The Outlaw: No Heroes

by Alan Janney

  “I’m not sure I understand your first reason,” I said.

  “I don’t care. Reason number two is that you’re not very nice to me.”

  “What?” I sputtered. “That has to be a joke.”

  “You use me. Think about it. I give you massages when you need them. I help you study for Spanish. I always buy chocolate bars because I know you like them. I feed you before games. I give you complete access to my bedroom, which is hard because it reduces my privacy. I cheer for you at your games, and I even bought your jersey. Now, tell me Chase, what do you do for me?”

  Her question hung in the air like a descending fog of guilt between us. I had no answer to her logical question, and no defense against the pain of the truth. She was right. I had been taking advantage of her, not considering that she might need me to give back.

  I got your phone back, I wanted to say. It was dangerous and I did it for you! But I only said feebly, “Why do you do those things?”

  “Because I adore you. But I can’t anymore.”

  “Because of Sammy?”

  “Because of a lot of things,” she said. “You’re still my best friend. But you should probably start using the front door.”

  I had received sixty-seven congratulations and thirteen taunts when I checked the internet on my tablet that evening. I didn’t even bother trying to respond to all those notifications. Someone had posted a picture of Hannah cheering, so I commented on it, remarking on how high she was jumping into the air. Before I logged off the internet, twelve people had responded to my comment.

  My father informed me that I did not have five total touchdowns, I had seven. And over four hundred yards of total offense. I hadn’t grown up around football but I knew that was a lot. He also told me to go grocery shopping because I’d eaten all the food in the house.

  I retrieved Natalie North’s phone.

  >> Let’s video chat. You can wear your mask.

  I typed nothing in reply.

  >> I’m calling that phone at 10pm. Please answer!

  “This is stupid,” I told myself again, but at 9:45 I pulled on my black shirt, unearthed the ski mark and bandana, and climbed out the window. It’s easy to reach our roof from my window, and I’d done it often. The night was cool and I could hear a siren screaming from the distant interstate.

  The black ski mask stretched across the top of my nose and fit snugly under my jaw. I had to tug it tight to connect the Velcro behind my head. Then I folded the red bandana into a long strip, pushed my hair up and tied the cloth into a knot in the back. The streetlights barely reached the roof so the camera couldn’t detect many details. To the phone, I was more of a bluish silhouette against a black sky. Perfect.

  At precisely ten o’clock the pink phone started buzzing. Ring ring. A video call was coming through. Ring ring. I just stared, pulse racing, as it rang. My thumb tried to press Answer more than once but I couldn’t do it. Finally the phone went silent. Missed call.

  “Wuss,” I condemned myself. I was hot with shame and cowardice.

  Another call. Same number. I quickly answered it before I lost courage.

  The screen blinked as the connection was made and the beautiful and famous movie star Natalie North appeared. At least I assumed it was the beautiful and famous Natalie North. She wore a mask. I could tell that she sat on a beige couch in front of a beige wall, that her honey blonde hair was framing her face, and that she wore a plastic superhero mask.

  “Hi!” she said and I jumped. Her voice seemed to carry forever, echoing off the nearby buildings. I quickly thumbed the volume down.

  “I like your mask,” I said, keeping my voice low. My lips didn’t move much, being compressed by the mask, and the material muffled the sound even further.

  “Are you wearing yours? It’s hard to tell.”

  I held the device closer to my nose so the monitor glow would dimly illuminate my face.

  “Oh,” she said. “I see. I can’t believe I’m talking with you!”

  I figured the less I spoke the better, so I said nothing.

  “I’ll take mine off if you take yours off,” she said.

  “No deal.”

  “I figured,” she laughed and pulled her mask off anyway. Her hair cascaded into place. “It was worth the try.” Natalie North herself was now peering into the phone. She looked…more human in the phone than on the movie screen. She also looked younger. “I’m hoping no paparazzi caught me buying that thing. Sometimes I don’t see them.”

  “You don’t make movies at ten on a Saturday night?”

