Gotcha

by Shelley Hrdlitschka

  From: kittiekat17@hotmail.com

  To: dannyo56@hotmail.com

  Subject: Re: sprained ankle

  drop dead

  Serious agony finally drags me out of bed and into the bathroom, where my next dose of painkillers await me. Given the kind of day it’s been, I would have expected it to be one of those nights where I tossed and turned relentlessly, torturing myself with regrets and thinking of the perfect comebacks for things that were said. But no. Tonight any body movement at all—even from my upper body—disturbs the quilt, which then slides across my foot, and even that light caress causes me to jolt awake with the pain. I’m forced to lie flat on my back without twitching a muscle. It doesn’t make for a restful sleep. I’ve been staring at the ceiling for hours.

  But now it’s safe to take a couple more Tylenol. I’d thought of leaving them on my night table so I wouldn’t have to get up, but it’s impossible to carry a glass of water, or anything, when you’re using crutches. I left them on the bathroom counter, and I swallow them by bending over the sink and drinking water directly from the flowing tap. I’d like to get a fresh ice pack, but it’s too far to go to the kitchen.

  Sitting on the side of my bed with my reading light glowing, I take a closer look at my ankle. It looks much the same as it did late yesterday afternoon, even though it is hurting so much more. The banging around at the party probably aggravated the damage that was already done.

  I gently place the quilt over my foot and lie back, waiting for the pills to begin their magic. I’m going to ask Mom if she can get me something stronger tomorrow. These pills help, but not enough.

  As I begin to float back into a semiconscious state, I think of Dad’s e-mail. It’s been ten days since I’ve seen him. I try to picture his face in my mind, with his kind smile and warm brown eyes. My response to his note will bring sadness to those eyes. I feel a twinge of guilt.

  When I was younger, Dad never worked at one job for very long, so we hung out a lot. He loves the outdoors and we’d go on what he called explorations. Our town is nestled in a valley, so when the weather was good we’d pack a picnic and go hiking. I loved the feeling of my small hand in his large one as we walked along the wooded trails. He often pulled me into a squat and we’d carefully examine wildflowers or mushroom clusters, noticing how exquisite each one of Mother Nature’s gifts was. We’d rest often, admiring the meandering mountain streams or the way the early morning sunlight filtered through the trees and mist, slashing the air with gray stripes.

  When we sat down on a fallen log or rocky outcrop to eat our peanut butter and honey sandwiches, we’d play “name that bird.” I glowed right down to my toes when Dad gave me that look that said I’d correctly identified a bird by its song. Occasionally one would stump us, and Dad would pull the bird book from the backpack and we’d pore through it, looking for possibilities. Out of the pack would also come the binoculars, and we’d peer into the foliage, looking for a bird whose plumage matched the pictures in the book.

  On sticky summer days, Dad would plunk me in a child carrier on the back of his bike and we’d cycle on the bike paths around town, letting the breeze dry our skin. I’d lay my cheek on his strong back and doze, and then we’d stop for ice-cream cones, chocolate fudge for me, French vanilla for him. Sometimes we took Paige on our outings. Her dad and mine were friends, and Dad wanted me to have company my own age.

  Feeling stiff, I try to plump up my pillow without moving my legs too much. I end up just flipping it over and then press my cheek into the cool pillowcase, sinking back into Dad thoughts. When did this idyllic childhood begin to unravel?

  It wasn’t until I was in school, a few years later, that I grew aware of how miserable Mom became when Dad wasn’t working, so when I’d come home and find him lying on the couch, unshaven, newspapers scattered around the living room, I’d do a quick pick-up-and-tidy routine so she wouldn’t go ballistic. Those were the days he started going out after dinner instead of hanging with me, and he wouldn’t be home until after I was in bed. I didn’t ask where he went. There was something about Mom’s body language that gave me the feeling it was a taboo subject.

