Crazy Dangerous

by Andrew Klavan

  Brain. Pain. Windowpane.

  Something terrible is going to happen. Soon. Sunday.

  Run, Jennifer!

  The voice spoke again, loudly, right beside her, and almost before Jennifer knew what she was doing, she had seized the rope that worked the venetian blinds and yanked it down, drawing the blinds up to expose the window. The window lock was easy to work, even with her fingers trembling. Then the window was open wide.

  Jennifer started climbing out. Her heart pounded in her chest so hard she thought it would explode. Any moment, she thought, the doctor would come back in and catch her and call the demons to put her in a straitjacket and take her away so they could cut her brain out. She knew her mother would tell her that was a crazy thought, that she shouldn’t have thoughts like that . . .

  But maybe that was because her mother was one of them.

  All this flashed through her mind so fast she hardly knew what was a fantasy and what was real. She just knew that something terrible was going to happen and she had to get out, she had to escape, she had to run, run, run away.

  And so that’s exactly what she did.

  12

  Track Day

  That Saturday we had the first track meet of the year. Sawnee High running against Ondaga and Hamilton.

  Meet days were always big days in our town. Other sports like football and soccer were popular enough, but track meets were something special. For some reason, our little section of the state held three state-champion schools: Sawnee, Empire, and Cole. The rivalry between them was intense and everyone paid attention. And because everyone followed the team, the town had built this really cool track-slash-soccer stadium—Sawnee Stadium—out by the river. Every Saturday of the season, before the meet started, the road—Stadium Road—would be packed with traffic, a long line of cars waiting to get through the gates. Next to the road there were woods, and on the other side of the woods there was a big parking lot. And on the other side of the parking lot, there was the river sparkling in the sun and a grassy slope by the banks where people could spread blankets and have picnics before the meet.

  Beside the slope was the stadium itself. It looked like an ancient temple or something, only made of red brick instead of white marble: brick pillars between tall, arched entranceways and a brick tower flanking the pillars on either side.

  By 10:00 a.m., big crowds of people were filing in between the pillars. The flags of the school were flying on top of the walls and fluttering in the high spring wind. It was a real scene, very awesome.

  Even more awesome: This Saturday I wasn’t just one of the crowd. Mark had invited me to hang out with the team and watch the meet from field level. I was down there with him and Justin and Nathan and the other guys as they stretched out, getting ready for the first event. It was exceptionally cool being down on the field, watching the people file into the gleaming silver bleachers above me. The red clay of the track seemed incredibly red down there, and the green of the soccer field in the middle of the circular track seemed greener than anything.

  I stood and watched the seats get full. After a few seconds I realized Mark was standing next to me in his warm-up suit. I looked up at him. He was watching the crowd too.

  “Next year, they’ll be coming to see you,” he said.

  I felt kind of embarrassed when he said that—because it’s exactly what I had been daydreaming about just then: maybe next year all those people would be coming to see me.

  Now Nathan and Justin came over and stood with us. They were breathing hard from their stretches and bouncing on their toes to keep loose.

  Nathan was a tall, narrow blond-haired guy with a round face. “There sure are a lot of them,” he said.

  Justin was smaller, compact and muscular. He had very pale skin, very red hair, and a lot of freckles. “They look small, don’t they?” he said with a laugh.

  I laughed back. “I guess we look small to them too,” I said.

  Nathan kind of snorted and slapped me on the shoulder—which reverberated painfully through my still-aching frame. “No, dude, we’re the big guys.”

  The three of them laughed. Mark poked a finger into my chest—which also hurt. “Next year—right? You’ll be a big guy too.”

  I tried to look like I believed it, but with my whole body still sore from the beating Jeff and his thugs had given me, it was hard to think that I would ever be as fast or athletic as Mark and the others. It was hard to believe that everyone might one day line up and file into the stadium to watch me. I was happy just to be hanging out with them.

  It was a good day, a good meet. Watching Mark run from field level like that made me doubt even more that I could ever run the way he did. The starting gun would fire—bang!—and it was like he was the bullet being shot out of it. Down the track he went like some amazing machine, his arms and legs like pistons, his speed almost unbelievable and unbelievably steady. The other runners fell behind him within a few steps and never caught up. He won both the 100 and the 400, and he and Nathan and Justin and one other guy—Tom—teamed up to win the relay too.

  Afterward, the team went out to Burger Joint for a celebration. The whole team, some of their girlfriends—and me. Everyone laughing and shouting and kidding one another and remembering the best moments of the meet. I sat at the head of the big table, next to Mark and Justin and Nathan. I was so swept away by the fun I was having, I forgot my aches and pains and even the bruises that still marked up my face.

  The talking and shouting got louder and louder, the guys congratulating themselves on their brilliant victories.

  Finally, Mark said, “You guys, you guys.” And immediately everyone got quieter. Everyone listened when Mark spoke. “You guys,” he said, “enjoy the day, but don’t get ahead of yourselves. This was just a warm-up for next week, remember.”

  Everyone around the table nodded. “That’s right, that’s right.”

  “Hamilton and Ondaga are nothing,” said Justin.

