Go slower for a while, he decides. Get the feel of it. His heart is cranking. Carefully, he pulls the car onto the busy street. He lurches forward, faster, faster, then he sees the stoplight. The intersection. He hits the brakes. Waits for the green.
When the light changes, he pushes forward and turns off the main road. No problem. He even remembers to use the turn signal. They should let kids drive. It really isn't that hard.
Then suddenly a stop sign. A stop sign? Too late to stop now, but a pickup truck on his left thunders toward him. His foot slips on the brake. His arms stiffen for the crash. His hand flies up to protect his head. The brake. His foot is on the brake. He's stopped.
His heart beats so loud it's like it's somewhere on the dashboard. A car behind him honks.
It suddenly dawns on him he's in the middle of the road. He's shaking so hard he can hardly get the car out of there. He pulls over, his head crammed full of pictures of Sylvia at a funeral. His funeral.
He's still breathing hard, but he's okay. Everything is okay. He didn't even get a scratch on her precious car. He grabs Sylvia's cell and dials Matteo.
"You'll never guess what I'm doin'." He tries to sound cool now.
"Your math homework."
"I'm driving, man."
"Where?"
"No, I'm driving."
"What? The little rides in front of Toys 'R' Us?"
"No. Sylvia's car."
"Where's Sylvia?"
"At home."
"Driving driving?" Matteo asks.
"Uh-huh. I thought I might drive over to get you."
"Wait, who else is in the car?"
"Just me."
"On the freeway?"
Walk imagines himself gunning down the freeway.
"Why not?"
"Why not?" Matteo gulps. "What's the matter with you, man?"
"No, really. I could come pick you up. No one'll know."
"Walk?" Matteo whispers. "What are you doing?" Walk tries to answer, but his throat clogs all up. He hangs up so Matteo won't hear. What is he doing? He dials Jamal.
"Walk? That you?"
"Yeah. I'm just gonna drive on over there."
"You and Sylvia?"
"No, just me. I got Sylvia's car."
"You drivin' Sylvia's car?"
"Mebbe."
Jamal laughs his fool head off. "You be in so much trouble, boy. She going to iron your sorry butt till it so flat you can't sit anymore."
"She's not going to find out."
"Yeah, right. You gonna drive Sylvia's cherry-new 350 on over here and no one's gonna know."
"That's right," Walk tells him, when he hears knocking on the window. The police. Stupid fool. What has he been thinking?
But it's not the police. It's Sylvia still in her blue churchgoing dress. She's so mad, she's shaking all over and spit is flying wild out of her mouth.
Sylvia points to the door lock. Walk clicks her cell off, flips the door button, and she slips in on the passenger side.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Nothin'."
"Nothing? You ever pull a stunt like this again, I'll make you wish you weren't alive. Do you understand me?"
Walk looks at the wheel. Shines it with his thumb. Keeps shining but it gets duller the more he rubs. "It was you who lied, Sylvia, not me."
"We're talking about you driving my car."
"Does Jamal know?"
"Does Jamal know what?"
"You know what."
She waits like she doesn't want to go there. "No," she finally says.
"How about everyone else?"
She shakes her head. "Only Shan."
"Yeah, and she has a big mouth."
Sylvia's eyes waver. "Shan swore she hasn't told anyone. I don't think Jamal knows."
Walk snorts. " 'Climpton this, Climpton that' my whole life. Is Climpton even dead?"
She breathes big and hard. "Yes," she finally says. "He died two years after you were born."
"I ever meet him?" Walk's voice cracks when he says this.
She shakes her head no.
"You even my mother? Or is that a big fat lie, too?"
She makes a noise then like her head is exploding off her body. Her hand shakes like it wants to slap him.
"You think I'd put up with this crap if you weren't my son?"
"I'm goin' back to City," Walk tells her. "I like it better."
Her eyes are so hot they're scorching his hair right off his head.
"You want to go back to City, be my guest. Just wait until the end of the semester, then you can go."
