by Carl Deuker
That day, he read us Lincoln's Gettysburg Address. Arnold has a radio-announcer's voice, and he used it. "We here highly resolve," he said, reaching the end of the speech, "that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."
There was a long moment of silence. Then Arnold closed the book and looked out over the class. "That speech is less than three hundred words long, but it is without doubt the greatest speech in American history, and one of the greatest speeches in world history."
"It's also a bunch of crap," I muttered, too loudly.
"What did you say?" Arnold asked, his eyes flaring in anger.
"Nothing," I said.
Heather Carp looked at me, and then at Arnold. "He said Lincoln's full of crap."
Arnold stiffened. "This is a classroom. I'd appreciate it if you'd use appropriate language."
"I didn't say Lincoln was full of crap, Mr. Arnold," Heather said, grinning. "He did."
The class laughed. Arnold turned to me.
"Explain what you mean, Chance."
"I didn't mean anything."
He glared at me. "You didn't mean anything. You sit in the back of the room and say nothing for weeks, and then you say Abraham Lincoln is full of crap, but you refuse to explain yourself. That's not going to cut it. I want you to tell me why you said what you did, and I want you to do it now."
I could feel everyone's eyes on me. Any other day and I would have just sat there until he gave up. But the anger I'd been carrying all day boiled over.
"You want to know what I mean?" I said. "OK, this is what I mean. It isn't rich kids getting killed in Iraq and Afghanistan, is it? It's not government of the people. It's government of the rich people. The poor get screwed over from the day they're born to the day they die."
As soon as I finished, I felt stupid. I should have kept my mouth shut. But Arnold didn't slap me down. Instead he took a deep breath, and when he exhaled the anger went out of his eyes. "That's a good point, Chance. It's something that needs to be discussed." He looked around the classroom. "Anyone care to comment on what Chance just said? Amy Yee, what do you think?"
I slipped down in my seat, and for the rest of class kept my eyes on my desk and my mouth shut while kids argued about whether it was right that mainly poor kids served in the army.
As I was heading out the door at the end of class, Arnold called me over. "You should raise your hand more often, Chance. That's the best discussion we've had in weeks."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When I finished my run that day, Melissa was waiting for me by the ramp leading down to Pier B. As soon as she saw me, she smiled and waved. "Hey, Chance."
I liked seeing her; I liked being near her. But not here, not by my boat. She was too close to things I didn't want anyone to know about. "What are you doing here, Melissa?"
"Nothing, really. I just wanted to talk to you."
"How did you find out where my boat is?"
She nodded toward the marina office. "They told me in there." She paused. "Is something wrong?"
"No. Nothing's wrong. I just wasn't expecting to see you."
She turned and faced the pier. "Which is your boat?"
"The Tiny Dancer," I said. "Slip forty-five." The boat was halfway down the pier. She looked, but I knew she couldn't pick it out.
"It must be neat living on a boat."
"It's OK," I said.
She wanted me to take her out onto the dock and show her the Tiny Dancer, but it was the last thing I'd ever do. Finally she turned away from the pier. "How about if we walk a little bit?" she said. "Maybe we could get some hot chocolate or something at Little Coney?"
"I don't have any money with me," I said, gesturing to my running clothes.
"My treat." She smiled. "Come on."
We walked toward Little Coney. For a time, neither of us spoke. "I've been thinking about what you said in class today," she said as we reached the yacht club building. "About how this is a country run by rich people."
"What about it?"
"My family is rich."
"I wasn't talking about your family, Melissa. I just meant rich people in general."
"But you're right, Chance. My older brothers are both at Yale. They aren't going into the army or the navy or anything like that. My mom would die if they enlisted."
"So?" I said.
"So if we were poor they might have to go someplace like Afghanistan or Iraq. Just like you said. And it's not right."
I stopped. "Melissa, I was just talking. Don't take everything so seriously."
"So I shouldn't pay attention to what you say?"
"No," I said. "You shouldn't."
She frowned, and we walked in silence the rest of the way. I pushed open the door to Little Coney and we stepped inside. "Two hot chocolates," she said, putting money on the counter. We found a booth that looked out over the boat launch and sat down.
For a while we just drank our chocolate and looked at the water. Finally, Melissa broke the silence. Her voice was low, and she spoke slowly. "Did you know that your dad and my dad were best friends when they were kids? They both went to Ingraham High and played on the baseball team."
I stared at her, too stunned to answer.
She gave me a little smile. "I didn't think you did. I only found out because I mentioned your name at dinner after that whole thing with Brent Miller. My dad recognized it, and he showed me his old yearbooks. There had to be a half dozen pictures of your father and my father together. They were like brothers." She paused. "My dad says that your father was in the first Gulf War and that he saw a lot of action. Is that true?"
As soon as she mentioned the Gulf War, my throat tightened. I hated thinking about Melissa and her dad talking about us, feeling sorry for us. "Yeah, my dad fought in the Gulf War."
She tipped her cup this way and that way. "Look, Chance," she said at last. "My dad wanted me to tell you that if you or your dad ever need any help, he—"
"Melissa," I said, cutting her off, "we don't need your help."
