She was just a girl with a big crush on my best friend. Vera was just Vera. I miss her. And I’m sorry for the part I played in her death.
Other people get away with doing bad things all the time. Why couldn’t I skip class just once? Why couldn’t Gabi drive drunk once without ruining all our lives?
I keep flipping across channels, but it’s all junk. Even good shows seem stupid. And sports just make me worry about whether I’ll ever play soccer again.
I
can’t believe I’ve only been in the hospital for two days. It feels like forever.
My folks come to the hospital right at the start of visiting hours. Mom looks tired. Dad looks worried. I try to tell them, “You don’t have to stay here. I’m okay.”
But as soon as they leave the room, I plunge into loneliness.
Most of my soccer buddies call. They say the usual greeting card stuff. You know, “feel better soon,” lots of wishes on a quick recovery.
I ask them about practice and Coach Wunderman. I want to think about something other than the accident and my knee.
My teammate Benito wonders, “Did you really make Gabi tell the cops she was driving even though you were at the wheel?”
I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. “What?”
“That’s what Gabi told her friends,” Benito says. “They’re telling everyone else that you were driving, but you made her take the blame because you don’t have a license.”
I get so mad I punch the mattress. The impact makes my neck throb. That lying little …
Curse words flood my mind as Benito chatters on. “I told the guys you wouldn’t do that. But everyone knows you don’t have your license and Gabi…”
I get it. Gabi’s pretty. I’m just a guy stupid enough to fall for her act.
“She was driving,” I say flatly. “Ask the cops. Why do you think she was arrested?”
“That’s what I said!” Beni exclaims. “But Gabi said they were taking it easy on you because of your knee.”
I keep myself from punching the mattress again. But God do I want to.
“Can she explain why it’s my left knee that was messed up by the gearshift and not my right?”
Beni chuckles. “I told everyone that girl was lying. But you know how people are. They believe whoever’s talking, especially if it’s big gossip like that.”
My heart sinks. I’ve known kids whose reputations were ruined by one mistake. Sexy pictures on the Internet, exes spreading nasty stories, and all that.
I always used to figure, “Who cares what everybody thinks, as long as you know who you are? But the thought that everyone’s blaming me for killing Vera, and that Gabi is deliberately spreading that lie, makes me want to puke!
“Coach says he can’t wait for you to come back,” Benito says.
I’m not sure I ever want to go back to Southside. But what choice do I have? I’m not a quitter. I tell Beni, “I’ll be back as soon as I get off the walker and onto a cane. It could be a couple of weeks.”
“Does it hurt a lot?”
“Yeah.” It hurts almost as much as being betrayed by the girl you thought you loved.
I hear a knock and look up to see Father Mike standing in the doorway.
I tell Benito, “Looks like I have a visitor.”
“That’s cool,” Beni says. “I better get my homework done anyway. Take care, Rob!”
Before I say good-bye, I add, “Thanks for calling. And for sticking up for me!”
“No problem.”
As I hang up the phone, the priest walks into the room. “Sorry to interrupt your call. I was visiting another parishioner and heard you were here, so I thought I’d stop by. Is this a good time?”
Normally I like seeing Father Mike’s round, kindly face. But now I just want to run away from him. If only I could run.
Father Mike pats my shoulder. “It’s natural to feel angry when bad things happen.” Can he read my mind—or just my scowl? “Peace will come in time,” he adds.
I don’t believe him. I think Gabi was right about one thing. Our lives are ruined! And what can we do?
“How are you feeling?” Father Mike says.
I glance over at Mr. Kravitz, then say, “I hate to complain, but my knee hurts, my neck hurts, and I just found out the chick I thought was my girlfriend is telling everyone at Southside I’m the one who was driving the car.”
Father Mike gives a low whistle. “I’m sorry to hear that, Roberto. Is there anything I can do to help?”
My fists clench with frustration. I want to say, “You could leave before you start spouting any useless words of comfort.” But I have enough on my conscience without insulting a priest.