  “Currently I’m a full-time student,” she said. “My fall semester started last Wednesday. And we wrapped filming about three weeks ago, right before the ATM incident. My publicist predicts the attention will be good for the movie’s opening around New Years.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I’ll need a date for the premiere,” she smiled a smile that earned her ten million dollars a film. “Would you like to join me?”

  “You can get a body double to wear the mask. No one would know the difference.”

  She laughed and said, “I prefer the real thing.”

  “Why?”

  We sat quietly for a long while as she studied me through her phone. I enjoyed the opportunity to study her in return. Eventually she said, “I’m not exactly sure.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “The life I lead is…surreal. It’s not a real life. Even though I deliberately distanced myself from the limelight for eight months out of the year, it’s still not normal. That night at the ATM felt like the most real moment of my life. No bull, you know?”

  I didn’t say anything again.

  “Did you recognize me?” she asked. I only frowned, trying to understand her question. “When you first arrived at the ATM, did you know the girl being attacked was famous?” she asked, twisting on the couch a little.

  “I did not.”

  “I didn’t think so. When you looked at me and asked me if I was okay. That was the first occurrence in a decade that someone has looked at me, and inquired about me, and done so without…you know…trying to impress me? Without an affect?”

  I nodded. Could she see that?

  She rested her cheek on her hand and said, “I suppose I wanted to communicate with you because you helped me and you wanted nothing in return.”

  “I get it.”

  “And because of the whole embarrassing transference infatuation.”

  “Which is?” I asked.

  “You know,” she said. “Lois Lane and Superman?” I shook my head. “Sometimes a girl obsesses over her rescuer,” she laughed awkwardly. “It’s a mortifying but human syndrome. I’m trying to get over it.”

  Natalie North was admitting that she had feelings for me. Or at least for the Outlaw. The butterflies in my stomach launched with renewed vigor.

  “Anyway,” she sighed. “I just wanted to see you, to hear your voice. I will allow you to return to your life. Your mysterious, adventurous, legendary life.”

  “I enjoyed our chat,” I said.

  “You didn’t say much.”

  “I still did.”

  “Good!” she said, perking up. “I respect the fact that you need your anonymity. But before you go, can you tell me one thing about yourself?”

  Sure. No problem. What harmless fact could I admit to Natalie North? I’m a junior in high school? I live with my dad? We’re broke? I’m having trouble with Trig?

  I said, “I’m a football player.”

  “You are?” she asked. “Are you good?”

  “I’m not bad.”

  “Have I seen or read about you? Are you in the news?”

  “I have been in the news, yes.”

  “Oh gosh,” she groaned, and shook her head at the camera. “A football player that masquerades as a crime fighter. This is not helping my fixation on you.”

  I laughed and said, “Good night.”

  That night, as I was reading in bed, my pho
ne buzzed. Chase Jackson’s phone. I had a new picture message from Hannah. It took me a moment to realize I was seeing three dresses on hangers. The dresses were so tiny they looked almost like bathing suits.

  >> I can’t decide which homecoming dress to get!! XoXo Hannah

  Homecoming?

  Chapter Eleven

  Monday, September 17. 2017

  Mr. Ford shoved a note in my face so hard he almost punched me when I arrived to math class Monday morning.

  I need to see you, it said, and it was signed by Mr. Desper, our school’s public relations coordinator.

  “Come on in, kiddo,” Mr. Desper grunted when I arrived at his office. “Have a seat. Boy, what a game you had last Friday night, eh?”

  “Thank you sir,” I said. Mr. Desper looked like he should be a weather man because of his perfect hair and square chin. The only problem was he never smiled. “We played well.”

  “We sure did, Chase, we sure did. And can I tell you what that does? I’ve got three messages in my voicemail asking for interviews with you this week during practice. I’ve got email requests that arrived within the last twenty-four hours asking for press passes from six local college scouts.”

  “Great,” I smiled. “Right? That’s great?”

