The Outlaw: No Heroes

by Alan Janney

  “It’s not nothing,” I replied. “You’re not yourself.”

  “Come with me to the party, Chase,” she said, straightening.

  “The party?” I yawned. “Aren’t you tired?”

  “I can’t sleep,” she said. “Follow me.”

  Without another word, she climbed into her sports car, gunned it, and roared off. I had no choice but to race after her, my Toyota whining with the strain. At her house, she dashed inside with her bags, and returned in less than a minute wearing a skirt and button-up shirt.

  “It’s just around the block,” she said and she grabbed my hand without breaking stride. “Let’s walk.”

  She pointed to the houses we strolled past and told me what the owners did for a living. Mr. Lawrence was an energy broker. Mr. and Mrs. Meyers owned over thirty fast food restaurants, which was gross. Dr. Carlson was a plastic surgeon, but not a good one. Mrs. Wilkens was in the midst of a divorce and would have to sell the house soon. Despite the late hour, her neighborhood felt like the safest place on earth.

  The party was raging when we arrived. The music could be heard four houses away and party-goers spilled onto the front and back lawns of the expansive mansion. We were hailed as we approached. Well, Hannah was hailed and soon after I was noticed and congratulated.

  Hannah can turn her charm on like turning on a lamp. She glowed and laughed on cue, but then, unobserved, she returned to her uncharacteristic gloom. We circulated through the entire celebration and joined in various stages of revelry, and she fooled them all. Her ruse was convincing and complete, and the notion occurred to me that she might have used the bubbly mask on me in the past. The only indication she didn’t feel like herself was that she stayed behind me for the entirety of our visit. She clutched my hand and hovered just behind my shoulder, allowing me to lead through the merry-making.

  We stayed for an hour of socializing. Near the end, I turned to ask her a question. She had a red plastic cup in her hand. I peered into it. Beer, and she had almost drained the cup. She smiled at me sheepishly with traces of rebellion in her eyes.

  “Did you just drink all that? Where’d you get it from?” I asked.

  “Someone,” she said.

  I pried it out of her hands and said, “What happened to that speech you gave me last time? We’re too valuable to ruin? Our future is too important?”

  “I forgot,” she said, and her voice hovered on the verge of breaking. The corners of her mouth turned down and her lower lip trembled. “Let’s go. Please?”

  We walked out of the party, waving, and smiling. Her charade was complete. We slowly left the light and heat of the party in our wake, and as we returned to her home she listed closer and closer to me.

  “I’m sorry, Chase,” she said as her house came into view.

  “For what?”

  “For acting differently. I’m not sure what came over me. I’m feeling better now.”

  “I’m very glad. What changed? Why are you feeling better?”

  “I don’t know,” she said and she gave my hand a fierce squeeze between both of hers. “I’m sorry for drinking, too. That was stupid. I know better than that. Drinking has no place in my plans.”

  “Are you buzzed?” I grinned. “You keep walking into me.”

  “I’m doing that on purpose,” she said mischievously. “You don’t drink. Do you?”

  “I don’t. I can’t even stand the smell.”

  “Oh no,” she said, and she put her hand over her mouth. “Do I smell like alcohol?”

  “No, you don’t,” I said and stopped beside my car. “But it’s a good thing you don’t have to drive home like I do.”

  And then she was kissing me. She rocketed into my arms, pinning me against the Toyota’s windows and keeping her mouth pressed tightly against mine. She kissed me hungrily, desperately, and when she pulled back her chest was heaving with exertion.

  “Do you think you should come in and we should make out?” she asked in a tone of voice I’d never heard.

  “We’d be fools not to,” I replied, all sense of reason lost.

  She pulled me hastily up her sidewalk, through the front door and into a spacious foyer. She tugged me into another embrace before I could marvel at the extensive lavish den. The lights were off and we bumped into the couch. Her hands went into my hair and her teeth grazed my lip.

  This is what I always assumed couples do!

