If You Wrong Us

by Dawn Klehr

  “Oh, great,” he said. A police visit wasn’t all that uncommon in our neighborhood, so Dad wasn’t too concerned when he answered the door. Two fairly young officers—one white and one black—stood there. I watched from the couch.

  “Mr. Waters?” the white one asked as the cool autumn air filled the cozy room.

  “Yes,” Dad stuttered. Even if police at the door wasn’t unusual, having them address you by name was.

  “I’m afraid there’s been an accident,” the cop said.

  The conversation moved quickly, and I could barely tell who said what. I sifted through the officers’ condolences and my parent’s hysteria to gather the pertinent pieces of information I needed:

  Brit.

  Car accident.

  Coma.

  Bad shape.

  Hospital.

  We needed to leave immediately, but Mom and Dad were in shock or something. They fumbled around the house, running into each other, until I started barking orders. They were such children sometimes. I grabbed coats and keys and purses, stuffed my parents into the car, and rushed to Ford Hospital.

  Turns out there was no need to hurry.

  7

  Johnny

  Are you feeling all right?” Cassie asks, leaning over the front seat of the car on our way home from school. Her girlfriend, Ava, is driving. “You look like shit.”

  Becca calls my little sis Black Sheep. Today, she fits the part perfectly, with the newly dyed blue streaks in her dark hair and her snakebite piercings. A complete contrast from my clean-cut baseball player image.

  Cassie isn’t one for beating around the bush, and now that Mom isn’t around, she feels it necessary to mother me. But she’s right. I do look like shit. And I feel worse, probably because I haven’t seen Becca since the beginning of the day.

  Becca’s become my touchstone. The one person I can count on. I feel lost without her.

  She had a field trip to Dearborn after second period as part of her Accelerated Student math program. They’re always heading to some college campus for lectures and what have you.

  I don’t know how she handles all the pressure. The math she takes is never ending. The teachers are incredibly intense. The other students are painfully boring. Becca loves it, though—the independence, the extra work, the quiet. It’s too bad the school insists she take half her classes with the commoners. It’s those mainstream classes that are complete torture for the girl. We’re such opposites.

  “Hello, Johnny.” Cassie raises her voice, thumping her hand on the back of the seat. “Are you in there?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I mumble, finally answering her. “I’m feeling fine, but thanks for that lovely compliment.”

  She groans but I ignore it, closing my eyes for my daily ten-minute catnap as Ava, aka Golden Retriever, squeals around the corner. Ava is a menace on the road, and her rundown Ford Focus smells like hardboiled eggs and oranges. But I’m thankful Cassie has her. And that she carts my ass to and from school.

  I used to ride home with Paul before Cass came out. Her announcement was just a month before the accident, and it took me completely by surprise. Looking back, there were so many signs, but I’d never looked at my sister in that way. I had no interest in her sex life; actually, I was happy she didn’t have one. She was always just Cass and that worked for me.

  She told all of us at dinner one night.

  “Well, okay, angel,” Mom said. “If that’s how it is, that’s how it is. I’m just happy you told us.”

  That was Mom. She took things in stride, which meant Dad did too. I fell in line as well. We were like these planets orbiting around Mom’s axis—she was the invisible force that held us together.

  Who didn’t take it in stride? My friends, especially the guys on the team. They had their jokes and jabs about Cass and various girls. It wasn’t long before I started to pull away from them, even from Paul. Dad knew what was going on. He said it was admirable I was siding with Cassie. What Dad didn’t know was that the guys gave me grief about a lot of things—that’s what happens when your brain doesn’t work right and people think you’re the school idiot. I wasn’t noble; I didn’t pull away only for her.

  After the fallout with the guys, I stopped riding to school with Paul. So Dad was always watching for a junker to come into the shop—one that he could get for a song and fix up real nice for me. We’ll have you in wheels by senior year, he said. Obviously that hasn’t happened, which is fine by me. I’m a little nervous about driving, anyway. I know I’m supposed to be all machismo about these things, but I don’t care.