“Would it help to know that God knows the truth?” His warm brown eyes seek mine.
I look away before he can see what I’m thinking. No, it doesn’t really help, because then God knows that I snuck out that bottle of Southern Comfort. He saw me rolling on the grass with Gabi. He must’ve seen the armadillo. Couldn’t God have pushed it aside? Or made Gabi a better driver?
I sigh.
Father Mike pats my shoulder. “Sometimes even good people make bad choices. Try to forgive the others—and yourself. Have faith.”
I’m not sure I believe in faith anymore. Luckily, a nurse comes in to poke and prod me, so I don’t have to listen to any more well-intentioned preaching.
I
can’t believe how much it hurts to walk on my new knee. I lean on the walker like an old man. Pain shoots up my leg anyway. My eyes water. Every step feels like I’m being stabbed.
Ed, the physical therapist, stays at my side. I want to stop, but Ed keeps telling me, “Just a little more. That’s good!”
Ed’s a young guy with big muscles. He looks like he belongs in a weight room or on a football field, not in a hospital.
“You don’t look like the medical type,” I say.
Ed chuckles. “You mean my muscles are showing through my scrubs?”
“Yeah, most of the doctors…” my voice trails off. My knee hurts so much I’m having trouble finding words.
Ed flashes an easy smile. “Most of the doctors don’t look like such jocks.”
I can’t help smiling, even though my knee is killing me. “Yeah,” I gasp. “Exactly.”
We’ve reached the end of the hall. That’s a big victory! Only two more laps before I get to rest for a while.
Ed helps me turn around with the walker. “I was a football player,” he explains. “Had a scholarship, plans to go pro. Then a busted ankle put me on the sidelines for a whole season.”
“And you decided to quit?” I ask.
Ed shakes his head. “I decided to do something different with my life. I could’ve gone back to football. Maybe my ankle would’ve been okay. Maybe not. Maybe I could’ve gone all the way to the Super Bowl. Who knows? But to tell you the truth, I like this better. I still play most weekends, but touch, not tackle. We don’t have to play if the weather’s bad or if we don’t feel like it. We play for fun. And every workday, I get to help people like you.”
I’ve been so busy listening, I actually almost forget about my knee for a few seconds. It gives me hope that eventually I’ll be able to walk without pain. Won’t that be amazing? You never realize how precious some things are until you lose them.
We’ve reached the other end of the hall. Ed raises his arms like an Olympic athlete winning the gold. “You made it! Just one more lap before you nap.”
I manage a wobbly smile and a sarcastic “Whoopee!” Then Ed helps me make the turn. The end of the hall looks so far away. But I’m determined to get there.
Ed gives me a double thumbs-up and another one of his big smiles. “You can do it, Roberto!”
With his bulging arms and chest straining at the crisp fabric of his scrubs, it’s easy to picture him in a football uniform. I always thought medicine was for good girls like Gabi or guys with thick glasses. I never realized a jock could also wear scrubs. But Ed seem
s happy. On the last lap, he even confides that he makes “a decent living.”
B
enito calls me again the next day. “I told the team what you told me about Gabi lying and your left knee and all,” he says. “They said they’d try to spread your side of the story.”
“Thanks!” I reply.
It feels odd to have someone other than Adam acting like my best friend. But I guess Adam’s too freaked out to be anyone’s friend right now.
Of course, when I think back on all the years of our friendship, I have to admit we spent most of our time just goofing around. Was he ever truly my friend or just someone to hang out with? There’s a difference, I’ve decided.
“Gabi isn’t returning to Southside,” Beni adds. “She’s back at St. Michael’s. One of her friends told me there’s not even going to be a trial.”
“What does that mean?”
“She’s pleading guilty. And because she’s a good girl with no previous record, she probably won’t have to spend too many years in prison.”