"You sure?"
"Yes I'm sure. And for what you've done today, you are grounded for your life, boy. Until you're eighty, do you hear me? You better hope, you better pray you never do this again."
Forty-Nine
Kirsten
I'm down in the basement watching TV when I hear the slamming. Vip. Vup. Bang. Everything slammable is being slammed.
Kippy hops down the stairs. "Mom's mad."
"How come?"
Kippy shrugs. Her shoulders stay glued near her ears like she's forgotten them up there.
"Kirsten," my mom calls down, "I need to talk to you, right now. Kippy, Daddy saved a program on walruses. Would you like to watch it?"
"No, thank you," Kippy says.
My mother comes down. Her face looks like it has been scrubbed raw by a loofah. Everything is pink and puffy.
I know what she's going to say. She's going to tell me they're getting divorced, just like Rory said.
"You gotta try this one, Kippy. Walruses are amazing," Mom says.
Kip can't stand TV, which makes my mom proud, except for when she needs a babysitter.
Kippy's shoulders slump. "Do I have to?"
My mother nods her head.
I follow my mom to the dining room.
My mom sits down on one of the white chairs and leans in toward me. "You'd tell me if anything unusual happened, wouldn't you?"
I look at the hutch full of our good china. It stays in there. We never use it. The wall is painted to look like marble. There's a photo of our family dressed in jeans and white shirts in front of a waterfall at Yosemite. Everything looks perfect ... too perfect.
"Kirsten?" My mom peers at me.
"What?"
"Anything ... upsetting...?" She reaches in her pocket and takes out a square of Ghirardelli chocolate and puts it in front of me.
"Mom? What's the matter with you?" I unwrap the square before she can change her mind.
"There's nothing wrong with a treat once in a while," my mother says.
My mouth fills with a full chocolate rush. "I know about Walk, if that's what you're asking," My eyes are focused on the table. The earnest tone of the walrus video comes up from the basement. "I know who Walk is..."
"I told him she would tell. I told him," she says.
"Told who? Who would tell?"
She dives for the phone and starts dialing.
"No, wait. Mom, who?"
"Sylvia. Walk's mother. Your father said she wouldn't tell, but I knew she would."
"Walk's mother didn't tell me."
"Of course not. Walk told you."
"No. I found out from you."
She cuts the call off and looks at me.
"Me?"
"You and Daddy in the garage last week. It was late, eleven or twelve, I think. You didn't know I was there."
"What were you doing sneaking around the garage at eleven at night?"
I twist my ring around and around.
"Kippy's chips," she whispers. "You ate all those chips, Kirsten?"
I don't answer.
"All of them?" she repeats in a pinched voice.
"No, not all of them," I spit back.
"How many?"
"Mom, do you have to count everything?"
She sighs. "Kirsten, what am I going to do with you?"
"Nothing. It's not your problem, it's my problem."
&n
bsp; "Yes, and I'm trying to help you with your problem."
"Yeah, but your help doesn't help."
Anger blazes in her eyes. She takes a deep breath and seems to try to control it. "Okay. What are you going to do about your problem?"
"I'm going back to Dr. Marko Witzo Ritz Bits or whatever her name is," I tell her, though this surprises even me. I hadn't given this a moment's thought until now, but I'm suddenly glad I've said it.
"Oh." Her voice wavers, like she's tripped on one of Kippy's shoes. "Good," she adds shakily. "I'm ... That's very good." She smiles a small, real smile.
"What I started to say was I'm sorry about the food, but I'm not sorry about Walk. I wasn't sure about it at first. But you know what? I really like Walk. I really do."
"Kirsten, this isn't all about you." She stands up and heads for the front stairs.
"Actually, it is about me," I tell the back of her crocheted top. "Walk's my brother."