  “They’re not nothing,” said Mark. “But they’re not Empire, and they’re definitely not Cole.”

  Those were the big meets every year. Sawnee against Empire and Cole. The first was scheduled for next Saturday. Only a week away.

  “Empire and Cole,” said Justin. “They need to learn a lesson, no question.”

  “Cole is nothing,” said Nathan.

  “Cole has the Hammer,” Mark said. The Hammer was the trophy for the county championship. “They went to state.”

  “Yeah, ’cause they cheated,” said Nathan with a sneer. “You know they did, Mark. If we’d had the guts to put up a challenge . . .”

  “If the principal and the school board had backed us,” said Justin.

  “If the town had backed us!” said Nathan.

  This conversation had been going on for a year now. There were rumors that some of the Cole guys had used performance-enhancing drugs. Mark had led a delegation to ask our principal to challenge their victory, but the principal had declined, saying he would assume Cole won fair and square unless there was solid evidence they hadn’t. He didn’t want there to be bad blood between the schools.

  “Whatever,” said Mark. “Come the big meet, we have to show them all what we are. Don’t forget that.”

  I looked around the table. Everyone was quiet, nodding. See, Mark was not just the hero of the day. He was the hero of the team, the team leader. You could tell it just by looking at him. He had this—I don’t know what the word is—this presence about him. Like a movie star or something. It was partly that he ran so fast and won so much. But partly it was just the way he sat and looked so sure of himself. Whatever it was, it was like there was an aura around him that made him stand out from the rest of us, that made everyone stop talking and listen whenever he had something to say. Even when other people talked, the other guys sort of glanced over at Mark to see what he thought, to see if he approved of what was being said, if he agreed or disagreed. As I watched him, I couldn’t help but wonder to myself: What would it be l
ike? To be that guy, you know? To be the guy everyone looked up to. To have everyone want to know what you thought, what you wanted . . .

  As I biked home that afternoon, I sort of fell to daydreaming about it. I daydreamed that people looked at me that way, that everyone in school asked themselves and one another: “What does Sam think about it? Where does Sam stand on that issue?” I thought, Maybe if I got on the track team, I would eventually become the center of everything like that . . .

  But I doubted it. It was just a stupid daydream. No matter how much of a celebrity I was at the moment, I knew it was temporary. I didn’t have Mark’s aura and I never would. I wasn’t tall or handsome or sure of myself like he was. I couldn’t imagine anyone ever caring one way or the other what I thought about anything.

  Technically, of course, I was still grounded, so when I got home I had to go back to cleaning out the garage. If you’ve ever read the story of Hercules and the Augean stables, that’s what it was like—although I don’t remember Hercules being all sore from getting beaten up when he did that, so maybe it was easier for him. Anyway, I shoved the last box into the attic just before dinnertime. After dinner, because of the whole being-grounded thing, I stayed home with nothing much to do. I watched some TV, then hauled my battered flesh upstairs and fooled around on my computer. I tried to find Joe for a chat, but he was out. I tried to reach Cal, another friend of mine, but he was out too. It made me feel pretty alone, but then, that’s what being grounded is like, as you may know.

  But then something cool happened. I was still sort of hanging at the computer, cleaning up my tunes, leaving a couple of messages on other people’s walls, whatever, when a chat message came up.

  Z-GIRL: Wuzzup, Sam?

  I sort of caught my breath. Z-girl. Her picture came along with the message. I could hardly believe it. I typed back:

  ME: Zoe?

  ZOE: Hey.

  ME: (trying to sound cool and collected) Hey. Zup?

  ZOE: Hanging. Babysitting my brother. You?

  ME: Same. Well, no brother. But just hanging. Still grounded cuz of the fight.

  ZOE: Stinx 2 b U.

  ME: No doubt. Cud be worse tho. Didn’t c u at the meet.

  ZOE: Didn’t go.

  ME: Mark ruled. Won two events and the relay. 50 in the 400.

  ZOE: Cool.

  I narrowed my eyes. Seemed like sort of a bland response, you know? When you’re chatting online, of course, you can’t hear a person’s tone of voice, so sometimes it’s hard to know what they’re feeling exactly. But I would’ve thought the news of Mark’s track heroics would’ve gotten something out of Zoe more like “Cool!” or maybe even “Cool!!!!”

  ME: You don’t sound too impressed.

  There was a pause. I have to admit I sort of watched the screen in suspense. Whenever I saw Zoe with Mark and the other track guys, she always seemed really at ease, really friendly with them. I guess I always figured if Zoe wasn’t already Mark’s girlfriend, she would be eventually. Was I wrong?

  Now the answer came back.

  ZOE: I’m kind of off Mark.

  My reaction to this was, let’s say, complicated. I mean, I won’t lie: It made me kind of glad to think that Zoe wasn’t going out with Mark. That she was free to go out with . . . someone else, say, if the situation should arise. On the other hand, I didn’t know how anyone as smart and nice as Zoe could be off anyone as cool and great as Mark. I mean, Mark was my friend now too, and I didn’t want to think that Zoe had done something wrong to him. Like I said: complicated. I started typing again.

