Narc

by Crissa-Jean Chappell

  “I received a phone call around two-thirty in the morning,” the cop said. “No message. Just a lot of background noise. Can you verify this?”

  He sounded agitated. Not a good sign. I wasn’t supposed to call unless there was a real emergency. Our weekly meetings off-site were our only source of contact.

  I called back and made up a lie about leaving the phone in my pocket, how it must’ve gone off by itself. Pretty lame, I know.

  “Don’t let it happen again,” he said.

  “It won’t,” I said before hanging up.

  The Narcotics team wasn’t the only one looking for me. Haylie must’ve sent a million text messages. By now, Mom was probably coming home from her shift at the hospital. The student nurses always got stuck with the worst “rotations.” I didn’t think about it much, but Mom’s version of school was crappier than mine.

  I texted Haylie our little secret message: OLA KALA. In Greek, it means, “everything’s okay.” That’s what Dad used to tell us.

  Haylie: Are you dead?

  Me: Not yet.

  Haylie: Liar.

  Me: Slept at friend’s house.

  Haylie: GIRL friend?

  Me: Something like that.

  Haylie: !!!!!

  Me: Cover for me. Please?

  Haylie: OK. But what do I get?

  Me: Driving lessons.

  Haylie: Deal.

  In the sun-drenched kitchen, the smell of pancakes hit me. My stomach tightened. I could see my reflection in every gleaming appliance, from the stainless-steel fridge to the stove, which looked brand-new, as if nobody had ever used it.

  Sheryl pulled out a chair. “Sit.”

  I plunked myself down at the table. For some reason, I couldn’t stop scratching my ankles. When I peeled back my sock, the skin looked bumpy and swollen.

  “Are the mosquitoes biting?” Sheryl asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ve got this weird rash.”

  She checked it out. “You must be allergic to mangoes.”

  “What?”

  “The trees in the front yard. I’ve been begging Dave to cut them down. The leaves give me a rash if I touch them. Did you know that mangoes are related to poison ivy?”

  She peeked inside the oven, which was crammed with Tupperware. “I was going to make bacon but I can’t find the frying pan,” she said, looking a little flushed. She opened the microwave and thrust a plate in front of me.

  “Butter or syrup?” she asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  She laughed.

  My mom wasn’t big on anything “instant,” which included pancakes that came ready-made in little plastic pouches. They were rock-cold on one side and scalded on the other, but I grabbed a fork and dug in.

  Sheryl sat down across from me. “You live where?”

  “Downtown,” I said between mouthfuls.

  “That’s a long way to drive.”

  “My mom didn’t like the schools in our area.”

  She nodded. “Morgan wanted to switch last year. She had such a hard time. Teenage girls can be brutal.”

  “Sheryl. Oh, my god,” said Morgan, strolling into the kitchen with a towel wrapped around her head. “Please stop. Now.”

  “Fix yourself up,” said her stepmom. “I’m talking to … what did you say your name was?”

  “Aaron.”

  “Would you two like to explain something to me?” her stepmom asked.

  Morgan looked at the floor. “What’s that?”

  “The car,” said Sheryl.

  “What about the car?” said Morgan, still avoiding her stepmom’s glance.

  “It’s scratched, young lady. And guess who’s going to pay for the repair?”

  Morgan shrugged. “Dad will fix it when he gets back.”

  “This is your responsibility.”

  “How do you know it’s my fault?” she said, almost shrieking.

  “It was me,” I said.

  They both stared.

  “I was the one driving. It’s my fault. I’ll pay for it. I promise.”

  Sheryl glared at Morgan. “You let this boy drive your father’s car?”

  Oops.

  “Come here,” her stepmom said. “Let’s have a little chat, shall we?”

  I’d heard that one before.

  Morgan and her stepmom headed outside. The front door slammed and my glass of orange juice trembled. Behind the door, I caught Sheryl’s voice rising.

  “You don’t even know this boy,” she said.

  “He’s just a friend,” Morgan shot back.

  Ouch. The f-word. God. Is that how she saw me?

  “He’s hiding something,” her stepmom hissed. “He said his father was in Iran. Didn’t he mean Iraq?”

  My dad was taking pictures, not fighting a war. That was his job—observe from a distance. Why was that so hard to understand? I should’ve made up a lie. Then maybe she’d believe me.

  Morgan’s voice cut in. “Give him a break, Sheryl.”

  “That boy just tried to sell me a string of lies.”

  Could people see through me that easily? I was starting to freak now.

  “How long have you known him?” Sheryl went on.

  “God. I feel like I’m on trial or something. He goes to my school, okay? We never really talked before. I don’t know why.”

  I’m human wallpaper. And I’m not on your social level. That’s why.

  “This is your senior year,” Sheryl said. “Not the time to be making bad decisions.”

  “Decisions? You mean I actually get a choice? I thought my life was already decided for me. Community college. And, if I’m lucky, a job selling life insurance or whatever.”

  “Honey, I know you had your heart set on art school. But I really don’t see how drawing pretty pictures is going to get you anywhere.”

  “Yeah. Like dance was a logical career option.”

  “You used to love your ballet studio.”