  “You asked about the benefits to our relationship,” she said in a husky voice. “Is this not what you wanted? Is this not what all guys want?” Then we were kissing again. I had no idea where to put my hands. I was lost. She wasn’t acting like herself. This felt…off. Something was wrong.

  After an interminable and passionate moment, she pulled away. I started to follow until she began to unbutton her shirt, which slid off her shoulders and landed on the ground. Whoa. That’s what I always assumed couples do later. Much later. The tenuous, ambient light in the room only caught strands of her tawny hair, dark blue straps running over her shoulders, and the edges of her face and figure.

  “Hannah…I’m not sure…” I breathed and a thousand different words got congested and refused to come out. Are you sure you should take your clothes off? Are you sure we’re ready? Because I’m about to hyperventilate. Did I give you the impression you had to do this? I’ve never done this before. Maybe we shouldn’t. I’m getting dizzy. I can’t concentrate. Was Katie doing this with guys? I hated that idea.

  She watched me brazenly, an almost wicked smile on her face. This wasn’t Hannah, the sweet responsible girl I knew. This was something else. She purred, “Aren’t you tired of being told what to do by parents who can’t even keep their own life in order? Haven’t you been told that we’re too young for this?”

  “This doesn’t sound like you,” I said. “What if we get caught?”

  “Good,” she said defiantly. “I hope we do.”

  “I can’t get caught like this by your parents,” I protested but it came out weakly. I was fighting an uphill battle against hormones.

  “Let’s be irresponsible,” she cooed and she folded her body lithely onto the couch. She deliberately laid out her arms to the side and crossed her legs. “You’re male, and this is what you want,” she said. “If our parents can do it, why can’t we?”

  Our lips touched again. A shiver ran through her, an emotional seismic event. It wasn’t love or happiness or anything good. Within her quaking I sensed more than just arousal. The shiver revealed her, a hint that unmasked her pain. She had fooled me. She was pretending, like she had at the party. Within her trembling there was loneliness and heartbreak.

  I called upon every reserve of will power and self-control I could muster and I stopped. She watched me, searchingly. Before I could explain, something crashed above us, on the floor of the second story. It sounded like glass.

  I turned but she grabbed my hand.

  “It’s just my mom,” she said.

  “You think she’s okay? Sounded bad.”

  “It’s fine. She’s been doing it all day.”

  She saw that her spell had been broken. I wasn’t looking at her lustfully, but rather with concern. Her face altered, transitioning from seduction to hurt to spite.

  “This is why I haven’t tried anything with you, Chase,” she scoffed, pulling away from me. “Because you’re not a man yet. You don’t know what to do with me.”

  “It’s not that,” I started.

  “You’re garbage, Chase. You’re worried about my mother?” she spit, her voice lashing like a whip. “Shall we go see her?? I throw myself at you, and you want to explore the house instead?” Her body, which she had put on display, seemed to curl defensively. “I don’t know why I bother.”

  “Hannah,” I said, lowering beside her, flabbergasted. “What is wrong? You’ve been sad all night.”

  “I’m not sad, you prick,” she practically snarled. “Don’t pity me. I’m embarrassed. Embarrassed I offered myself to you, my loser boy
friend.”

  “This is not you,” I floundered. “This is your emotions talking. And the beer, maybe. What’s going on?”

  “You want to know what’s wrong?”

  “Very much.”

  “She’s the third one,” she said and her voice caught.

  “Who is the third what?”

  “My dad is having an affair. With his third straight receptionist. And you don’t even want me.” She wilted and started to weep. Deep, choking sobs which broke my heart.

  “Oh no,” I said. “Hannah…”

  “His third straight receptionist,” she repeated between gasps. “Misty Starr. How ridiculous is that name?” She tried to wipe her eyes with the blanket but despair overcame her and she started crying again. She resisted my consoling, crawling away instead of closer. I tried giving her time, giving her space, touching her, talking with her, but she grew more resolutely distanced. “Chase,” she said. “You rejected me. You’re trash. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to think. You don’t know anything. Just shut up. Just leave.”