  When Ava isn’t playing chauffeur to us, Becca is. She’s fine with driving—especially since she’s calculated the probability of both her and her sister being involved in fatal car wrecks. Evidently it’s not an issue.

  “I’m serious, Johnny.” Cassie smacks me in the arm. “What’s going on with you?”

  “Are you really asking me this today?” I open one eye. “Do I have to teach you the rules of sensitivity too? Because, frankly, Becca’s about all I can handle.”

  “This isn’t just about the anniversary.” She blows out a long breath. “It’s been going on longer than that and you know it. And Becca’s just as bad. That girl looks like the walking dead. Are you two okay?”

  “You didn’t dump her, did you, Johnny?” Ava interrupts. “Because you need to tread lightly with her.”

  “What?” I say. “No, I didn’t dump her. And she didn’t dump me either, not that you’d care.”

  I act hurt, but really I’m happy that Cassie and Ava have taken Becca in—though I have to admit, sometimes they get a little intense about it. They watch over her when I can’t. She needs it. Before, she always had Brit to rely on. Her sister did everything for her—the talking, the social planning, even setting them up on dates together. Becca’s never really learned how to do that for herself. So now, with Brit gone, she hasn’t even thought about having a social life. And she doesn’t realize that when she’s feeling sad or anxious, she’s actually lonely and in need of human interaction.

  Yes, psychology. It’s what I’m good at.

  I really owe Cassie and Ava everything, but honestly, I can’t deal with this shit today.

  “Man, if I knew you two were on the attack, I would’ve taken the bus home,” I snap at both of them. Then I close my eyes again.

  “I’m just worried,” Cassie says. Her voice cracks a little.

  “I know,” I whisper before falling asleep.

  At home, Dad is already sitting at the kitchen table with a bottle of Jack. He’s aged about a decade since last year. It was exactly this time of day, exactly one year ago, when Mom left to pick up dinner and never came back.

  It was a special dinner for me—we’d heard that week that three colleges were interested in me and they’d be out scouting in the spring. I heard the guys talking behind my back, saying I was a waste of a scholarship, that I could hardly make it through high school, so how could I handle college?

  But Mom didn’t question it for a second. She insisted on celebrating. That was her deal. This calls for a celebration, she said regularly. And celebrate we did. Cassie got an A in lit. Celebrate. I got my driver’s license. Celebrate. Our furnace made it another winter. Celebrate.

  “What’s going on, Dad?” I ask as I make my way to the table. I pick up the bottle of Jack and raise an eyebrow. Dad’s made it a full year without losing it, though there were times I thought he was close. If Cassie and I didn’t still need him, I have no doubt he’d be a certified drunk by now.

  “Don’t start with me, Johnny,” Dad slurs. “Everyone deserves a day without judgment.”

  I take a seat next to him and his eyes beg me to keep quiet. This time, I comply. He does deserve it.

  “This is my day,” Dad says quietly, more to himself than to me. “This is my day.”


  We sit there, like that, not saying a word. Dad’s dirty nails strum on the table, and I’m sure Mom is rolling over in her grave at the sight. “Wash up,” she’d say each night, laughing as Dad would paw at her, his hands grubby from working at the shop all day.

  Now there’s nobody to say that to him. And none of that special soap Mom used to buy—the kind that could take off a layer of skin if you rubbed hard enough. So here he sits with dirty hands and a bottle of booze.

  “S’okay,” I say, patting his arm. Then I take a swig out of the bottle. “You can have your day.”

  As long as I can have one too.

  That’s how it is now. Dad has the bottle. Cassie has Ava. And I have Becca.

  I leave him there to drown in his booze and memories and go to my room to pack up my things for the night. I’m taking my day to remember Mom in my own way.

  The equipment I need for tonight rests on my bed in a neat little row. Becca told me to think of our plan as a game. There are no criminals and victims; no captors or hostages. We are simply opponents; competitors in a contest seeking justice.

