by Blake Nelson
“Have you ever had something happen ... ?” I found myself saying. “Something that really eats at you, but you can’t really talk about?”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“What did you do?” I asked. “How did you forget about it?”
“Time makes you forget eventually.”
“Time heals all wounds?”
“Yeah. Or you tell someone,” she said. “You don’t want to keep certain things secret. Or it’ll build up inside you.”
“I know. But what if you can’t tell anyone?”
“Like what? Like if you got molested or something? You’re supposed to tell stuff like that. That’s exactly what you should tell.”
“No, but what if it’s something like, not in my case, but if you were in a war or something. And you saw horrible things.”
“You go to a shrink. Because then you’ll get that post-traumatic thing.”
I worried I had given away too much. I needed to say something to throw her off. “Or what if you took something? And you didn’t think it was that valuable, but then it turns out it is.”
Macy shrugged. “I don’t know. Try to give it back?”
“What if you can’t?”
“Then you just ... try to pay them back in some other way. Or just let it go if there’s nothing you can do.”
I spun the wheels of my skateboard with my hand.
We arrived at our stop. I pushed the button and we got off the bus. We walked down the street together. Dark clouds moved silently across the sky.
“You do seem different lately,” said Macy.
“So do you,” I said.
“I do? How do I seem different?”
“You’re showing up at parties. You’re hanging out. You’re wearing Pumas.”
“I always wore Pumas.”
“You used to be a nerd,” I said.
“You just think that because I liked you.”
“You were a nerd. Riding around on your little bike. With the little training wheels.”
“I did training wheels when I was six. Everyone does training wheels.”
“You know what I mean.”
We had arrived at her house. We both stood for a minute in the street at the bottom of her driveway.
“Well, I’m still sorry about your parents and all that,” she told me.
“Yeah, thanks,” I said.
“And whatever other dark secrets you’ve got in there,” she said, smiling and sticking her finger into my temple like a gun.
“I don’t really have any secrets,” I said, trying to joke around.
“Yes you do,” she said.
I didn’t answer. I gripped my skateboard. Above us, the towering evergreen trees swayed in the wind. For a moment I had a strange thought. That Macy and I ... that we could ...
“All right,” she said. “I better go. Or my stupid mom’s gonna call me again.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks for the coffee,” said Macy.
“No problem,” I said.
JANUARY 8
SEASIDE, OREGON
(9:30 P.M.)
Dear ___,
By November, there were no more mentions of the Paranoid Park murder. It was never on TV or in the paper. New murders had replaced it, new crimes, and of course the papers were always full of news about the Portland Trail Blazers. They had fired the new coach and gotten a newer one, who had “better values” and who would better represent our community-whatever that meant.
On the two-month anniversary of September seventeenth, I skated Vista. I had hoped there would be a sense of relief by now. I wanted to think if I could hold on, if I could keep going, I would eventually pass through to a better place. But there didn’t seem to be a better place. So far, there was just one place: my life, my brain, the things I had done.
I still thought about telling someone. That was more of a daydream now, a fantasy—it wasn’t something I seriously considered, not in the real world. Part of the problem was momentum. It was hard to stop a lie once it got going. Also, layers of other things built up over time. Secrets had a way of getting buried under the everyday routines of life. And once they were deep underground, they were harder to dig up, and what would be the point anyway?
One thing was for sure: I was never going to forget. Maybe it was true that time healed all wounds, but it couldn’t erase the scars. Twenty years from now, I would not look back on my high-school days with fond memories of girls and parties and football games. My clearest memory would be that security guard on those tracks. And it always would be.
I was also never going to feel the same about the people in my life. I would still have “friends,” but not like a normal person. That really was the worst part: not ever feeling quite right around other people. Not ever being able to truly relax and just laugh and be honest. I didn’t know what to do about that. I didn’t know if that would change.
I noticed that I’d started talking to myself. Not every once in a while, like a normal person, but all the time. I carried on whole conversations while I sat alone on the bus or drove my mom’s car. I don’t know who I was talking to: Detective Brady, my friends, God. Sometimes I would explain things, try to justify myself; I would hold a little press conference in my head. The thing people don’t understand about my situation ...
Other times I would talk about stupid stuff, like: I think I’ll make a ham sandwich when I get home, and watch The Daily Show.
I guess it made me feel better. Maybe it was a form of prayer; maybe all my mutterings were really one long conversation with God. Which sounds profound and “spiritual” and all that, but to be honest, I would rather have talked to a real person.
But that was exactly what I couldn’t do.
Thanksgiving came and went and then one day Jared and Paul Auster came to my locker. I hadn’t talked to them in a while, but they made a special point to invite me to come skate with them after school at City Hall. It was cold and dry and sunny that day and I said yeah.
We drove there in Paul’s car after school. I sat in the back. At one point, Jared leaned over the seat and told me how a bunch of them had been talking about me, and they were worried about me, with my parents getting divorced and all, and why didn’t I skate with them more? “Skating’s the best cure for parent problems,” said Paul.
