Spiral

by Jacqueline Levine

  “Nope,” she replies.

  Brenton, brokenhearted, murmurs, “Okay.” Now I’m really bitter. She knows he adores her; can’t she take the time to play with him for five minutes?

  She says to Danika, “What time should we leave?”

  Brenton floats toward me as I near the casita. “Jack, wanna play Marco Polo?”

  I shake my head. “Not now, buddy, maybe later, I’m still kind of sick.” It’s not even an outright lie; my whole interaction with Cherie has made my stomach churn and my skin reach a new, feverish temperature.

  Brenton sighs and floats away, muttering, “And they all wonder why I have an imaginary friend…”

  “Sorry, bud,” I sigh, and I watch him paddle back to the middle of the pool. My eyes find Cherie again, and she is sitting up in her chair, rubbing lotion down her legs and then across her waist. Danika catches me looking and throws up her hands.

  “God, would you stop staring at us?! It’s gross!” Her words make me cringe, and they ignite flames inside of me.

  The words come flying out before I can stop them. “Don’t flatter yourselves.” I disappear inside my room before our exchange can get any uglier. Cherie’s shouting something else and laughing with Danika, but I slam the door to tune her out.

  My mind is spinning with fury, wondering where I went wrong and what I did now to make her mad. What could have happened between the moment she left the room last night to the moment I woke up to bring us back to square one?

  Danika. Of course, it all makes sense. She can’t be nice to me in front of other people because that would go against everything she’s been doing for the last month. She doesn’t want anyone to know she was actually kind to me last night and that her nastiness toward me is all just for show.

  Or maybe I was the one she’s lying to; yes, that’s it. I should have gone with my instincts; my mother definitely sent her in to apologize. She didn’t really mean it – she was just messing with me yet again. Messing with me so she could lure me into a moment like just now where I look like a pathetic puppy desperate for her attention, giving her the chance to kick me.

  My blood is even hotter now, and I’m absently pulling on my gym shorts and a fresh t-shirt. Cherie and her bitch sidekick know no limits. I yank on my sneakers. I’ve got to run. I’ve got to burn all this anger off somehow. I throw open my door and see my mother emerging from the house.

  “I was wondering where you were!” my mom sings out, carrying Britney onto the patio. “We just went up to check on you – wait, where are you going?”

  Britney holds out her arms for me as I slide past. “Jackie!”

  “Not now, I’m going for a run,” I mumble gruffly, even though neither of them deserves my tone.

  “But Jack – you just got over a fever! School starts in two days!”

  “I’m fine, Mom!” I keep walking to the front of the house, my strides swallowing the ground. As I head through the front door, I hear Cherie’s voice plaguing me from the patio.

  “I don’t know; he just got mad all of a sudden. He’s pretty moody, Eva.”

  Once outside the gate, I break into a run, my feet hitting the pavement in hard, rapid steps. I follow the sidewalk to the end of the street and keep going, running blindly, my fury leading me down this road and up that hill until I am lost and have come upon a part of town that actually has buildings and alleyways. I can’t stop to think about where I am or if it’s a neighborhood where I could be in danger. I’m swimming in muddled, bitter thoughts about the humiliation Cherie’s exacted upon me within the past seventy-two hours.

  She was so nice last night, so … perfect. She apologized – she called a truce! Had I really for even a minute thought any of that was real? She’s a professional actress, stupid! She was putting on a show – my mom probably gave her a good tongue-lashing for slapping me, and Cherie thought she’d make nice to get out of trouble. That’s all. She doesn’t care about me one bit. She doesn’t like me.

  And I have to stop liking her. It isn’t healthy. It isn’t going to go anywhere.

  But with her fiery eyes and her gorgeous smile and how nice I know she could be sometimes, it’s becoming impossible to avoid thinking about her almost every minute of every day.

  My anger bubbles to the top when I stumble over a fallen garbage can that’s rolled into the middle of the alley. I crash onto my knees and palms, and I’m a mess of scrapes and blood almost immediately. I curse and pick myself up, turning on the dirty, metal can with full venom. I throw my foot against it and send it colliding against the wall of a building.