  Strange—this does make it a little easier. I look over the rope, the Swiss army knife, the blanket, the track suit we bought from the Goodwill, cash, bottled water, first-aid kit, my gloves and disguise—checking each one off my mental list as I shove it into my backpack. The final item is waiting for me at the park, but first I have to stop at Poppy’s.

  I jump on my bike and head into the heart of Mexicantown. Poppy owns a little bodega there, and he’s expecting me. He knew my uncle Christopher before he was sent away. Chris used to watch Cass and me on weekends when we were kids. We’d spend long lazy days at the park, hang at the bodega, and run Uncle Chris’s many “errands.” Mom and Dad didn’t know about Chris’s “weekend job” until he got caught.

  Poppy has a name in the neighborhood, if you know what I mean. “Influential” is a good word to describe his place on the food chain. He knows all and is known by all.

  “Johnny,” Chris said before he left, “you need anything, you call Poppy. He’ll be there for you.”

  I weave through the crowd; lively music and the scent of spicy tamales fill the air. It’s the last night of the Día de los Muertos festival—Day of the Dead—which runs every year from Halloween until the day after All Saints’. I ride through the crowds of people eating, drinking, and touring the ofrendas on display. The ofrendas are altars designed to honor the dead. Poppy wanted to put one out for Mom. Dad refused.

  But thanks to me, Poppy will instead help avenge her killer—even if he doesn’t know it.

  There are tables and chairs in the parking lot in front of Poppy’s store. He has someone working an enormous grill on one side of the lot and a beer tent for the occasion on the other. Poppy is mingling when he spies me. He nods and motions to the building. I lean my bike up against a brick ledge and walk into the bodega.

  “Qué onda, primo?” Poppy asks me, leading me to the back room.

  “I’m okay, Poppy,” I tell him.

  “It’s hard to believe it’s been a year.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  We walk into Poppy’s office and he immediately shuts the door. The click of the lock follows. He motions for me to take a seat. When I do, he opens his safe and takes out a wooden box.

  All business.

  “So,” he says, opening the box. “You’re sure this will take care of it?” He hands me the pile of twenties. Twenty-five of them.

  “More than enough,” I say, feeling the like world’s biggest asshole. I told him Dad was hitting the bottle hard and missing work, and that we needed money. Though this may be true, I’m not going to use the money for a noble cause. I’m using it to buy a gun.

  A few months ago, I asked Poppy outright if I could use one of his. I told him it was for protection. His answer was an angry No hay manera en el infierno! No way in hell!

  Poppy has taken care of plenty for my family in the past. When one of the gangs was trying to recruit me, or when some thugs were giving Dad a hard time at the shop, Poppy was there. He takes care of his own, and we’ve become family to him.

  This time, he’s really left me no choice. I had to find a supplier on my own. Last week, everything came together and we set up the handoff. That’s my next stop.

  “Thank you so much. I’ll pay you back.”

  “No need,” Poppy says. “You know I’m loyal to Chris, and he told me to watch over you.” He runs a hand through his short, thick cap of hair. “You’re a good kid. You let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

  I nod, roll up the cash, and put it in my front pocket.

  Once we’re outside, Poppy hugs me. Then I jump on my bike and head to the park.

  I meet a guy with my name and make the exchange behind the swings near the trees. The other Johnny hands me a bag. I slip my hand inside and run my fingers along the Smith and Wesson .38 revolver. It’s one of the most common guns out on the streets. Easy to use and, most importantly, hard to determine where it came from.

  The other Johnny eyes me up and grins. “You sure you know how to use this?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” Uncle Chris made sure I knew how to shoot.

  I just hope I don’t have to. Becca and I agreed that it’s just for looks. An incentive, if you will, to get Travis to do the right thing. A damn good incentive.

  I hand Johnny the money and he gives me a handshake. It’s that easy.

  “Oh,” I say, checking out the gun. I almost forgot the most important part. “Ammo?”