It was pretty cool they said that. Jared and Paul were not the kind of guys who talked about family stuff. Neither was I. But it was nice.
Christian Barlow met us at City Hall. A bunch of different skaters were there. Everyone was trying to ride the low rail along this handicapped walkway. This cool Hawaiian guy rode it the whole way and almost landed it. His friend videotaped him. Everyone else was falling and crashing pretty bad.
I couldn’t do it, but I practiced other stuff with another guy who showed me how to get higher on my ollies. I felt a sense of relief, just being there. I liked hanging out with Christian Barlow and especially Paul, who was pretty hilarious when he talked about girls and stuff that went on at school.
Then someone decided to go to Paranoid Park. I think the Hawaiian guy was going there with his friends, so Paul wanted to go, too. Christian and Jared were all for it. I guess no one was thinking about what happened in September anymore, since it was December. They just said, “Let’s go to Paranoid!” and everyone jumped in their various cars.
I was less enthusiastic about Paranoid, needless to say. My stomach tightened into knots as we crossed the bridge. We circled underneath and drove into the industrial area. It was late afternoon, almost dark; the tops of the old warehouse buildings were catching the last of the sunlight. Everything else was dark and shadowy.
As we parked, a blue sedan drove by. It looked like Detective Brady’s car. I tried to see inside it, but I couldn’t make out who was driving. Also, I didn’t want the other guys to see me staring. So I sat back.
That would be my strategy for my return to Paranoid. Just lay back. Keep my mouth shut. Stay out of trouble.
We parked and grabbed our boards and climbed up the dirt embankment. On the cement platform, we stood for a moment and checked out the park. It looked different from how I remembered. It looked cleaner somehow, smaller, not as threatening. The floodlights were on; the heat of them warmed the cement and made everything seem safe and okay.
The other guys didn’t hesitate. Christian dropped into the main bowl. Paul and Jared were right behind him. Christian tried to grind the lip and fell and almost hit Paul. But everyone was psyched. Everyone was into it.
I dropped in and worked my way around. I was careful, though, scanning the dozen or so people for anyone I remembered, checking the parking lot on the opposite end for any familiar faces. I didn’t see anyone. It seemed pretty safe. Besides us and the Hawaiian crew, it was a pretty quiet night at Paranoid.
I started to relax. I tried a lip-grind and almost got it. An hour went by, and I forgot my problems. I began to enjoy myself, and I realized how much I loved Paranoid. I wondered if I should have come back earlier. Maybe all I needed was to face my fears.
That’s when I looked over my shoulder and saw a group of people arriving in the lower parking lot. They were Streeters, guys mostly, with boards and forties of Olde English 800. There were two girls, too. One of them looked familiar. One of them was Paisley.
I didn’t panic. I worked my way around to the far bowl and popped out and stood behind two other guys standing along the lip. I watched the Streeters file into the park. I watched Paisley. She looked different in winter clothes. She wore a big newsboy hat. But her hair was the same, dyed black, and her face still had that stone-age look to it-that pale, wasted look. She stopped by the big cement wall and talked to the other girl. I did my best to blend into the scenery.
It didn’t work. She saw me. I don’t know how; she wasn’t even looking around. But suddenly she stared straight at me. A look of shock and surprise came over her face.
I turned away. I was wearing a wool hat, which I now pulled closer down around my face. But it was too little, too late.
Paisley said something to her friend and began walking in my direction. None of her friends seemed to notice what she was doing. Still, it was not a good situation. As she got closer, it became very clear she had something to say to me. I could feel my heart pounding in my throat as she approached. When she got close, I kinda smiled and nodded to her.
She didn’t nod back. “What are you doing here?” she hissed.
“Nothin’. Hangin’ out.”
“You better leave. Scratch’s friends are here.”
“So?”
“So, they’ll see you!”
I looked passed her at her friends. “But I didn’t do anything.”
“Are you kidding me? Scratch had to leave town. They almost caught him. Why are you even here?”
“But it was an accident.”
“Not according to those guys. They think you did it, and they blame you for all the police coming around.”
I hadn’t seen any police around. Except for that blue car when we first pulled in.
Behind Paisley, I could see a second group of Streeters coming up from the parking lot. There were six or seven of them. Paisley saw them, too. “You better be careful,” she whispered. “You shouldn’t even be here.”
With that, she turned and walked quickly back to her friend. I turned my back so the others wouldn’t see my face.
I still wasn’t clear what the Streeters had against me. Or why it was my fault. Shouldn’t they respect me for standing up to a security guard?
I decided to bail anyway. Why push my luck? I’d think of some excuse to tell Jared later. I stuck my iPod buds in my ears and casually ambled toward the dirt embankment. Without looking back, I dropped onto the dirt path and crawled through the fence. I slid and skidded down the embankment to the bottom. I dropped my board and started skating. I thought I’d made a pretty smooth escape, but when I looked back, someone was standing at the fence. He seemed to be watching me.
Then he pointed at me and shouted something to his friends.