  “Sure is, Chase. More publicity is what we’re after. But there’s only one problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Watch,” he said and pushed play on a remote. The television mounted on the wall turned on and the video of my interview after last Friday’s game played.

  “Oh no,” I said, watching. It was worse than I imagined. Yeah, the Eagles, this um …I’m real real proud…is the good…hard we’ve plays …okay… What on earth had I been trying to say? Too much blinking and mumbling, not enough complete sentences. I may have also invented a few new words.

  “You see the problem?”

  “Ugh,” I groaned. “Sorry about that.”

  “It’s not nine in the morning yet and I’ve already taken calls from three boosters wondering if our quarterback is an idiot,” he said, indicating the bumbling moron on screen. He didn’t exactly ask me a question, so I remained silent. “That’s not just you up there. You represent your whole team. You represent your whole school. Hell, you represent the whole community.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And now we all look like a bunch of jackasses.”

  “Sorry sir.”

  “So here’s what we’re going to do,” he sighed. “I’m not letting a reporter near you until you’ve practiced. You remember that Teresa Triplett interview before the season started?”

  “I do.”

  “That was not bad. You were prepared. So I’m going to help you prepare, get you some Question and Answer practice sheets. Okay? In the meantime, ask Andy Babington for advice. He’s good at this kind of crap, and he’d be happy to help.”

  Fat chance of that.

  My worn-out brain operated on autopilot as I entered the noisy cafeteria and sat beside Lee and Cory without looking at them.

  “You okay, bro? You look ugly.”

  “Thanks, Lee,” I said, and I started munching on an apple.

  “Hey, quarterback,” a lyrical voice floated over us and a blonde high school angel sat down next to me. I didn’t know if the appearance of archangel Gabriel himself could have shocked Cory and Lee as much as Hannah Walker did.

  Hannah Walker is not just pretty. She’s famous for being pretty. In middle school, she had been used as a model for kid’s jeans in a nationwide catalogue. Last year, she had modeled junior swimsuits, which was strange because the swimsuits are aimed at thirteen year olds but she was sixteen then and could pass for eighteen. During a summer concert festival, she had been pulled up onstage by the lead singer and she’d danced in front of the thirty thousand fans.

  So when she sat down at our table Cory and Lee understandably freaked, being in the presence of a much-admired high school celebrity. She wore a short skirt that shattered the dress code. Had the teachers not even looked at her?

  “Hello cheerleader,” I said.

  “Cheerleader Captain,” she corrected me with a smile. “Good morning Cory. Good game on Friday,” she said.

  The big, calm mountain of a junior named Cory appeared so impressed Hannah knew his name that he could do nothing but nod to her.

  “I’m Hannah,” she said, introducing herself to Lee who managed to say, “I know,” before being reduced to staring at her. She turned to me and said, “Did you get my text Saturday night?”

  “I did,” I said.

  “And you’re too cool to reply?” she said, poking me in the ribs. She liked to do that.

  I frowned in thought. How odd. I’d never texted her back. Katie was right; I’m awful at communicating.

  “Sorry,” I said lamely.

  “We have a test coming up on Mark Twain,” she said. “When shall we study? You can’t let your grades slip or your coach will cut your playing time.”

  “Tomorrow during lunch?”

  “How about Wednesday after practice?”

  “On Wednesday I have to…” I started to say on Wednesdays I had to take Dad to his doctor’s appointment, but he’d canceled it due to lack of funds. We were broke. “…actually, I suppose Wednesday will be fine.”

  “Good. See you in English,” she said and left.

  Lee watched her go and said, “Bro. That was awesome.”

  That night, Dad had another seizure, and that was the final straw. He needed to see a doctor.

  I was going to get the lost locket and claim the five hundred dollar reward.

  To avoid entanglements I was going to return it anonymously. I didn’t want Erica or Hannah to become aware of who’d gotten the locket back for her. Luckily, I had a second phone so Erica wouldn’t see my name on her caller ID. I took out Natalie North’s phone and texted Erica, Hannah’s friend who lost the ruby necklace.