I wonder how many pretty tears that will take. But I guess it doesn’t really matter. Prison won’t bring Vera back to life.
Beni tries to cheer me up. “At least you won’t have to testify.”
That’s true. I won’t have to get up in front of a bunch of strangers and admit I sneaked that bottle out of my parents’ liquor cabinet. And I won’t have to watch Gabi cry while she tries to blame me.
I won’t ever have to see her beautiful face again. And that is a relief.
“Do you want me to get your assignments for you?” Beni asks. “The teachers won’t want you to fall too far behind.”
Schoolwork will seem like a treat after what I’ve been through. I tell Benito, “Yeah, thanks. That’d be great.”
“I can get your schedule from Luis on the bus tomorrow morning and give him your assignments on the way home,” he says.
“I’ll give you my locker combination, if you don’t mind carrying my books.”
“What are friends for?”
I think about all the times Adam has gotten me in trouble, leading up to now. The only time I ever shoplifted, Adam dared me into it. I was the one who got caught and grounded for a month.
One day we peeked into the girls’ locker room. That was Adam’s idea. We didn’t get caught, but Luis found out and told Mom and Dad. I got grounded for two months.
Was there ever a time Adam got grounded because of me? I can’t remember any. Adam’s mom doesn’t bother punishing him. She can never make a punishment stick, anyway.
I realize there are good friends and bad friends. And there are surprising friends, like Benito. I’ve always liked playing soccer with him. But we’ve never hung out much. And now that I’m in trouble, here he is. How cool is that?
“Well, I’ll call again later, Rob,” Beni says. “Hang in there!”
Before he ends the call, I say, “Yeah, thanks a lot!”
M
y folks have set me up on the couch in the den since I can’t walk upstairs yet.
It feels great to be home and to see my brothers and sisters. I didn’t even realize how much I missed the four pests until their faces greet me at the door.
Luis teases me. “Don’t cry, Berto!” But I can tell he’s glad to see me too. Lucy, Ramon, and Raquel all make a big fuss.
I can’t believe how happy I am just to be sitting at the dinner table with my family again. Mom cooks all my favorite foods because “this is a celebration!” Lucy and Raquel keep hopping up to get me things.
After dinner, I hobble back to the couch. I’m too tired to face the homework Luis brought from Beni. I figure it can wait until tomorrow.
While everyone else watches TV, Dad tucks me in. His face looks grim. He promised to yell at me when I was well. I’m not exactly well yet. But I brace myself for a lecture.
Dad sighs. “I did not want to spoil your mother’s nice dinner. But you know we aren’t done with this.”
I nod. “What I did was wrong. And I wish I could go back and change it.”
Dad flinches at the word wish. He says, “Wishes are for fools and children. I thought you were on your way to being a man.”
“I just meant…”
Dad’s fierce glare stops me mid-excuse. There is no excuse.
“Roberto, I hardly know where to begin. You took something that didn’t belong to you, something you clearly are not mature enough to handle. And you risked your life getting in that car with a drunk driver!”
I don’t even try to defend myself. What can I say?
Dad goes on. “Your mother and I have tried to think of a punishment.”
I jump in. “I’m going to pay for the operation. Every cent, if it takes me twenty years!”
Dad gives me a weary smile. “We’ll see how much the insurance covers.”
“I’ll get two jobs!” I add.
Dad pats my shoulder. “First, you have to get well and … you’ll have to find jobs close to home or the bus lines. Because your mother and I have decided that we are not going to let you retake your driver’s exam for a year.”
I might as well be grounded! Every other senior either already has a driver’s license or will have one soon. It’ll just be me and the legally blind guy begging rides from everyone else.
I want to say, “No!” But one look at Dad’s face and I know this is well past the discussion stage. My folks aren’t like Adam’s mom. When they decide on a punishment, they stick to it. If you try to get out of it, they just make it worse. And I don’t want to wait two years for my license. So I keep my mouth shut.