  I didn’t leave, but I did shut up. I simply sat beside her, there if she needed me. Eventually she twisted on the couch so she could bury her face in my leg and cry.

  Chapter Thirty

  Monday, October 22. 2017

  Dad and I pushed the Toyota to its limits as we hurtled across town to make his appointment on time. He only grunted responses to my questions. It was almost like I cared more about his health than he did.

  I paid the receptionist for this visit and for the next three. Obviously she didn’t usually receive this large a payment in cash and she regarded me suspiciously. Dad and I waited in the reception area until a big physical therapist assistant came to get him. He was a young black guy that looked like he probably played football in college and majored in physical therapy or sports medicine.

  “Can I go too?” I asked.

  “Sure!” he smiled, and I trotted along behind them.

  “Why?” Dad asked me.

  “So I can watch and learn,” I replied. “And then help at home.”

  “Great idea,” Jake (the PTA) smiled.

  “Fine,” Dad relented. “Probably a good idea.” If we kept up the work on his neck, back and shoulders then in a few months he might be as good as new. His old job on the police force was waiting for him.

  The physical therapy room, which Jake referred to as The Gym, was big and impressive. The Gym had ramps, stairs, big inflated balls, heavy workout bags, straps, cords, various machines that did who knows what, weights, mats, and more. Jake put Dad through drills that concentrated on the connections between his brain and his limbs. Dad had to concentrate to make his body respond accordingly, almost like he had to make his muscles remember it was their turn. They also worked on agility, dexterity, and muscle building. I liked Jake a lot.

  “Hey Chase,” Jake said during a break. “I read about you in the paper.”

  “Oh yeah. I forgot about that,” I said. “I never read the article. It came out Friday, right?”

  “Yep, Friday. You’re having a heck of a year, man.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “You know, the paper is over there on that desk, if you want to read the article.”

  “Actually,” I said, and I rose to go get it. “I do. Thanks.” I pulled out Friday’s sports section from the pile of newspapers and flipped through until I found the article about me.

  And I almost dropped the newspaper. The article about me took up the bottom half of the page. The top half of the page was about the defensive player from Patrick Henry, our rival. There was a photograph of me inserted in the bottom article, and on the top article there was a corresponding photograph of the Patrick Henry player.

  The top photograph was unmistakably a picture of Tank.

  The Tank.

  The title of the article read Tank Ware Sacks the Competition. Tank was in high school!? And his real name is Tank!?

  Junior Tank Ware knows he’s being predicted as the number one recruit in America next year, and not just among linebackers. But if you ask him about it he’ll just modestly shrug and say, “I don’t think about it. One day at a time.” In other words, he’s only thinking about the current season, the next game, the next sack, and he’s had plenty of those. Tank is a gigantic kid. He is 6’7, weighs 290, bench presses 400 pounds, and runs the forty-yard dash in 4.6 seconds. Those stats are better than many NFL players. Barring injury, he’ll shatter the state record for sacks in a single season. “Tank is a man among boys,” says his head coach, Heith Wells. “And he’s only a junior. During his senior season in high school he’ll be larger, faster and stronger than most college players.” Tank Ware plays for Patrick Henry High, a Los Angeles school typically defined by students coming from low socioeconomic households. Tank’s family, however, is anything but poor. His parents are real estate moguls, owning both a realty company and rental properties. Tank even buys some real estate of his own, with parental approval, out of his trust fund, but declines to talk about his investments. Tank attended a private prep school until his body swelled in size large enough to help a football team win a championship, at which point he petitioned his parents for a transfer. Since then he’s been a one-man wrecking crew. Tank is already drawing comparisons to NFL stars, such as Lawrence Taylor and Ray Lewis. Just don’t tell him that. “Don’t tell me, I don’t want to hear it. I might lose my fire.” Don’t count on it.