  A voice rips me out of my blind fury. “Whoa, my dude! Take it easy; it’s just a garbage can.” A kid approaches me, his hands out as if he could be next. I’m too angry to be embarrassed. He looks like he might be about my age, maybe a little older. He’s black and short and lean, and he’s watching me with laughing brown eyes.

  “Sorry.” I’m breathing hard, staring at the garbage can as he rights it.

  He smiles with genuine friendliness, and his eyes are alight with humor.“That’s girl problems, right there. What’s her name?” I drop my gaze to the ground. How did he know that?

  I don’t even want to say her name out loud because the first syllable alone may force my foot to fly forward into the trash can again. I also don’t want him, if he doesn’t already recognize me, to recognize her name and put two and two together. It’s a terrible thing when you can’t be honest with anyone.

  “Trouble,” I grimace.

  The kid laughs heartily and holds out his fist toward me. “I heard that! That was my ex-girlfriend’s first, middle, and last name.”

  I bump his fist with my own, and we share a grin.

  “What’s your name, dawg?”

  “Jack Hansen.” I wait for it. I wait for him to say, “Hold on, that Jack Hansen? Cherie Belle’s Jack Hansen?” He doesn’t, and I’m relieved, even a little embarrassed that I actually assumed some random person would recognize my name.

  “I’m Mica Williams, nice to meet you.”

  “Same. Where you from?” I ask, noting the accent I hear in his voice. It sounds like home.

  “Originally? New York. The Bronx. You?”

  I smile. “New York. Westchester.”

  “Aight, aight, I heard of it. Upstate, right?” he chuckles. “So whatchu doin’ here, besides beatin’ up innocent garbage cans? You on vacation?”

  “We just moved here. I live on Palm Court.” I’m not even sure how far away that is from here, and for the first time I realize I’m really lost.

  His eyebrows raise. “Word? Them some big houses. You got that Westchester money, huh dawg?”

  I shrug. “Not exactly. Kind of just landed in our laps.” I feel dirty admitting to it.

  “Ah, gotcha. Wish I had that kind of luck.” He gestures to the garbage can. “So, this whatchu do for fun, Jack Hansen?”

  “No, I’m just a little on edge is all.”

  “There’s a gym not far off. You look like a big dude; why don’t you lift some weights or somethin’? Work that aggression out,” he advises.

  I shake my head. “Not what I needed today.”

  The light bulb seems to go off. “Oh, you got that burn like you wanna hit some bodies! I gotchu dawg, I gotchu. Yo, you spar?”

  “Spar?”

  “Like in boxing, you know? Tyson-Mayweather-style.” He bounces back and forth, his fists up to his temples. He throws some air jabs. I marvel at how he moves; it’s graceful, like he knows what he’s doing.

  “No, never tried that,” I admit. I suddenly wish I could punch like him.

  “Aw, you gotta try it. There’s a trainer off Route 1. He’s got a gym. I go every day.” I’m immediately interested. While I know the last thing I need is to awaken my violent side, I always wanted to learn how to actually box. It’s probably better to take boxing lessons from Mica than to violently explode on friends like I shamefully used to do years ago.

  He sees the enthusiasm in my exp
ression. “I could teach you, ya know?” He grins. “I’m not too bad, if I don’t mind me sayin’. Yo, if you down, meet me there tomorrow. It’s called Rocco’s. We’ll get you on the bag, see what it do.”

  “What time?”

  “Anytime. I’m off from school right now, so I spend most of my morning there.”

  Curious, I ask, “What school do you go to?”

  “Worthington High School. It’s not too far from here.”

  This is good news. Very good news. “That’s where I start on Monday!”

  He laughs at my excitement. “Word? That’s cool, man. Thought you’d be in some private school or some shit like that.”

  “Yeah, not quite,” I reply quietly. “So what time should I meet you at the gym?”

  He shrugs. “It’s Winter Break, Jack Hansen. Meet me when you get over there.”

  I watch him replace his earbuds and trot off. My chest swells a little. I just made my first Californian friend, and he’s from New York. What are the odds?