She pushed her chocolate away from her. "I'm sorry, Chance. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I was just doing what my dad asked me to do."
"You didn't hurt my feelings," I said. "And it's nice of your father and all. But we don't need help. We're doing fine."
She nodded, and then she looked at her watch. "I should get going."
"I'll walk back with you," I said.
She stood. "No. Stay here. I'd rather walk alone."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It was a cold Friday afternoon one week later. I'd run my normal route, out to the locks, then back along the Shilshole marina through Golden Gardens Park and onto the beach toward Carkeek. I'd run fast, faster than ever. And the fast pace worked. For the last couple of miles I'd run the way an animal runs—pure motion and no thought. When I finally stopped running, it was as if I'd come out of a dream world. I wished I could have kept running forever.
But I couldn't, so I went down to the boat, grabbed some clean clothes, and headed back toward the bathroom at the end of the pier to shower. A cold wind was blowing off the Sound, and I felt a shiver go through me. As I started up the ramp toward the utility room and the showers, the fat guy from the marina office stepped from the sidewalk onto the ramp, blocking me.
He'd started working at the marina office toward the end of summer. He was in charge of boats that needed temporary moorage. Charters, mainly. He liked to hang out on the sidewalk that ran between the parking lot and the piers, talking to people in a loud, know-it-all voice. Even on a gray, wet day he wore dark sunglasses and a Hawaiian shirt covered with birds and flowers. He had no neck; his bald head seemed to just sit on top of his shoulders.
"You run every day, kid?" he asked.
"What?" I said.
"You run every day?"
I shrugged. "Yeah. Pretty much."
&n
bsp; He smiled. "Good for you. I like healthy kids. I wish I'd run when I was your age."
"I got to get going," I said, and I pushed by him.
"What's your hurry?" he said.
I kept going without looking back.
When I reached the utility room, I opened the door quickly, stepped inside, and pulled the heavy door shut. As usual the room was empty. I took the shower stall way in the back, turned the handles, and adjusted the water temperature. When it was hot, but not too hot, I undressed and stepped in. Then I closed my eyes and let the hot water pour over my head.
I was washing my hair when I heard the main door open. It creeps me out whenever that happens. I listened to hear if anyone was heading toward the shower stalls. Instead I heard the rumble of the clothes dryer as it started up. I rinsed the soap out of my hair, turned off the water, dried myself quickly, and dressed. While I was dressing, I heard the click of the main door as it closed. Whoever had come in was gone.
I gathered my dirty clothes together—the sound of the dryer reminded me I'd have to do a wash later. Then I combed my hair and headed back toward the locker area. When I rounded the corner, the fat guy was standing in front of the mirror, picking his teeth with a red toothpick. As soon as he saw me, he turned. "We weren't done talking."
I dropped my dirty clothes and curled my hands into fists. "You touch me, you pervert, and you'll pay for it."
He smiled. "Relax, kid. This has nothing to do with sex. I want to give you a chance to earn some easy money." He paused. "You need money, don't you?"
"No," I said. "I don't."
He tilted his head to the side and raised his eyebrows. "That's funny. Word at the office is that your old man lost his job over at Sunset West, that he missed his September payment, and that in a couple of months or so he's going to lose that beat-up sailboat you call home."
"My dad will get a job," I said.
He smiled. "You know something? I like your spirit. I really do. But I don't have time to play games. So listen, and listen carefully. You're in trouble, and I can get you out of that trouble. I'm offering you a job, kid. Very good pay; very short hours. When somebody offers you easy money, you should at least hear him out."
"I don't want easy money."
He smiled. "Is that right?" He reached into his pocket, pulled out a money clip, peeled off a one-hundred-dollar bill, and held it out to me. "It's your pay for hearing me out."
I stared at the money. He shook it. "Go on, take it. Otherwise I'm going to put it back in my pocket."
I reached out and took it. "All right," I said, sticking the bill in my back pocket. "I'll listen."
He looked around. "I think the sun came out. This isn't a good place to talk. How about we go for a walk?"
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
We headed out onto the sidewalk that runs along the marina. For the first fifty yards or so, neither of us spoke. "OK," I said at last. "What do I have to do to earn this easy money?"
He stopped and leaned against the railing. "That's the beautiful part, kid. You just keep doing what you already do. Run. I'll pay you two hundred bucks a week to run."
"Come on," I said. "There's more to it than that."
He bobbed his fat head back and forth. "OK. Maybe there's a little more to it, but not much. Starting tomorrow, when you run you'll be wearing a backpack."
"A backpack?"
He shrugged. "You'll get used to it. People run with stuff all the time. Nobody will notice. You can stick a Walkman in it if you want, or a bottle of water. Do whatever you want—I don't care. Just so long as you wear it."
"So where do I run? And what's the backpack for?"
"The same route you always run. Out to the locks, over to Magnolia, back along the marina, through Golden Gardens Park, and then onto the beach."
"Have you been watching me?"