  I think I know who stole your ruby necklace. If you’re serious about the $500 reward then I will attempt retrieving it.

  The reply was almost immediate.

  >> YES!! Who is this?!?! Do I know u?? Please get it back! Pleasepleaseplease!!

  I’ll be in touch, and then I turned Natalie’s phone off and waited. And waited. And waited, letting the hands on the clock burn off two hours. As I killed time, I pondered my motives for heading back to that house. The first time I’d gone because of Katie, but that had been an expedition of pride. Tonight’s adventure was out of necessity, because of family.

  Finally. Almost midnight. Time to go to work.

  It had been a draining day at school and after classes I had practice and after that I’d skipped dinner to help Dad work with a medicine ball and after that I’d done my homework and after that I’d worked on my interviewing skills and after that Dad had a seizure, and now I was a physical and mental wreck. But five hundred dollars is five hundred dollars. If I didn’t get some money somehow I’d have to quit football and get a job.

  I unearthed the same outfit as last time: black pants and shirt, ski mask, bandana, black gloves. I motored down the interstate to the same church parking lot and climbed out to the same city noise, feeling the same sense of clumsy ridiculousness as I had the last adventure. Using the same shadows, I darted to the same back alley.

  I tied my mask on.

  The inner Outlaw awoke.

  Chase Jackson’s fear and worries melted in the fierce anger of the Outlaw. The mask thrust me into euphoria and fury. I ran faster. I felt bigger. I wanted to howl and wake the neighborhood! I could barely think above the rush of blood and adrenaline. Even though I knew the sense of invulnerability was a mental gimmick, just a wave of emotion, I abandoned myself to the wild carefree power. I was invisible, a whisper in the dark. I belong to the night and I am the dominant force within it. I didn’t crunch across the gravel because I skimmed above the earth.

  I didn’t hesitate when I reached the familiar backyard. I flew over the fence and paused long e
nough at the rear window to confirm the house looked empty. No pit bull waited for me. Perhaps I’d killed the beast. No remorse.

  The stolen merchandise was gone from the couch, as I’d knew it would be. My hopes were pinned on finding the stash in a more permanent location within the house, probably upstairs or in the basement. Just to be safe I listened for a long time, like a specter in a mausoleum. Silence. No noises upstairs. I ascended the second floor. The staircase ended in a hallway that ran the length of the house, off of which a bathroom and three bedrooms sat. Empty. No one here. Despite my solitude, I winced at each floor creak.

  In the third bedroom I hit the jackpot. Three old wooden desks had been pushed together and treasure of stolen goods was arranged on top. At least I assumed they were stolen. Watches and rings and necklaces and phones and wallets and purses appeared to have been meticulously categorized and labeled with dates and prices, and the phones were labeled with telephone numbers. Begrudgingly, I was impressed by the careful attention to detail that I wouldn’t have expected from a small-time thug. Even the handwriting on the tags was elegant. These thieves were more enterprising than I’d assumed. I guesstimated twenty phones, ten tablets, twenty wallets and purses, and more jewelry than I could count.

  There! A ruby locket necklace. The tag was dated three weeks ago and the necklace was valued at three hundred dollars. Not to me! To me it was worth five hundred.

  But what about the rest? Could I make a small fortune returning the rest to the proper owners? No. That wouldn’t be right, that’s exactly how the criminals made their money. I wasn’t extorting Erica, I was providing a service. Right?

  I put the locket in my pocket and surveyed the loot. Maybe I should haul as much as I could carry home with me and return it for free on Craigslist? An easier solution would be to simply alert the police. Or maybe I should quit pretending to be a hero and get the heck out of here.

  I was still frowning at the tables when voices began approaching the house. They sounded like the voices of trouble-makers. Arrogant and probably drunk. I detected at least three or four distinct guys talking, and underneath it all I heard a deep rumbling laugh. I recognize that laugh. From where? How do I know that sound?