Chasing Tail Lights

by Patrick Jones

  "A statement?" I'm feeling drugged, but not in a good way, as she releases me.

  "We couldn't get one last night. The police collected what physical evidence they could."

  "What are you talking about?" I'm confused, just like I was when they brought me in and probed me like a biology class frog. She doesn't answer but, instead, goes to the door. As she leaves, a middle-aged white policewoman enters holding a notepad. She sits down, then pulls out a pen and a look of concern at the same time. The badge says "Officer Kay."

  "Christy, who did this to you?" she asks, just as serious as the cops you see on TV. I'm thinking for a second this is like some sort of bad dream sequence, but the bright lights of the hospital room and the stink of antiseptic lets me know I'm still restrained in a living nightmare.

  "Did what?" I reply while squirming, still strapped to the bed.

  "Your friend Anne says you were last seen entering a downstairs bathroom with a Mr. Glen Thompson. Shortly thereafter, Miss Williams witnessed you running away from the party. Is that correct?" She's looking at her notepad, not me.

  "Yes, but I did this," I say directing my eyes toward my bandaged and scarred wrist.

  "But before, did Glen attack you?" she asks, her voice concerned and serious.

  "What are you saying?" I want to die again, wondering how many people at school know about this, thinking that Glen probably told the truth to the police, and knowing that few things that happen at my school stay secret for long. My cause of death: not suicide, but humiliation.

  "Look at me, Christy." She takes a deep breath, like a person about to go underwater. "There was blood on your dress. You were in shock. I know you're lying to me."

  "Glen didn't touch me." I tell that truth and it hurts too hard to remember.

  "You don't have to lie to protect him. People say the two of you are friends," she says, really turning up the heat as I shiver in cold fear. "If he did this to you, he should be punished."

  "Did what?" I say, hysterical tears held back.

  "Raped you." The whispered words explode in my ears.

  I want to run to the bathroom, but her chair and these restraints are blocking my path. All I can do is shake my head in denial.

  "Then who?" she says, leaning closer. "Who did this to you?"

  "Why are you saying this?" I say, but I know. I know and I run inside myself.

  Officer Kay shakes her head sadly, then speaks. "Because your rape kit came back positive."

  sixth grade, new year's eve

  "Don't move."

  His elbow is digging deeply into my neck, his mouth pushed up against my ear, but it's not his words that wake me from sleep, it's not his body pressed up against mine; it's his smell. The room is totally dark. I start to cry out, but barely a sound emerges, before the point of his elbow cuts deeper. I bite my bottom lip in pain as he pulls my long hair back like a leash. I try to kick him, but it's no use. He grabs onto my legs and pulls my pajama bottoms down. Then comes the familiar grating metallic sound of a zipper. My right hand shoots out from under me, knocking Hershey Bear onto thefloor, while my left hand grabs onto the end of the bed. With my arms in front of me, he quickly pulls them together, as his kneejams into my back.

  "I said don't move." His full weight is on me; his full force pushing into me. Then his breathing is heavy, heavier, heaviest, and then normal. Silence returns for a moment, since my tears make no noise as they soak into the pillow. "If you say anything, I'll kill you," he says into my ear. I can feel my stomach racing upward and sense the blood dripping down my legs. His elbow returns to my neck, the point of it cutting into me while his other arm snatches Hershey Bear off the floor.

  "I'll kill you like this," he sneers, then jabs a pair of silver scissors into the middle of the bear's brown chest.

  17

  January 11, senior year

  "Happy belated New Year!"

  "Hi, Terrell," I mutter, as no year could start more unhappily than this one. I nervously tug at my oversize Detroit Pistons sweatshirt, making sure the tiny bandage on my wrist remains invisible, and wishing that I could be. Ten days off from school and work wasn't enough.

  "I made a significant New Year's resolution," he says, acting all serious. After that time showing me his photos last November, he's joked around with me, but nothing more.

  "What is it?" I ask, knowing I can't tell him my resolution was to simply stay alive.