  “That’s extra, dude,” he says.

  “What do you mean, extra? You said you’d hook me up.”

  “With a piece, yeah,” he agrees. “But ammo is extra. That shit is at a premium these days. How much do you want? I could get it to you tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow. Hopefully this will all be behind me tomorrow. This is so bad. Becca is going to lose it.

  “Tomorrow is too late,” I say. I want to say more, but I know better. Around here, survival is all about who you know and how to avoid pissing off the wrong people.

  “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

  I nod and we part ways.

  The gun was only supposed to be for show anyway. Now we have no choice—but I’ll keep that from Bec. No reason to get her all worked up.

  Once I get home, I add the gun to the rest of the gear. The other items we’ll use are already on site, so we’re good to go. I text Becca and give her the thumbs-up.

  Game on.

  8

  Becca

  When we arrived at the hospital, we were forced to play a ridiculous game of Find the Missing Redhead. We went to the ER first, which, in retrospect, didn’t make the most sense. It had been a few hours since the crash. But after our police visit, nobody was thinking all that clearly.

  To my parents, it was completely logical: My daughter’s been hurt. We need to get to her. Emergency. Emergency!

  My mother ran up to the desk centered in the middle of the waiting room. The front of it was still decorated in skeletons and ghosts from Halloween, something I found wildly inappropriate. Mom checked in with an overweight blonde woman who smelled like perspiration and rubbing alcohol. I held my breath during the entire exchange.

  The place was chaotic. There’d been a massive pile-up on the interstate and the ER was full of bloody bodies, blue scrubs, and white coats flailing about. The woman at the desk was no help. She shuffled us along, past the fake skeletons and very real bloody limbs, suggesting we try the ICU.

  In the ICU it was the same story. Nobody could locate Brit. And throughout the search for her, I simply became a prop.

  “She looks like this,” Mom said, pushing me toward anyone who would listen. Dad said nothing, just nodded his head vehemently at Mom’s words. We listened, followed directions,
and moved from place to place, losing hope with each step farther into the bowels of the hospital. I maintained a two-stride distance from my parents, secretly wondering if they’d look this grim if they were here to see me.

  I came to the conclusion it was doubtful.

  Twenty-two minutes passed before we arrived on the surgical floor and learned that Brit was, in fact, in the operating room. A nurse named Julie greeted us and got us situated in a special family lounge before she explained what was happening. Again the words came out hurried. It didn’t sound promising.

  Massive head trauma.

  Internal injuries.

  Swelling.

  Critical condition.

  Doing everything we can.

  From what we pieced together after discussions with the police and the nurse, Brit had been heading west on Old Hwy 5 when she hit another car in a head-on collision. It was a high-speed, high-impact crash, and they’d had to use the Jaws of Life to get Brit out. The person Brit collided with was pronounced dead at the scene. A woman in her late thirties.

  “I don’t understand,” Mom said, her mouth so full of pain and grief it made her sound drunk. “Do you have any idea what she was doing there, Becca? I thought she went to Janie’s house after school.”

  Yes, because that’s what I told you.

  “That’s what she said,” I confirmed.

  Of course, she never went to Janie’s. But I couldn’t tell Mom about the old switcheroo.

  We’d once tried switching places at home, a birthright all twins try at least once, but Mom was onto us immediately. It was because of the Brit/Mom connection. Even if I dressed and acted the part, there was something missing. Mom and I both knew that. With everyone else, however, it worked flawlessly.

  Brit had me take tests for her when she needed to get her grades up, and sit in for her social engagements when she was double-booked. These moves were usually for her benefit … though there was the one time it was for me.

  The kiss.

  In sixth grade, Brit declared Josh Duvall her boyfriend. He was the most popular kid in school and Brit conquered him like a foreign land, sticking her flag in his chest and claiming him as her own. All the girls were crazy for this boy. He was the topic of conversation at the bus stop, lunchroom, and playground.