  Before he left, Dad had started spending every morning at the computer. He called himself a day trader. I didn’t really understand what he was doing, but it was nice to see him so interested in something again, and it made him happy. But Mom didn’t like seeing him happy. She accused him of throwing away our money. He kept bizarre hours, waking early to “work” at the computer, sleeping all afternoon and then going out again after dinner to who knows where. When he did get home, late, I could hear them through the bedroom wall. She was all over him, blaming, accusing, threatening...

  I guess I shouldn’t have been so surprised when he finally packed up and left. I just wish he’d taken me with him.

  Seven

  I’m staying in bed, maybe forever. Mom’s hauling herself up and down the stairs, bringing me food and painkillers. She asked about the party on her first visit, but my curt response shut her up. I also told her I wasn’t taking phone calls or going back to school. She looked concerned but kept her thoughts to herself and simply tucked my ratty old stuffed bunny under the quilt with me.

  I’ve watched the light in the room change as the day has dragged on, and I can tell without even looking at the clock that it’s late afternoon. One day closer to the end of the school year and my freedom from all things crazy, like Gotcha. And grad. Do I even want to attend graduation ceremonies with people who can turn into savages at the slightest provocation? I don’t think so. They may blame it on the game, but the panic I felt last night when they’d worked themselves into that frenzy and were swarming Joel and me...well, they’re all lunatics.

  Except Joel. Joel Keister. I feel smiley just thinking of him. I pull the stuffed bunny out from under my quilt and caress his satin ears. Joel’s the only sane one. I remember the warmth of his arm pressing against mine last night. For a while we were totally connected, playing our own private game. The empty ache I’ve had since Dad left evaporated as we leaned into each other, allowing that warm current to run between us. When he looked at me it was as though he was really seeing me, and I was seeing him.

  I feel a stab of remorse as I remember how our evening ended, and I chuck the bunny across the room. It hits the wall, drops onto its head and sprawls helplessly on the floor, looking just as stupid as I did last night. That was the most humiliating moment of my life. And so then what did I do? I pushed Joel away when he was being kind and caring. I bet he hates me. I should call him, tell him it’s me who’s sorry. I started the stupid story. He got it, and he totally understood why I had to make something up. And then when all hell broke loose, he stuck with me. That’s more than I can say for Paige. I bet she was gloating when she saw what they were going to do to us. It’s like she cast an evil spell on the whole room.

  The most recent dose of painkillers is finally working. I can roll over onto my side without causing spasms of pain to run up my leg. I punch my pillow, trying to fluff it back up, and I pull the quilt over my shoulders.

  What’s happening to us? We were just a normal class of kids, getting ready to move into the next phase of our lives. It’s creepy how Gotcha has changed us, or some of us. Is it because we expected it to, or is it the way the game is played that creates the bizarre behavior? If it had been someone else who was being ganged up on last night would I have participated? God, I hope not.

  My back finally starts aching from lying in bed for so long and I have to get up. Somewhere between my bed and my bum-hop down the stairs, I decide that now is the time to follow through on the decision I made last night. I clomp my way over to the phone in the kitchen. I can hear the drone of the TV in the living room, meaning Mom’s not going to overhear my phone call. Good. I’ll be spared the “I told you so’s.”

  I quickly dial the number. Warren answers after the first ring, and the resonance of his voice jump-starts that familiar stir deep in my stomach. What is wr
ong with me? I’ll blame it on the painkillers.

  “Warren, it’s me, Katie.”

  “Hey, Kittiekat.”

  I hate it when people use my dad’s nickname for me, but hearing Warren say it now...well, it gives it a certain...style.

  “How’s your ankle?” he asks.

  “Not very good. It hurts.”

  “That’s too bad. How did you say you did it?”

  “Just a stupid accident.” I’m surprised no one told him the story of what happened before he arrived at the party, but then again, as we were leaving, everyone was acting like nothing had happened.

  “So, you were at Tyson’s with Joel Keister?”

  “Yeah. Paige is mad at me, and Joel needed someone to link with.” I don’t know why I feel the need to explain it to him, but I do.

  “Oh.”

  Oh? What does he mean by that? Time to get to the point of my call. “Warren, I’m...I’m dropping out of the game.”