  "Not to make any more resolutions!" he says proudly. "How about you?"

  I busy myself thumbing through a book on the sorting shelf as nothing emerges from my legally chemically altered mind. I left the hospital after a few days, gaining antidepressant meds but giving no truth. Mrs. Grayson still wants me to see her, and the police have their questions, but my mind is made up and chemically modified.

  "Come on, Christy, you have to want to change something," he says, taking a sip from the oversize white Styrofoam coffee cup I've noticed is his constant winter-morning companion.

  My eyes scream "to be left alone" but my mouth won't comply. "To shelve these books."

  He smiles, but doesn't move, instead he picks a book from the sorting shelf, then shrugs his shoulder. "I thought maybe you'd wanna write a book, rather than shelve them."

  "I don't think so," I say, grateful he's not asking me to explain my two-week absence.

  "I bet you have a lot of stories to share," he says.

  "I'm not really that interesting," I tell him as if he hasn't figured that out.

  "Don't do that to yourself," he snaps, but with a smile. " 'Nuff people in this life to put you down, don't be doing it to yourself. You don't say much. I bet you're like an iceberg."

  "An iceberg?" I ask, wondering what he could possibly mean, or if he's being mean.

  "You only see about one-third of an iceberg," he says. "The rest of it stays hidden."

  My thumb should be bleeding from the paper cuts I'm inflicting upon it as I nervously move it back and forth across the top of the book in the my hand. "I should really shelve—"

  "I bet you have lots of stories you tell your boyfriend," he interrupts with averted eyes.

  I shrug. "I don't have a boyfriend."

  "There you go," he says, all confident and energetic. "That's Flint's problem!"

  "What do you mean?" I ask, unsure what my boyfriendless state has to do with the city.

  "Flint's loaded with people with really bad judgment and poor taste," he whispers. "Maybe we could go out some time, then?"

  "Maybe," I whisper.

  "Maybe? How vague is that?" he says, laughing. A nervous, shy laugh. Same as mine.

  I take a quick hard look at Terrell, and I suddenly don't see this cool guy I work with who's always joking with me. I don't see someone who seems older, wiser, and more secure. I see someone not so different from me—from a part of myself that I don't hate.

  He offers me his coffee, then speaks. "I'm sorry, Christy, I didn't mean to—"

  "Okay," I say, then I can breathe again as I push the coffee away, but not Terrell.

  "Okay, that was my second resolution," he says. "How weird is that?"

  "Really?" I ask in shock and awe.

  He pulls out a piece of paper from his pocket and pretends he's crossing things off a list. "Don't make New Year's resolutions—check. Ask Christy out—check. Only one thing left."

  "What's that?"

  "Rescue the city of Flint," he says, laughing at his words. "That might be more difficult."

  "Good luck with that, Terrell," I say, managing a little half smile.

  "So after work tonight?" he asks, sounding as shy as I do.

  "I can't. I have to watch my niece." I have to watch Bree this evening, since no one in my family expects me to have something to do on a Saturday night. I hope I don't have to explain anymore. I don't know anything about romance, but I'm pretty sure that most first dates don't involve explaining about your incarcerated family members.

  "Well, then I'll have time to work on my p
lan to save this city," he replies, then buries his eyes into the floor. "So, how about some other time?"

  I dig my hands deep into my pockets, so my shaking hands are well hidden. "Okay," I say.

  "Okay!" He shouts to the chagrin of the other staff, most of whom have started working hard, wondering when and if either of us will shelve a book. Terrell gets this real embarrassed look on his face, then walks slowly over to his section to start shelving, while I think of how sad a feeling it must be for a book to be shelved, alone and unwanted, just like I used to feel. Used to.

  "Are you ready?' Terrell says, tapping me on the right shoulder. I try not to jump, and I realize this isn't the right time or right place to tell him that I don't like to be touched by anyone.

  "Ready," I reply.

  He points at the clock in the reference area, which reads 12:30. Even though I like my job, some days the time drags, but today I've barely noticed a second pass by, maybe because I've hardly shelved a book.