She freezes with her foot on the first step. "Your brother and your dad's son and what about me?" She takes a sobby breath. "You're two months apart, Kirsten. I can just hear Rebecca and Linda and Jacqueline. Oh, Jacqueline." She sinks down and sits in a heap on the step. " 'Oh my god, Rachel' "—my mother does a high-pitched imitation of Jackie Hanna-Hines—" 'your Mac was a busy boy.' "
"Doesn't sound like she's much of a friend."
"There are friends and there are friends," my mother says. "The way to handle this is with style. Set the tone like this is a United-Colors-of-Benetton kind of thing: 'Everyone should have a stepson who is African American.' "
I frown at her. "Mom? Is that what the problem is?"
My mom doesn't answer.
"It's about who Walk is inside, Mom. Not what color—"
"I know that. Of course I know that."
"Do you?"
She sighs, tips her head forward, and massages the bridge of her nose with her thumb. "This is too hard, Kirsten. I want this to be someone else's problem."
I reach over and take her hand. She squeezes my fingers so I know she's glad I'm doing it. We sit like this for a few minutes.
"Mom, I have a question. Did Dad cheat on you?"
She shakes her head. "No. We had a stormy relationship. On again, off again. And when it was on again, it was on again. And when it was off again, we were never going to see each other ever again. One of those off-again times..."
"Dad started going out with Sylvia?"
"Uh-huh."
"Why'd you get married?"
"Why'd we get married?" She sighs. "We had you. You were such a wonderful baby. What a love you were ... and you still are." She squeezes my hand again. "We wanted to give you a proper family. And I love your dad. I always have. If I didn't, this would all be so much easier. But this. I wasn't expecting this. Can you imagine keeping a secret like this for thirteen years? What kind of a person does that?"
"Are you..." I clear my throat, scratch at the table with my nail.
"Kirsten," my mom snaps. "Do you have any idea how much that table costs?"
"Getting divorced?" I ask.
She doesn't answer.
"You are, aren't you?" I whisper.
"No."
"No?"
"I don't think so." Her mouth twitches. "I'm not sure."
"But it isn't for sure yes."
"No, it's not for sure yes."
I breathe out a huge gasp of air and close my eyes.
Fifty
Walk
Walk picks up the phone. It's Matteo. "Hey, have the flu or something?"
"Ringworm."
"Very funny. You really sick?"
"What, you're my mother?"
"Fine, man, I won't call you."
"Hey, I'm sorry, okay?"
"You want the math homework?" Matteo asks.
Who cares about the math homework? Not Walk. He doesn't care about anything. "Yes," he says.
"It's pages one thirty-five and six. Supposed to do all the problems. Be careful of number eight. If it's really easy, you're doing it wrong," Matteo says.
"How's it tricky? Wait, I'll get my book." Walk has the book in his hand when the doorbell rings. He holds the phone with his shoulder. "Okay, page one thirty-five," he says as he opens the door.
Walk's stomach sinks low. Mac McKenna is standing there with a guitar case in his hand. Something roars like a train through Walk's head.
"Number eight. Got it? Walk? You there?" Matteo jammers in his ear.
"I ga-gotta go," Walk mutters to Matteo.
"Whoever said doctors don't make house calls?" McKenna says.
Walk doesn't look him in the eye. "I'm not sick."
"I know." McKenna sets the guitar down, sticks his hand in his pocket. His face twitches into a sorry smile. "May I come in?"
Walk doesn't move, doesn't even breathe.
"Give me two minutes." McKenna holds up two fingers.
The door swings shut in Mac McKenna's face. Walk just let it go. He didn't really slam it. Sylvia would kill him for slamming the door in somebody's face. Somebody's white face.
"I understand how you must be feeling," McKenna calls through the closed door.
Walk stands so still he can feel the blood moving inside him. His blood.
It seems to take forever before Mac McKenna's footsteps walk back down the path. The ignition catches; the car moves away.
Walk goes into Sylvia's room, finds his birth certificate, and blacks out his middle name. It isn't his name anymore. He's not Walker Wilburt Jones. He's Walker Jones now.
