, the kind my brother makes me live in. I close my eyes and imagine his shuffling feet, his forced grin.
“How are you?” Salome asks, free and easy.
“I’m good.”
I peek down at my friend, watch her exaggerated nod. “Good, good. Is there any chance I could see Jake?”
“Well, yeah, you—yes. I’m pretty sure he’s upstairs. Say, I was going to ask . . .”
Say nothing, Salome . . .
“Forget it.” Scottie backs away, and I listen to her marvelous footsteps on the stairs. Sixteen steps. Two knocks.
“Come on in!”
She throws it open, smirks like a cat. “Just once, I want to come over here and have you open that door.” She drops her backpack on the floor and herself onto my chair.
Outside, Scottie’s truck roars to life, then quiets as he pulls away. “Hearing Scottie fumble is the highlight of my day. That and you showin’ up.” I look at her, drop my gaze. “I need to lift a cloud, Sal.”
She nods and puffs out air. Salome wrings her hands, closes her eyes, and lowers her head to pray.
“Whoa,” I say. “We have a deal about the praying thing.”
“If you’re not keeping your side of it, you have nothing to say to me right now. All I asked is for you to try a short one. You wake up and tell Him hello. That’s no more than common courtesy.”
“Please, no God-talk now.”
“Fair enough.” She rolls her lovely eyes and smiles. “No God-talk now. Could you do a movie?” Her voice is soft. “I’ll even let you pick out one of those morally bankrupt flicks that cheer you so.”
I can’t sit through a movie. I can’t sit through dinner.
“I’m going jumping at the salvage yard,” I say, and point to my head. “Need to. It’s pretty dark.”
Salome stares at me hard. “Why not wait for your dad to get here? When you disappear, he calls me, and I hate—”
“Can’t wait.” I grab her arm and raise a finger to my lips. “Shh! Can’t you hear it? My dirt bike calls.” I release her and grab leather gloves off my desk. “Come with me. One more tweak on that engine and I know I can clear the pile.” She wears a thinking face, and I continue, “I’ll need someone to verify my jump . . . or pick up the pieces.”
Silence. We walk into the garage. Salome stands, arms crossed, and leans against the workbench. She watches me grab tools, search for drivers and wrenches. It’s a gentle watch, like she understands, though I know she can’t. There’s nothing dark in that head, no need to feel deadened nerves fire to life. I stop and stare back. She hums something—I’ve never heard that from her before.
“Why do you hang around me?” I ask.
“You’re good material for the school paper.” She picks up sandpaper and smoothes the bench edge. “I could get a Pulitzer writing about your adventures.”
“Think you’ll ever not be around?”
Her blue eyes flash. “No. It’s a promise.” She glances down. “But things will change in summer. I don’t know how much time my journalism classes will take.”
I lean against the car and close my eyes.
“Suppose one of us should make something of ourselves.” I grab my hair and tug, then force open my fingers.
She walks toward me, lifts my chin, and looks into me. She strokes my head. “It’ll pass.”
I nod.
“And one day,” she continues, “you’ll do something great, something nobody else could do. I know you don’t care, but others will notice, and they’ll see your courage, and you’ll be on the cover of The New York Times.” Salome’s eyes narrow and she looks away, her voice distant. “And maybe I’ll write a story about this young man who said no to this town and its fascination with fire and the Immortals and . . . well, I’m just saying I know you’ll do something great someday.” Salome takes her square of sandpaper and slaps it into my hand.
“I take it you’re not coming with me.”
She smiles.
Ten minutes later, I have all I need. I load my backpack with Dad’s tools and pull my mountain bike from the garage. “If Dad asks where I am, just say—”
“That you’re too busy jumping crushed cars to speak with him. Sure thing.” Salome tugs at the bedroll tucked beneath my a
rm and gently grabs my chin. “An overnight?”
I exhale. “If you knew how bad I am right now. It’s not as if Dad will care.”
She says nothing.
“Fine!” I unstrap the bedroll. “I’ll be back before dark.”
“Thank you.” She sighs and walks toward her house, calls over her shoulder, “I’m not your mom. It was only a question.”
I HOP ON MY BIKE and ride out of town. I accelerate past Hanking’s Mill and the hundreds of cars parked in the lot. Somewhere in the heart of the building, Dad wanders, staring at his workers. Scottie’s with him, I know it. Getting pointers for when the mill will be his, the townspeople will be his.
The road winds around and up into the Sierra Llamos, and two hours later I reach the first peak. Brockton spreads out in the valley beneath like a spider. Here, looking down, I breathe easy, free of the web.
I throw my bike onto the shoulder and hike into the woods. Ten minutes in, trees thin out, and patches of light reach the forest floor. Abruptly the tree line breaks, and I stand, squint, and exhale in brilliant sunshine.
Rusted buses, old bridge trusses, worm-filled railroad ties—the abandoned salvage yard spreads out before me. Acres and acres of castoffs. Treasure gleaming in the sunlight.
I head for the second heap—a giant mountain of metal. Crushed cars, five wide and three tall, form the bulk of the pile. My gaze flits from the takeoff ramp I built to where I’ll land. Or wipe out.
I step nearer to a crushed Suburban and touch it. A wave of dark wallops my mind. I peek at the dented lean-to where my dirt bike rests. There’s no time to fiddle with the engine. I need a jump now.
I jog toward the bike, pass a rusted water heater, and stop. Height. It’s what I need to up the rush. I muscle the tank toward the stack of cars. It’s a sweaty job, but I haul the hunk of metal onto a hood, then climb up and pull it higher still.
A throat clears from down below.
“Strangest sculpture I’ve ever seen. Mom would have liked it.”
I rest the heater against a hood and peek down. Scottie stands, arms folded, legs spread—just like Mr. Ramirez had at the hospital.
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