  "You said some other time," he says, tapping me again on the shoulder as I hide my discomfort. "And as you can see, this is some other time, so."

  "But, I—" I start.

  Terrell pantomimes a whisper, then speaks, "Lets run down to Angelo's. We can take my wheels. The wheels are actually about the only thing that work on my not-so-Grand Am."

  I shove my hands into my pockets, looking for loose change. With no work for two weeks and no Ryan income, I've got only a bus pass to my name. "I don't—"

  "Have any more excuses," Terrell says, then raises his left eyebrow.

  "Okay," I mumble as I walk with him toward the door. My digestive system roller coaster leaves me sweating, sore, and seriously terrified, but I press on. I can't decide if I'm more terrified of Terrell's attention or afraid of his rejection.

  Things are pretty quiet on the short drive over to Angelo's, an old Flint diner. He turns on an oldies R & B station, which is what I listen to whenever I have a chance, which isn't often. Whenever Mitchell or Ryan drive, it's loud rap, while Mama listens to a Christian station.

  The parking lot is pretty empty, just a few old pickups. The rusted red of Terrell's Grand Am adds to the beaten-up and beaten-down look of the lot. There's a line of guys in work clothes getting take-out, and the counter is packed with older white men, surrounded in the haze of twenty-four-hours-a-day cigarette smoke. When we walk in, Terrell leads us toward a table, but I move us quickly to a booth.

  "Two up and a cup of Joe," an almost blue-haired waitress says to Terrell as soon as we're seated. He looks embarrassed by her attention. "Urn, I come here a lot," he says shyly.

  There is a layer of grease on the scratched-up Formica table, matched only by the double layer of grit on the filthy floor. My restless feet stir the debris of uneaten fries and ketchup packages tossed under the table. My left foot yearns to run away, but the right one wants to stretch out and pin Terrell into place. Another waitress comes over with a cup of coffee for Terrell, which he starts to sip even before he unzips his leather jacket, like it was life itself.

  "What's two up?" I ask, curious about the greeting he received.

  "That means two hot dogs with everything," he says, pointing to the food being delivered to the table next to us to two overweight fifty-something guys wearing work clothes and scowls. I look quickly for the cheapest thing on the yellowed wall menu. I have found a dollar in change in my coat, so Terrell won't have to treat me and I won't owe him.

  "So, what'll it be?" The waitress ends the sentence with a loud snap of her gum, although whatever the mint flavor it isn't enough to overcome the smell of smoke clinging to her bluish hair.

  "Just toast," I say, fingering the coins. I'm not toasted, but I'm still desperately hungry. My stomach is churning, full of anxiety at the thought of eating in front of Terrell.

  "To drink?" she shouts back. Yelling seems to be her normal tone of voice. "Coffee?"

  "No, um, just water," I say, noticing a slight frown from Terrell.

  "Bread and water. It ain't that pretty in here, but this isn't prison," he says, then laughs, and I hope he didn't see my eyes close tight. "Give her a pop and one up. I'll pay. This time."

  I'm looking around for the bathroom, but seeing the condition of the floor, tables, and smoke-hazed windows, I decide not to run into the bathroom. "So, it seems they know you here," I say softly.

  "My mom works a lot. She's not home much, and I can't cook. So . . ," he says.

  "What does she do?" I ask, trying my best to hear over the constant yelling of the waitresses who shout out the orders from halfway across the room, trying my best to breathe through the lung-blocking layer of smoke, but mostly trying to say, do, and be the right things.

  "She's a nurse at McClaren," he says, followed by another sip. "What about your mom?"

  "She works in health care too," I say, kicking myself for telling so many lies. He doesn't ask about my father, so I won't ask him. I learned not to do that. Like Tommy said, people always tell you their dads are dead, even if they've just run off. Like Tommy's did.

  "She works a lot of long hours, and so I don't get a lot of home-cooked meals. We just live off Franklin, and this is so close," he says, sipping his coffee. "She's so busy, you know, I don't want to ask her to do stuff for me. Probably the same thing with your mom."