  I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t absorb it. I read it again and again. He’s a kid. He’s rich. He’s just a rich kid? He’s just a rich kid threatening Katie, possibly the most important person in my life. And he and I are scheduled to play each other in two weeks.

  Through my fog of disbelief, I belatedly recognized my name being called over and over.

  “Chase?”

  “Chase?”

  “Yes? What?” I asked, blinking. I’d forgotten my whereabouts.

  “You okay, man?” Jake asked. Dad stood behind him, frowning.

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “You look like you’re going to be sick. You need to lie down?”

  “No,” I said. “No, I’m good. I think. Can I have this newspaper?” My head had begun to pound.

  I paced my bedroom. The newspaper lay open on the bed. I’d stop every few minutes, read the article and start pacing again. For weeks I’d been wondering who Tank was and now that I knew…what good did that do me? I could probably dig enough to determine where he lived but then what? Ring his doorbell? Tattle on him to his mom?

  I paused. Maybe I should do that.

  But I couldn’t prove anything. Any witnesses I could name wouldn’t snitch on him. I had no determinate visual proof. I had no taped confession. I had nothing. Nor could I just go beat him up, for two reasons. One, I wasn’t a vigilante. Two, he was bigger, faster, and stronger than me.

  The pink phone on my nightstand buzzed. A new text from Natalie North.

  >> When are you coming over again? This time, I won’t invite anyone else! I’m going to be on Conan next Tuesday. Watch!!

  I didn’t respond. Life had grown too bizarre. It had escalated out of hand. I missed the simpler days.

  On a whim, I called Katie.

  “Hi Chase,” she said. “You’re up late.”

  “You too. Did I wake you up?”

  “Nope,” she yawned. “I’m watching the news.”

  “Oh no,” I said, pretending to sound worried. “Not another Outlaw sighting?”

  “I wish. In fact, there hasn’t been a protest or violent riot since last week, after he saved the Latino kid.”

  “Black kid,” I corrected her.

  “That’s right. Black.”

  “Maybe he can retire, now that the city is cooling off?”

  “I hope not,” she said. “I’d miss him. Plus, that illegal immigrant law is still being enforced. It’s only a matter of time before there’s another uprising.”

  “Nah. We’re all going to live in harmony
now.”

  “You’re so weird. How’s Hannah?”

  “Hannah’s…Hannah is…” She hadn’t returned my texts since Friday night. We had parted on very awkward terms. I’m terrible at relationships, absolutely dreadful. I knew I’d messed up Friday night, but I didn’t know how. “She is sad. But she doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  “Do you know why she’s sad?”

  “Yeah. An issue with her parents. But she got angry when I asked about it.”

  “How’d you ask?”

  “I don’t know,” I sighed. “The wrong way. I’m awful at this.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re a boy.”

  “I’m glad you finally noticed,” I smiled. “I flex all Spanish class, every day, and you finally noticed I’m a boy.”

  “I notice,” Katie said after a slight hesitation. “But I try not to.”

  “I wish you’d noticed before I got a girlfriend,” I said. I was tired, and I dropped my guard, and the truth came tumbling out. Whoops.

  “Chase!” she laughed.

  “Sorry!” I groaned, and I hit the phone against my head a couple times. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  “Then how did you mean it?”

  “I can’t talk about this,” I said. “I have a girlfriend. I have to go.”

  “Wait!”

  “…what?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Just don’t hang up. Why’d you call me in the first place?

  I didn’t know what to say. So I said nothing.

  “Get her flowers,” Katie said finally.

  “Get who flowers?”

  “Your girlfriend, sweetie. What’s her favorite flower?”

  “I have no idea. You love tulips, right?” I asked.

  “You remembered! You’re so sweet.”

  “Maybe she likes tulips?”

  “Maybe. Are there any pictures of flowers in her room?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about on Twitter? SnapChat? Oooh, what about Instagram? She’s probably taken pictures of flowers on Instagram.”

  “I haven’t looked at many of her pictures,” I admitted.

  “You really are a horrible boyfriend.”