  Once I come off of my high, I realize I have no idea where I am, and where I am doesn’t look good.

  “Hey, Mica – wait up!” I call out. He turns and removes one of his earpieces. I jog toward him. “How do I get home?”

  He smirks and shakes his head, waving me to follow him.

  CHAPTER 23

  The next morning, I make it my business to wake up at 8 and look up directions to Rocco’s gym. I’d like to run to it and really prove I’m still somewhat of an athlete, but it probably isn’t the best idea after how lost I got in the not-so-nice neighborhoods yesterday.

  I’ll be dead before I get there, I think to myself as I search the refrigerator for something to eat.

  The front door opens, and Cherie walks in with Britney at her side. My sister sees me and runs over, arms outstretched and a smile just as wide.

  “Jackie!”

  “Hey, Brat, where were you?” I ask, catching her against my leg and patting her head. I raise my suspicious eyes to Cherie. Her hair is pulled up into a tight ponytail, and she’s wearing a loose shirt that hangs off of one shoulder. My mind pulls up the word “sexy,” and I immediately dismiss it. I’ve got to stop that kind of thinking.

  She leans over the other end of the island and shrugs. “We just went for a walk around the neighborhood,” she says with a bright grin like everything between us is fine and dandy. “Uncle Jim’s at work and your mom is meeting with the principal at Britney and Brenton’s school.”

  “A walk?” My mind begins conjuring images of stuffed bears covered in red paint littering the sidewalks and crazy stalkers in black ski masks hiding in the bushes while paparazzi snap pictures of my little sister and Cherie, who walk by, blissfully unaware. “Alone?”

  Her eyes narrow. “Yes, alone. We were getting some girl time in.” Tons of replies are forming on the back of my tongue, but I can’t seem to get any of them out at the moment. My mind races with all of the things that could have happened to either of them while they were out.

  “What are you up to?” Cherie asks finally, noticing I haven’t spoken. Britney looks up expectantly, as if she’s hoping I will offer to be part of whatever it is she and her new best friend are up to next.

  “Going to the gym,” I reply stiffly, trying to shake horrific images from my head. Britney frowns and gives up on me, moving to Cherie’s side.

  “Don’t you usually workout at night?” Cherie’s voice is soft and almost genuinely interested in what I have to say.

  I don’t have a desire to be kind back and harrumph, “I didn’t realize you were keeping tabs.”

  “I’m not; don’t flatter yourself,” she bites back, sarcasm suddenly dripping from every word. Britney senses the tension between us and wisely chooses to disappear upstairs.

  Cherie is oblivious and continues her mean assault. “Something about seeing you awake before noon makes me feel like I’m in an alternate universe.”

  I shake my head. “Whatever. I gotta go.” As I gather my water bottle and banana, I look up at her again and point toward the stairs. “And don’t go out alone with my little sister anymore. I don’t want her surrounded by those paparazzi morons or those nutcases who obsess over you.”

  “No one was there, it was just us – ” she begins to argue.

  I hold up my hand to stop her. “I don’t care; just don’t do it.”

  “Why are you being such a jerk?” she demands.

  I shake my head and say, “Just stay away from my little sister.”

  Cherie glares at me, folds her arms and juts out one hip, challenging me with her pose as she says, “I’ll do whatever I want; you don’t make the rules.”

  My blood begins to really churn into a froth. I stalk forward and stand within feet of her. She steps back, intimidated, and that’s exactly what I want her to feel.

  “When it comes to Britney, I do make the rules. Keep away from her.”

  “Or you’ll do what?” she needles smugly.

  I glare down at her and warn in a low growl, “You haven’t seen me really angry yet, Cherie.”

  “You don’t scare me, Jack.” She swallows hard but tries to maintain the confidence in her words. I keep my gaze locked with hers for what feels like a full minute before I finally have to tear myself away. I walk past her and head through the front door.

  I’m glad I’m driving to the gym now because I can’t wait to punch something. Hard.

  “Hey, my dude!” Mica shouts from the water cooler in the center of the gym. The machines match the hard, cement floor: mostly gray and black. I am out of my league in age and size, big time. If it weren’t for Mica, I would have turned and run back to the parking lot.