Dad lets the reality of my sentence sink in before he adds, “Roberto, you have to start thinking things through like a grown man. You can’t just wish for things to go your way. You can’t trust luck.
“You might have been lucky. You might have gotten away with stealing that liquor. Gabi might have gotten away with driving drunk. But you didn’t. Some chances aren’t worth taking.”
Tears fill my eyes. I’m thinking of Vera. We all took a chance, and she lost everything.
Dad pats my good leg. “Remember how Grandpa used to bet on the ponies? Sometimes he’d win. Sometimes he’d lose.”
I remember. Once he bought us all roller skates with his winnings. Luis broke his arm the first time we put them on! I teased him for crying. Now I understand. I bet it hurt almost as much as my knee.
Dad smiles as he remembers his father. “He always told me, ‘Never make a bet you can’t afford to lose.’ Do you understand? Driving drunk is a bet you can’t afford to lose.”
Then he says to me, “Like having sex with a girl you wouldn’t want to marry.”
I blush. I’m not ready to get married. And I figure I’m lucky things didn’t go further with Gabrielle. Sure she’s beautiful. But beauty fades. Sneaky is forever.
I
’m fast asleep when Luis wakes me. It feels like the middle of the night but it’s not even 8:30! He says, “Hey, Sleeping Beauty! There’s a phone call for you,” and hands me the phone.
“Who is it?” I ask.
He bats his eyelashes and teases, “Some girl. She didn’t say.”
I’ve been getting lots of calls since the accident. Some kids I barely know are calling, some to be nice, some because they want gossip.
I put my chin up to the receiver. “Hello?”
A muffled voice says, “It’s me.”
Me? Who’s “me?” I wonder. It takes me a second to realize it’s Gabi!
For a moment I remember feeling crazy about her, thinking that she would be my first, maybe even “the one.” Now I wish we had never met. But as Dad likes to say, “Wish in one hand, spit in the other. See which fills up first.”
“I feel so alone,” Gabi whispers. I know what she means. “My sisters seem almost happy that ‘Mommy’s good girl’ has fallen out of favor. My friends make a show of caring about me, but mostly they just want to hear the gory details. And I just can’t—I can’t talk about
it. I want to run away! I can’t stand it at home. It’s like my parents hate me. I know they’re trying to help. But they’re so angry. And the lawyer is costing so much. I feel like everyone would be better off if I was just gone.”
I don’t like the sound of that. “Remember what you promised!” I say. “Just hang in there.”
The words sound so feeble. But they are all I have to offer. And if her parents have their way, these may be our last words together.
“I wish none of this had ever happened!” Gabi says.
“Me too!”
It feels strange to be talking to her like we’re friends again. Because ever since Beni told me what she was saying, I’ve hated Gabi. And now…
As if she can read my mind, Gabi says, “I don’t want you to hate me too.”
“I don’t hate you,” I say. Is that true? “I don’t think your family hates you, either. They’re just angry, disappointed, and all that.”
Gabi sobs. “I don’t know what to do!”
I think of her swerving to avoid the armadillo, then swerving sharply to get back onto the road. “Slow down! You don’t have to do anything right now. Just … hang in there.”
I know it’s a stupid phrase. But what else can I say?
Mom walks into the den. “Are you still on the phone? You should get back to sleep. You need your rest. Tell your friend you can call her back in the morning.”
I tell Gabi, “I have to go.”
“I heard. Parents are such a pain.” Her voice almost sounds normal.
“Well … take care,” I say.
“You too.” Just before she hangs up, Gabi adds, “I love you.”
Mom hangs up the phone for me. Then she asks, “Who was that?”
“Just a girl from my trig class.” That’s not exactly a lie, because Gabi is in my math class. Although it’s certainly not the whole truth like they make you tell in court. But I know if I said “Gabi,” that would lead to a bunch of questions I don’t feel like answering right now. My head is already swarming with my own questions.
Deadly Drive Page 4