I could feel the panic rising inside me as I pushed down the road. I turned right and coasted through the main industrial area. Some bums were drinking beer on one of the loading docks. I pushed harder, got past them, and turned left behind the big United Textile building. I checked behind me at every turn. At the train tracks, I hopped off my board and ran across the gravel. I didn’t know where I was going, or why exactly I was running.
But I was running. I couldn’t stop myself. My heart pounded violently in my chest. I was scared to death. Still. After two and a half months. I was so scared every joint in my body shook. All this tension and fear, it had been inside me all this time, and I hadn’t even noticed.
I skated across the big parking lot toward the river. It was the same parking lot I had fled across on September seventeenth. Above me was the same cold sky that had haunted me since that night. That deep, black, crushing sky ...
I was at the far end of the parking lot when they appeared. They came from the right. It was totally dark now, and I heard them first-that low rumble of wheels on pavement. Then I saw them: four guys-four Streeters—all on boards, all pushing hard and gaining on me.
“Hey, kid!” one shouted, an evil grin on his face. “Where ya goin’?”
The others grinned as well. This wasn’t just about defending Scratch’s honor; it was also a golden opportunity to beat the crap out of a defenseless Prep.
They were pushing as hard as they could. I pushed hard, too.
“Hey! What are you running for?!” yelled a different one. “We just wanna talk! ”
There was an incline now, in the direction of the river. I pushed as hard as I could and went into a low crouch for maximum speed. They did the same. They were getting closer. I waited until they were a few feet behind me, then swung hard to the right, cutting across the nose of the closest guy. He lost his balance and fell on his ass. I stayed in my crouch and aimed for the thick brush along the side of the parking lot. I had gained some ground. If I could get to the brush I could lose them, I could hide. I felt like I had a chance.
But then I saw the fence, chain-link, between me and the brush. Where did that come from? I veered to the left. At that moment, the next closest guy got to me. He grabbed at me and we bumped into each other. By some miracle he lost his speed and I didn’t.
But the others closed in. Another guy pulled even with me, about five feet to my right. “Hey, kid!” he hissed. “We got something for you! From Scratch!”
I swerved straight at him and kicked my board at his ankles. He tripped and fell; and I sprinted for the brush. I ran so fast my legs barely stayed under me. I jumped for the fence and scrambled up the chain-link.
I didn’t make it. One hand grabbed my leg, another got my ankle. A third found the back of my pants. The weight of the three of them ripped me off the fence. I landed hard, on my side, on the cement.
For a moment I lay stunned. I think someone spit on me. “Way to go, Prep!” said a voice. “Way to sell out to the cops!”
I tried to roll over. “But I didn’t!” I groaned. “I swear I didn’t say any—!”
Someone kicked me hard in the side, knocking the wind out of me. “Whud you say, Prep? What was that?”
“I swear—” I croaked.
Another kick in the back. I tried to roll away from them. I tried to cover my head. All I could think was: I am so dead. I am so, so dead.
Then a siren squawked. A bright light flashed across the fence, illuminating the group of us. It was a police car, driving very fast, headed right toward us. It skidded to a stop, and my attackers scattered in every direction.
I could hear the footsteps running away. Slowly, carefully, I unrolled myself and lifted my head. I was staring into the headlights of an unmarked police car; the red police light turned circles from the dash. I looked to my right and saw two plainclothes cops chasing the Streeters.
One of the cops stopped at the end o
f the fence and jogged back to see if I was okay. I was still in the headlights so I couldn’t see who it was at first. But the voice was familiar. So were the thick hands that helped me up: It was Detective Brady.
Of course it was.
Brady didn’t say anything. He helped me up and got me inside his car. Then he jumped into the driver’s seat and we tore off.
We picked up the other cop. Brady whipped the car around and floored the accelerator. He wanted to head off the Streeters. His partner called other squad cars to help, referring to the “suspects.” In my muddled brain, I tried to figure out what had happened. Did he think the Streeters had committed the train-yard murder? Or was he after them for beating me up? Or was he after them because they were Streeters, and were always the natural suspects in any situation?
Brady couldn’t find them. His partner barked at the other cars on his radio. One of them, a normal police car, came rocketing around a corner and almost hit us. Detective Brady cursed him out.
Then a different squad car reported four young men running toward the River Walk. Brady spun his car around and drove there, screeching into the River Walk parking lot and skidding to a stop. He and his partner jumped out and ran down the grass hill.
I got out of the car, too, but Brady waved for me to stay put.
So I did. I stood next to the unmarked police car and watched Brady and his partner jog across the grass in the moonlight.
A moment later, another cop car pulled in beside Brady’s car. These policemen, in uniforms, walked quickly in the same direction. They all disappeared under the Morrison Bridge.
At this point, I looked down at my hands and saw they were dirty and cut up from getting jerked off the fence. The Streeters had me. They had me dead. If Brady hadn’t come along, who knows what would have happened.
I felt a deep shiver pass through me then. My whole body began to shake. I crawled into the passenger seat of Detective Brady’s warm car. It was the same car I had ridden in before, which made me feel better. A strange calmness came over me. I had the thought: I could tell Brady the truth.