  But Mica is all smiles as he comes over and pulls me into a bro-hug like we’ve been friends for years. “You came, huh?” I’m confused why this impresses him so much.

  I don’t have time to ask because he’s already off and running with a very clear agenda.

  “C’mon, let’s show you ‘round, introduce you to some regulars,” he says, and walks ahead of me with a cool, confident sway to his stride. I’m calmed and intimidated all at once. I follow him through the gym like a lost puppy, trying not to stare too long at the burly men violently dancing in the center ring, swinging at each other with graceful venom.

  I’m only half-listening as Mica rattles on about the different guys working out through the free weight area. They eye me with suspicion, neglecting to wipe beads of sweat from their brows and upper lips. Occasionally, one will nod or give a half-smile, half-grunt. I return the gesture, mindful of my distance from Mica.

  “So, whattya wanna do first, Hansen?” I jerk to attention, and Mica is waiting for me to take an interest in any particular area of the gym.

  “Uh, boxing, I guess?”

  He almost laughs at me. “Still got that aggression to get out?” He pats me on the shoulder and gently nudges me toward a closet.

  He reaches inside and pulls out a black jump rope, handing it to me with a sly grin. “Let’s get you warmed up.”

  An hour later, I’m annihilated, lying flat on my back on the gym floor, as the throbbing of my muscles dominates my senses. Mica leans over me, laughing.

  “My dude, you alive?”

  I close my eyes and croak, “Yeah.”

  “One more set. C’mon, you got this!”

  I look over at the jump rope, officially the new bane of my existence, and swallow hard. “I don’t know; I think I might puke.” Mica put me through a bootcamp far more exhausting than any football practice I had ever been to. Push-ups, squats, jump rope sets – those really did me in – basically, a constant circuit of cardio and strength training designed to kill me. He didn’t just watch me and coach me through them. He actually did every exercise alongside me.

  And still Mica laughs, dragging me up onto my feet. He thrusts the jump rope into my hand. “One more. Let’s go!”

  After my final set of jumping rope, he leaves me to catch my breath and rummage
s through the closet once again.

  He hands me bandages for my hands, saying, “Here, wrap yo’ fists up – gotta support yo’ wrists.” When I’ve wrapped them tightly, he pushes two heavy gloves on my hands and makes sure they fit well.

  I follow Mica back through the gym, and instead of leading me to the ring in its center, he introduces me to a giant punching bag.

  “This here is the bag,” he says, gripping its sides like a girl he’s about to slow dance with. He sees my eyes flicker between that and the ring and almost laughs out loud. “My man, you can’t be thinkin’ Imma put you in the ring just yet! You gotta crawl before you can walk, son!”

  I’m not sure I understand what he means, but I’m pretty sure he is telling me I’m not ready to spar with someone in the ring. “So, what, you just want me to punch the bag?”

  “Yeah, just the bag,” he replies, his eyes twinkling with humor. “Imma teach you a few moves and stuff before we get to hittin’ people.” He leans in and winks, “It’s not as easy as it looks.”

  Mica directs me to hold my hands higher, then not that high, then twist them a little straighter. Then I have to change the position of my right foot. Frustration starts to climb into my chest after his third direction to do something different with my stance. I wipe sweat off of my forehead with the back of my forearm.

  “Let’s try some punches,” he says, sensing my impatience.

  Mica makes me connect my fist to the bag in a slow-motion jab, then a slower-motion right hook, then a gentle uppercut. I have to do these over and over, mimicking every move he does. Finally, he tells me to hit the bag without direction. Unsure of myself, I give the bag a few thuds with my gloves.

  “What in the hell is that?” he scolds. “C’mon, Hansen, hit the bag! Show me whatchu got!”

  I grind my teeth together and release all of my frustration into one huge right hook, my go – to punch from my more violent days. Mica jumps back as my fist connects, and the bag rocks from the force. I surprise myself with the hit, too. It’s been a long time since I’ve thrown a real punch; maybe it’s the fact that I’m older, or maybe because I’m bigger, but I don’t remember ever having that kind of power before.