But Jones is Climpton's name.
Walk's name is ... Roodelman?
Roodelman is a joke.
What is his name?
He doesn't even know.
Fifty-One
Kirsten
I know Sylvia looks at Walk's email. But he's not answering his phone, so what am I supposed to do?
Walk,
This is way weird. Look, I need to talk 2 u.
Kirsten
Send
P.S. It's important.
Send
Answer your phone.
Send.
C'mon!
Send.
When I get to Balderis's class the next day, there's something on my desk. It's a piece of blue-lined notebook paper all folded up like a package. kirsten, it says in Rory's loopy writing.
Matteo comes over to my desk. "Rory put it there," he whispers. We both look down at the homemade envelope like it's a bomb.
I unfold the paper. Inside is a page torn out of a magazine. A Weight Watchers ad. I hear Rory laughing across the room.
Matteo sees the page. He takes a quick look down like he has never noticed my body before. Then he crushes the ad and tosses it in the garbage.
He comes back, sits down, and starts working. We both pretend we are busy with other things, but I can see him steal little glances at me.
"What?" I ask.
His face goes from brown to sunburned brown. Even his ears seem suddenly to be tinted red. "You don't need that," he whispers. "You look ... good."
Now my face feels flushed, too. He's not Rory. This isn't a lie. This is what he really thinks.
It's the nicest thing a boy has ever said to me.
I'm still thinking about what Matteo said when Walk shows up. He avoids my eyes. His face shuts me out.
He knows.
All through class Walk keeps tight to himself, and when the bell rings he disappears. I don't see him in the hall. I don't see him at lunch. Finally after school I track him down at his locker. One glance at me and he spins the dial and moves away.
"Hey! Wait! What did I do?" I run after him.
"What did you do?" he spits the words at me.
"Yeah," I say breathing hard. "What did I do?"
"You knew all along," he says.
"No I didn't."
He snorts.
"No really! I only found out last week."
"You're lying."
"No. NO!"
&
nbsp; "You found out and then you told the whole world."
"I didn't tell the whole world. Just Kippy. Nobody else."
"I don't believe you."
"Fine, but it was just Kippy."
His eyes look quick at me under their dark lashes. "Yeah ... but who'd she tell?"
"Just you."
He scowls like he doesn't believe this. Then shrugs. "It doesn't matter. January I'm out of here."
"You're leaving Mountain."
"Yeah."
We walk side by side, then he suddenly speeds up.
I chase after him. "Why?"
He doesn't answer. His legs keep moving, long and fast. "How'd you find out?" he asks, suddenly stopping. "I overheard my parents fighting about it. My mom found out from some financial planner person last spring. The guy messed up and put a bank account number she didn't know about on his report. She started snooping and found out my dad was paying your school bill out of it."
"I got a scholarship!" he shouts.
"Okay, okay." I raise my hands.
His eyes move quick from side to side.
I start in again. "I knew my parents weren't married when they had me. My mom told me that a long time ago. I swear that's all I knew."
He nods, his head barely moving.
"This is weird," I say. "But it's not my fault."
He doesn't answer.
I put my hand on his arm. "Look, you don't have to leave. Couldn't we just pretend this never happened?"
He shakes my arm off like I'm something nasty spilled on him. "No," he whispers. "We can't."
Fifty-Two
Walk
When Walk gets home he calls Jamal.
"Hey, I'm coming back, man," Walk says. "To City?"
"Ya-huh."
"No kiddin'? Sylvia's letting you?"
"Yep."
"Why?" Jamal asks.
"Why?"
"City's a sewer," Jamal says. "How much they give you, anyway?"
"Who?" Walk asks.
"Mountain."
"Scholarship money? A lot, man. A whole lot," Walk says.
Jamal is quiet so long, Walk thinks his cell has gone dead. "You still there?"
"Yeah, I'm still here. I only got fifteen hundred dollars," Jamal says.
If a Tree Falls at Lunch Period Page 11