  “Actually, I hated it. Don’t you remember? I begged you to take me out of those classes, and you kept making me do it, year after year. Even when I got sick … ”

  “Let’s not talk about it. You’re healthy now. That’s all that matters.”

  This didn’t sound like the usual school drama. More like family stuff. God. My mom got on my nerves sometimes, but she was the total opposite of Morgan’s freaky stepmother. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  Sheryl came back with Morgan and said, “Let’s get your friend home. Where did you say you lived?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Downtown. Isn’t that what you said?”

  I didn’t want Morgan to know that I lived in a shitty apartment in Wynwood. It was too embarrassing.

  “You can just drop me off at the Metrorail.”

  “Actually, I was going to swing by Lincoln Road,” said Sheryl, “so it’s really not a problem, stopping downtown. No trouble at all.” She flashed her teeth at me.

  I winced and smiled back. “Can I have another plate first?”

  I shouldn’t have wolfed down that second helping. My stomach burned like venom as we barreled down the expressway. I sat up front with Sheryl, who knew the words to every hit on the Top 40 countdown and sang along. Loudly. I rubbed my thumb, like Haylie mentioned, but I couldn’t shake the stabbing behind my eyes.

  “So what’s it like, growing up on a military base?” Sheryl asked me.

  “Pretty much the same, everywhere you go.”

  Morgan said, “I thought you lived in another country? That’s what you told me, right?”

  Yeah, that’s what I told her. I’d totally forgotten about that stupid lie. Now I was backpedaling. Again.

/>   “I don’t remember much about it. I mean, I was too little,” I stammered. “It was kind of a long time ago.”

  Rain needled down the windshield. Soon we were plowing through a downpour.

  “Where now?” asked Sheryl.

  “Stay on ninety-five north,” I said.

  Skyscrapers gleamed along the horizon. I watched the above-ground train, the Metromover, snake over the Miami River.

  Sheryl swerved into the exit lane. “Turn off here, right?”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  A car let out a long, lingering honk.

  “What the hell, Sheryl?” said Morgan.

  “Watch your mouth, young lady.” Sheryl flipped off the driver behind them, inciting another round of honks.

  We rolled past South Miami Avenue, the tail end of Little Havana, otherwise known as Calle Ocho: boxy apartments with Xed-out windows, as if masking tape could hold against a hurricane.

  “Aaron,” said Sheryl. “Keep me honest. Are we going the right way?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, slipping a finger inside my sock.

  She hit the gas and we rattled over the potholes. At the end of the block, cars streamed around Burger King. A poster of a cartoon dog said Perro Perdido in bold-faced Spanish.

  “This is a long way to commute,” she said.

  “A long way,” Morgan agreed.

  We inched through a traffic jam at the Brickell Bridge, which had split open to let a tugboat pass beneath it. Rain sprayed off the statue at the base—some dead guy pointing a bow and arrow.

  “Look at all this construction,” said Sheryl, as if she’d never driven here before. Maybe she hadn’t.

  By the time we reached my shitty neighborhood, Sheryl had locked the doors and windows. Biscayne Boulevard didn’t look any safer in the daylight.

  “Check out that crappy building. The paint is flaking like a sunburn,” said Morgan, pointing at my apartment.

  “It’s not that crappy,” I said.

  As we braked at the intersection, a bum with a Tommy Hilfiger umbrella stumbled into traffic. Two trucks and an SUV swerved around him, blaring their horns, but he just punched his fists at them. I felt bad for the guy. Everybody ignored him, like he was invisible or something. I knew exactly what that was like.

  “Turn,” I told Sheryl.

  “Now?” she said, blinking.

  “Make a left.”

  The bum stalked toward my window and thrust a bouquet of palm fronds at me. Their tips had been braided into weird shapes: grasshoppers and rosebuds. I shook my head. He lurched to the other side of the car.

  “No, no.” Sheryl hit the wipers. The bum yelped and wobbled backward, clutching his thumb. He burned his gaze into mine, a look of pure rage.

  “Shit,” I said.

  In one quick motion, he grabbed the wiper blade and tugged.

  Sheryl slammed her fist on the horn. “Get away from my car.”

  The wiper snapped like a turkey bone. The bum just stood there, gawking at it. Then he chucked it into the street.

  The light still hadn’t turned, but Sheryl pumped the gas and we squealed around the corner.

  “There’s a cop behind us,” said Morgan.

  “I see him,” said Sheryl.

  We passed a string of pawnshops, Big Daddy’s Bail Bonds, and an abandoned car wash. When we bumped across the train tracks, I looked for a house that might qualify as “family friendly.” I only saw wooden shacks, doomed for the bulldozer.

  “Are we coming up on your place?” asked Sheryl.

  I pinned my gaze to the window. “Yeah. Almost.”

  The houses were choked by fences and barbed wire. That wasn’t going to help. Despite the smell of desperation—sofas rotting on the front porch, laundry flapping in the rain—satellite dishes were bolted to every roof.

  I spotted a house with a chain link gate, swung open. No cars out front.

  “There,” I said.

  Sheryl pulled up to the sidewalk and parked. “Honey, can you pass Aaron an umbrella from the backseat?”