  There’s a long pause. “Out of Gotcha?”

  “Right.”

  Another long pause. “You can’t do that, Kittiekat. Once you’re in, the only way out is to lose your bead.”

  “Oh yeah? Who says?”

  “No one drops out of Gotcha. It’s the rules.”

  “Show me where they’re written.”

  I can hear him sigh. “The rules aren’t written anywhere, you know that. But they’ve been passed down over the years.”

  “Well that’s stupid! I don’t want my money back or anything. I just want out.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “I’ll give my bead away, and my name. It’s no big deal.”

  “But someone has your name, Katie.”

  And I have someone’s name, I think to myself but don’t mention. “Then I’ll give that person my bead.”

  “And deprive them of their fun, as well as giving them a freebie? That won’t go over very well with the rest of the class, and I think you know what happens when you anger the Gotcha Gods.”

  The Gotcha Gods? “Oh c’mon, Warren. It’s just a stupid game.” But suddenly I’m thinking he knows more about last night than he’s letting on. And maybe he knew exactly what he was doing when he defused the situation with just his voice. Is there more to Warren than I thought?

  “No, you c’mon, Katie,” he says and then adds, more gently, “Just hang in there a little longer. You’ll be tagged soon enough.”

  “No! I’m not playing.”

  Warren doesn’t answer, so I continue. “Okay then. I’ll let it be known that I’m...I’m going to stand on the street, near the school, and whoever has my name can just come and get my bead.”

  “I can’t stop you from doing that.”

  “Good.”

  There’s another long pause. His lack of response is making me nervous. It causes me to babble on. “I actually think we should stop the whole game now before someone gets hurt.”

  Warren laughs. It’s a beautiful laugh, yet it makes me feel queasy. “Not a chance, Kittiekat.”

  “My name’s Katie. And just for the record, Warren, if something goes wrong, real wrong, it’s on your shoulders. I’m not part of it anymore.”

  “That’s where you’re mistaken, Katie.” He says my name with emphasis. “We’re all in this together.”

  “Not for much longer.”

  “Whatever you say, Katie.”

  I slam down the phone. Jerk! He saw what was happening last night. He knows it’s only going to get worse as we get closer to the end. I lied when I said it was “just a game.” It’s not. Not at all. I could never understand how things got so bad in other years, but now I’m starting to get it.

  It’s Wednesday and I still have my bead, but only because I haven’t been to school. Even if I wanted to go, I have no way of getting there as Mom leaves too early in the morning to drive me, and I can’t walk that far with crutches. I’m overdosing on talk-show TV, with all the freaks and idiots, and it’s scaring me. I could be one of those loser guests in a few years.

  “And you say it all started when you sprained your ankle?”

  “Yes. That’s when it started.”

  “And after that you had no friends and you started flunking out in school?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what happened.”

  “You claim you were a popular, straight-A student before you tripped on your schoolbag.”

  “I’m not ‘claiming’ I was! I totally was!”

  “And you say you were ganged up on in a grad activity, in a game called Gotcha.”

  “Yes, that’s what happened. And it was awful! They wanted me to walk on my sprained ankle...”

  “Hmm. It seems strange that a sprained ankle could keep you from graduating and going on to college...”

  “Well it did! And it was because of the beads! And those people who came to my door. And then everyone went crazy...”

  “Well, Katie, we have a surprise guest here today. She was your best friend before you sprained your ankle, and we’re now going to hear her side of the story. She says that your flunking out had nothing to do with your sprained ankle, but was because you were spreading untrue rumors about her.”

  The TV audience shrieks its approval. I cover my ears...

  I find myself checking my e-mail constantly, hoping to hear from Dad. Finally I give in and write to him.