  ME: What, did you guys have a fite or something?

  ZOE: No, no. Nothing like that.

  ME: Mark’s a good guy, no?

  This was me being loyal to Mark—but also trying to find out more about what was going on.

  ZOE: I guess. He can be kind of arrogant sometimes.

  I sat back from the computer, surprised. Really surprised. Nathan and Justin—they always struck me as a little arrogant, I have to admit. A little snide, you know. Sneering at other people, other teams. But Mark? I didn’t think of him as arrogant at all. I mean, yeah, he was sure of himself. Why wouldn’t he be? Dude wins three events, runs a fifty in the 400? I mean, come on. It gives him the right to swagger a little bit, doesn’t it? I thought Zoe was being unfair and I felt like I ought to defend Mark.

  ME: He’s the man, thazzall. Everyone looks up to him. Wants to know what he thinks. Wants him to like them. Maybe that makes him sure of himself, but not arrogant.

  There was hardly a pause at all, then Zoe wrote back:

  ZOE: Jeff Winger’s the same way.

  My mouth actually dropped open as I read that.

  ME: ???????

  ZOE: It’s true. Think about it.

  ME: Jeff Winger’s the same way as Mark???

  That’s what I was about to type. But I hesitated with my fingers hovering above the keyboard.

  Because I did think about it. And after a second or two, I could sort of understand what Zoe was saying. I mean, if you thought about it a certain way, all the things I said about Mark Sales were true of Jeff Winger too. Ed P. and Harry Mac looked up to Jeff the way the track guys looked up to Mark. They listened when Jeff talked—and when they talked, they glanced over at him to see what he thought about it. Same kind of thing.

  But that didn’t make Jeff Winger and Mark the same kind of people. It just meant they were both leaders, in their own way. But consider who they led and what they led them to do. Jeff was a thug leader who led thugs. Hanging out in some abandoned barn, teaching one another how to break into places and steal things. Mark was a good guy who led other good people. Training and working out and winning meets.

  So why was Zoe saying all this mean stuff about Mark? As I thought about it, I glanced over at the window. I saw my reflection on the dark pane: me and my still-banged-up face, sitting at the computer, chatting with Zoe. Which suddenly struck me as pretty amazing. Not that long ago, I could hardly work up the courage to talk to her, and now here I was chatting back and forth like we were old friends.

  I put my hands on the keyboard, about to type a response.

  But before I could, my cell phone rang. A number appeared on the readout, but I didn’t recognize it.

  I typed SB for stand by. Picked up the phone.

  “Yo,” I said.

  A voice came over in a whisper: “Sam Hopkins.”

  I was so surprised my mouth opened for a long time before I could get a word out. Then I said, “Jennifer?”

  “I’m here.”

  “What? Where?”

  “Here,” she whispered. “Outside.”

  I shook my head, confused. “Outside what?”

  “Outside your window.”

  “What?”

  “You have to come down. Right now.”

  I turned in my chair to the window. I saw my own reflection again, holding the phone, staring, stunned.

  I heard Jennifer’s weird whisper come over the line to me like the voice of a ghost:

  “Help me, Sam Hopkins. Help me.”

  13

  Help Me!

  As I sat there stunned into silence, holding the cell phone to my ear, words appeared on the chat screen.

  ZOE: Sam?

  I glanced back to the monitor. Zoe. I typed SB again.

  Still holding the phone, I got up and went to the window. I pressed my face close to the glass, but I couldn’t really see much below. So I opened the window and stuck my head out. I felt the night air wash over my face, cold and damp.

  My window looks out on the little grass alley that runs along the side of my house, the place with the bike port and the willow tree where I’d had my conversation with Jennifer a little over a week ago. The sky was cloudy and there was no moonshine, but the light from downstairs spilled out of the house windows. By that glow I could make out the shape of the bike port just below me and even the witch-hair shape of the willow branches off to the side.

  I didn�
��t see anyone down there.

  I was about to pull my head back in and shut the window.

  “Sam Hopkins?”

  I started at the sound and banged my head against the windowsill.

  “Ow!” I clutched the back of my head, rubbing at the pain.

  And again, from outside: “Sam Hopkins.”

  “Jennifer?” I called back softly.

  I caught a motion out of the corner of my eye. Then I saw her. She was standing near the willow tree. Her silhouetted figure was hidden in the lacework shadows of the tree’s branches so she was almost invisible.

  I stared harder. “Jennifer?” I said again.

  She answered with a gesture: she held her finger to her lips. “Shh.” Her voice reached me through the chill of the night. “Shh.”

  “What are you doing down there?” I asked.

  “I need to talk to you,” she said. “I need you to come down.”

  “I can’t. I’m grounded. You have to come in here.”

  “I can’t. They’re after me. They’ll catch me.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Come down. I need you, Sam!”

  I thought about it for a minute. Then I pulled my head inside and shut the window. My heart was beating fast. I sensed that something was terribly wrong.

  I moved back to the computer. There was Zoe’s latest chat message:

  ZOE: Sam? Are you there? Is everything all right?