  I nod my head in agreement, trying to remember how many lies I've told. "You must be busy, too, working at the library, and going to Summit. That's a real hard school, right?" I know Anne's father pushed her to go to Summit, which is how she pulled into Southwestern.

  "It's tough, sure, but it needs to be. I want a good education so I can get into a good college," he says, sipping his coffee again, although I can't imagine there's any left in the cup.

  "What are you going to study in college? You never told me."

  "No, you never guessed," he says, then laughs. "Okay, last chance. Consider all the clues I've given you, consider this place, our fair city of Flint, and then it's double or nothing."

  "Double or nothing?" I ask, trying not to appear totally dense, but I'm clueless.

  "That means if you get it right, you win double, but if you get it wrong you win nothing," he says, smiling at both his statement and the food arriving on the table.

  "What's the prize?" I ask, pulling the hot dog loaded with onions, mustard, meat sauce, and more onions closer. The same aroma is ingrained in the torn green vinyl seat I occupy.

  "Me, although I realize I'm not much of a trophy," he says, leaning closer. "You get it right, then we'll both forget my pathetic date attempt, but if you get it wrong, then I get a second date. Okay, Christy Mallory, double or nothing. I plan to study what at college?"

  I take a deep breath, which in this air is a mistake. I start to cough, which kills time as I try to figure out what I want to do, what I know about Terrell, and if I want to know any more.

  "So?" he says, leaning closer. The fact that I don't want to push him away is my final clue.

  "Chemistry," I say, which I hope is the smartest sounding wrong answer I can give.

  "Incorrect answer!" I wonder if he suspects that I missed on purpose. "Urban planning."

  "Urban planning?" I ask, unsure even what it means. "Why urban planning?"

  "You ever heard of the computer game Sim City?" he asks, but I don't get a chance to answer, which is fine.

  "Every other computer game is about killing things, Sim City is about building stuff," Terrell says, then pushes a napkin in front of him. He pulls out a pen and starts drawing little squares on the napkin, like some secret code he's been waiting to share. I nod and he continues.

  "You get to be mayor of the city, and you decide everything. It's a lot of fun, but get this," he says, more frantic drawing. I notice his legs are in constant motion when sitting. "In one of the old versions of the game, they have this scenario where you get to be the mayor of the city and save it after a disaster, like Chicago after the fire or San Francisco after the earthquake."

  He pa
uses long enough to sip some coffee, not that he needs an energy boost.

  "Well, one of the scenarios in one of the old games is saving Flint, a city with high crime, no jobs, and lots of poor people living in the city because all the rich people moved the money to the burbs," he continues, and I think about Aunt Dee living in Grand Blanc, not rich, but not poor like us. "I've played that scenario hundreds of times, but I can't win and save Flint."

  "But it's just a game, isn't it?" I say weakly, compared to his now booming voice.

  "Not to me, Christy, not to me," he says.

  I don't know if it's the mix of anger and hope filling his answer, the scent of the onions filling my nose, or the toxic air that causes my eyes to tear.

  "I want a world where poor people don't go hungry while rich people drive Hummers."

  I lean in toward him and whisper, "How are you going to change the world?"

  "Like I told you, every journey starts with one step, and my step's here."

  "At Angelo's?"

  "No, here in Flint," he says with more conviction in his voice than I've ever heard from anyone. "I'm like this city: half black, half white. If I can get it together, then so can Flint."

  "What do you mean?" I'm overwhelmed by his passion in my passionless life.

  He zips up his leather jacket as he speaks, covering up the old school Public Enemy T-shirt but not the outlook. "I'm going to be the person who saves Flint. I want to be the person to help this city rise up and be great again." I don't say anything; instead I think if every journey starts with one step, then maybe Terrell can save Flint one person at a time, starting with me.

  18

  january 15, senior year

  "You have to tell your mother."

  The tone in Aunt Dee's voice is as angry as I've ever heard. I want to crawl under her table and escape her, as well as Tommy and Anne's caring if somewhat appalled stares.