  From: kittiekat17@hotmail.com

  To: dannyo56@hotmail.com

  Subject: Re: sprained ankle

  hi dad,

  im sorry bout my last email. i was havin a really bad night. the gotcha game is gettin crazy. ppl r goin insane. my ankle is really sore so i cant get 2 school which is bad b/c i need 2 keep my marks up 2 get those scholarships + i cant work so im not making N E $ 2 put towards school tuition or even a grad dress. i guess thats my excuse 4 being so angry. im also havin friendship problems. i feel like ive been pushed in2 1 of those waterslide chutes, i’m sliding down, away from everything good & theres no turning back til i drop out the bottom. w/ my luck, there will only b a pile of jagged rocks there & no pool of water. or there will b a talk-show host wanting 2 make a fool of me.

  i hope things r going better for u.

  katie

  From: dannyo56@hotmail.com

  To: kittiekat17@hotmail.com

  Subject: Re: sprained ankle

  Dear Katie,

  I’m sorry you’re having a tough time. But remember, it’s up to you to decide to be happy. No one else can do that for you. Enjoy that slide! Envision a fragrant bubble bath at the bottom, and it will be yours. (And what’s this about a talk-show host?)

  About the money woes, have you given any more thought to me investing your money for you? I’m still confident that I can make you some cash, fast.

  Take care, sweetheart.

  Dad

  It’s Thursday and I’m at the kitchen table, staring out the window. The snowcapped mountain peaks in the distance shimmer in the morning sun, and the daffodil shoots in the window box are on the verge of bursting into bloom. The sun has warmed the room until it’s toasty. In my past life, the one where I had a future and friends and an intact family, a dew-sparkling morning like this always energized me and made me feel like anything could happen. But today the morning feels as drab as any other. The angle of the sun shows how grimy the windows are. I can’t make myself a decent breakfast because, with my crutches, I can’t carry anything from the fridge to the counter, and if I make toast or warm something in the microwave, I have to stand at the counter to eat it. I’m now missing my fourth day of school, and it’s going to be hell to catch up. I’ve read every book in the house, no one has brought me any assignments or notes from school, and I can only look forward to twelve more hours of daytime soaps or talk shows.

  And Joel hasn’t called.

  I switch on the computer and read the online horoscope that pops up on our home page. Step out of your comfort zone and take a chance today. You never know until you try. Oh yeah, that’s h
elpful. I can’t step anywhere.

  I reread my dad’s last e-mail. I wonder about this money-making tip he’s talking about. Mom used to accuse him of losing all their money. Would he take any chances with mine? I don’t think so. He knows how much I need it. I do have about $900 in my savings account, mostly from the tips I’ve earned at the restaurant and which I busted my butt for. But this is nothing compared to what I’ll need for tuition and books and living-out expenses. I decide to check my bank account online to see exactly how much there is.

  I log into the secure area of the bank web page and type in my password. A screen appears with my personal information. Whoa! Something’s wrong. The computer shows that there’s $3,105.38 in my account. That’s not right. I close the screen and log on again. It still shows $3,105.38. Where did it come from? An anonymous donor?

  And then I remember. I put the Gotcha money in my account. For a second there I thought I really did have a fairy godmother. I’m so pathetic. I should withdraw it and turn it over to someone else to keep. I don’t want any part of that game. It’s blood money.

  An idea comes to me, slowly worming its way into my consciousness while I stare at the computer screen. What if I lend Dad the Gotcha money? He could invest it and then... what was it he said? It would triple overnight? I do the math in my head. I’d give the Gotcha winner their $2,120 and keep the rest. That would be over $4,000! My heart pitter-patters at the thought of it. No one would have to know. I’d be able to buy the most beautiful dress for grad—if I decide to go. And that’s a big if. But at least I wouldn’t have to wear something secondhand, and there’d still be lots left over.

  Do I dare? I feel a shiver of excitement. That would be such poetic justice. A way to get even with all those crazy people from the party.

  Step out of your comfort zone and take a chance today. You never know until you try.

  I smile. I have the astrologer’s blessing. And Dad says you have to choose to be happy. I thought he was being corny, but now I’ve decided he’s right. And not only can I choose to be happy, I can choose to make some easy money. The thought of it energizes me and I laugh out loud. There, I’m already way happier, and I haven’t even done anything yet.