His eyes narrowed. "You bet I've been watching you. And I'll be watching you. This is business, kid." He stopped. An old couple was approaching, holding hands. Everything about them seemed relaxed, easy. The fat guy nodded to them. "Good afternoon."
"Good afternoon," the old man answered.
We watched them make their way leisurely down the sidewalk.
"You still haven't told me what I need the backpack for," I said when they were out of earshot.
"You know the tree that looks like it's growing out of the boulders? The big maple?"
He was talking about my mother's tree. "Sure. The train tracks are right above there. It's where I turn around."
"From now on, when you reach that tree, you'll stop and stretch, do some pushups, something. While you're doing whatever it is you do, you'll be looking hard into the nooks and crannies of the boulders around that tree."
"What'll I find?"
"Most days, nothing. But some days there will be a package. When there is, you slip the package into your backpack. Then you run back along the beach just like you normally would. You go down to your boat and get a change of clothes just like you always do. Then you come back up to the utility room at the end of the pier for a shower, same as usual. Before you shower, you stick the backpack in the locker. After you shower, you change into your clean clothes, stuff the dirty clothes into the backpack, but leave the package in the locker."
"Then what happens?"
"Then you do the same thing the next day."
"I mean, what happens to the packages? What's in them? Where do they go?"
He shook his head. "Bad questions. You don't know, and you don't want to find out. Understand?"
"This is drugs, isn't it? It's a smuggling operation."
"Didn't you hear me? You don't know and you don't want to know. All you need to know is what I've told you."
"I'm not getting involved in drugs," I said.
"You're the one saying drugs and smuggling. All I'm talking about is running on the beach and picking up packages."
"I'm not doing it," I said.
"You're going to lose your boat. You know that, don't you?"
I didn't answer.
He shook his head and smiled. "You're a pain in the ass, kid. A real pain in the ass. I'm throwing you and your old man a life preserver and you won't grab hold. But I'm a patient man, so here's what I'll do for you. You think over my offer this weekend. On Monday, you'll find a gray backpack in your locker. If you wear that backpack when you run, I'll know you want the job. If you don't wear it, I'll find somebody who knows a good deal when he sees one."
"How are you going to get into my locker?" I said. "You don't know my combination."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key chain filled with keys. "Don't forget. I work here. I've got keys to everything." Then he smiled, turned on his heels, and walked away.
Once I was back on the Tiny Dancer, I took the hundred-dollar bill out and held it up to the light. I don't know why—it's not as if I could recognize a counterfeit bill, anyway. Then I laid it on the table and stared at it.
If you live on the waterfront long enough, you know illegal stuff goes on. You don't see it necessarily, but you feel it—people that don't look quite right, boats that don't look quite right. The Coast Guard and the port police aren't there for the fun of it. Twice in the last year I'd seen guys get arrested at the marina.
The fat man knew more than he was letting on, that was for sure. If the whole thing were as easy as he said it was, he wouldn't pay me for doing it. He'd take a stroll down the beach after work and pick up the packages himself. There was no future in what he was proposing, but I wasn't worried about the future. I was worried about next month. I picked up the bill and held it to the light again.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The next day was a Saturday—and that meant work. At one-forty-five I headed up Seaview Avenue toward Ray's. You hear about restaurants having filthy kitchens but Creager ran that kitchen as if it were a hospital. "Spic and span!" he'd say every time he walked through. "Clean and cleaner!"
I hated everything about my job: the windowless roo
m, the food baked on the pans, the smell of the soap. But most of all I hated the heat. To satisfy Creager, the water had to be just short of boiling. I wore rubber gloves that went up to my elbows, but I could still feel the heat right through them. No matter how cold it was outside, I always stripped down to a T-shirt and shorts when I worked. Even so, I'd be sweating like a pig within five minutes of starting my shift.
I scrubbed those pots until they shined, then scrubbed them some more. After that I rinsed them over and over. The first day I'd worked there, I sent a pan to the cooks that hadn't been rinsed enough. "Do you eat soap?" Creager had screamed, holding the pan up. "Do you?" When I shook my head, he got right up in my face. "Well, neither do our customers. Never send back a pan like this again. Do you hear me?"
I worked Saturday and Sunday that weekend, from two in the afternoon until ten at night. Through both shifts, all I could think about was the hundred-dollar bill the fat guy had given me. Eight bucks an hour is what I made at Ray's. But I didn't get all eight dollars. After the government took out all the stuff they take out of paychecks, I took home less than seven an hour. Sixteen hours of hard work for what the fat guy had given me to listen to him talk.
Creager came over to me as I was hanging up my apron at the end of my shift on Sunday night. "I won't be needing you until four o'clock from now on, Chance. I'm sorry. I really am. I know things are tough for you and your dad. Around Christmas, business is sure to pick up. When it does, I'll get you more hours. And if anything comes up for your dad over the holidays, I'll let you know."
"Don't worry about me," I said. "I've got a line on another job. The pay is better and so is the work. I'm sick of scrubbing pots, anyway."
Creager stiffened. "When will you know about this new job?"
"I already know about it," I said.
"So when will you be quitting here?"