  Morgan handed me an umbrella with a duck’s head on the handle. I got out and fumbled with the lever. When I finally popped it open, I was already soaked. Morgan got out, too. There was a diaper in the road, smothered in something that resembled hay. I kicked it to the side.

  “That’s so freaking gross,” Morgan said, scooting next to me. “I’m going to throw up.”

  “The neighbor’s dog messes with our garbage,” I said as we walked toward the door. Was she going to follow me the entire way?

  “Whose baby?” she asked.

  “What?” I caught the glow of a television blinking in the window. Either they left the TV on or somebody was home. “Oh, the diaper? I don’t know where it came from. Next door, probably.”

  We looked at each other.

  Morgan said, “Aren’t you going inside?”

  “My mom’s probably freaking out. It’s going to be ugly,” I told her.

  “Okay,” she said. At that moment, I thought she was onto me, but she turned and marched back to the car, leaving me in the drizzle. I watched her hop into the front seat. The car still didn’t leave. I waved. Sheryl cracked the window and wiggled her fingers at me.

  I ducked around the side of the house, praying nobody saw me standing on the doorstep like one of those freaky Bible salesmen, the dudes in the dark suits who used to pedal through my neighborhood, two by two, on bikes.

  The yard was a wreck. A deflated kiddy pool was crumpled in the weeds, along with a plastic slide. Next door, a dog yapped behind a plywood fence, setting off yips and howls across the block.

  Something pressed into the back of my leg. I spun around. A small boy stood in the rain, clutching a toy gun. He pointed it at me.

  “What have you got there?” I said, reaching for it.

  The kid took aim, making shoot ’em up noises with his mouth. I tried to scoot past him, but he wouldn’t move. I smacked his hand and the gun soared into the grass. As the kid bounded after it, I took off running.

  I cut through the neighbor’s yard, ducking under a clothesline. A pregnant woman was pacing in the driveway. She was talking rapid-fire into a cell phone, holding a dinky umbrella over her head. How stupid was this? I was running like a god damned fugitive in an episode of Cops.

  I kept sprinting. As I ran, I got a glimpse of other

  people’s Sunday afternoons: the smell of laundry detergent, smoky meat roasting on the grill, portable radios pumping out salsa and reggaeton.

  When I got to the Shell station on the corner, the rain had stopped. I crossed the street and followed the gleaming train tracks near the apartment. The rails glinted silver in the sunlight. I hunched down and pressed my ear against warm steel, listening for wheels that had already come and gone.

  9 : Sweet

  The next day, after driving through what felt like miles of swampland, I found the abandoned missile site near Krome Detention Center, on the edge of civilization. A concrete guard shack jutted above the sawgrass. I parked behind it, got out, and crunched through mounds of paintball shells the color of melted crayons.

  The cop was waiting near the trenches. Guess that’s where they used to launch rockets. Who knew?

  “Let’s head inside,” he said.

  I didn’t want to go in there, but I followed him down a hallway that reeked of piss. The empty room was studded with exhaust vents. Sunlight squeezed through the holes like windows on a ship.

  I opened my mouth and the words tumbled out.

  I told him about Skully. “She’s basically living by herself at this point. Her parents don’t even live in the same house, so it’s the perfect place to party. Besides, she’s desperate for friends, so all kinds of people just hang out there.”
>
  “Did you witness any drug transactions in the house?” the cop asked.

  I stared at the razor cuts on his head. “Not really.”

  “What do you mean, ‘not really’?”

  I thought about Morgan, all the cards and pictures on her bulletin board. I couldn’t do this to her. I just couldn’t. So I said, “There was some stuff in the kitchen.”

  “Stuff? Could you be a little more specific?”

  He was losing patience with me. I took another breath. “There was a scale.”

  “A scale?”

  “You know. Like for measuring.”

  “What else?”

  “Well, obviously there was weed there.”

  “Enough to justify a search warrant?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  The cop got up in my space. He was spitting all over me. “What exactly did you see?”

  “It was a party, okay? People were smoking. That’s all I saw.”

  He wasn’t buying it. “That’s all?”

  In the distance, I heard the pow-pow-pow of paintball ammo. I wanted to bust out of there and join the players in the fields, fighting wars where nobody wins or loses. At the end of the day, everyone just gives up and goes home.

  The cop leaned closer. “Listen to me and listen good. You need to get close to these kids, reel them in and earn their trust. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any idea who’s the shot caller?” he asked.

  I shrugged.

  “So you’re at this party and you talk to nobody … not a single person … ” He trailed off. “What were you doing? Hiding in the bathroom?”

  It stung, that little comment. I fell right into his trap. “This girl, Morgan. She was selling.”

  “Okay. What exactly did you see?”

  He waited for me to continue. When I kept quiet, he said, “I don’t need to remind you how much your cooperation means. We must help each other.”

  I help you. You help me.

  The cop scratched his chin. “You’re protecting her, aren’t you?”

  True. I was trying to protect everyone: The girls. My family. My own sorry ass.

  A slow smile crept across his face. “Okay. Let’s cut the bullshit. Protecting her isn’t going to do you any good.”