After my father had finally realized he’d never hold a belt, never be a world champion, females simply became tools for him to be used as a man pleased in order to get whatever he wanted. He’d turned into his own dad. The only thing he never understood was why I viewed girls differently despite all his attempts to teach me otherwise.
Gemma splashed in the tub. Would I ever turn into my own dad? I wondered. Didn’t seem possible, and yet the thought sent a chill up my spine.
“It’s a wash hair night,” I said to Gem.
“But, Doc, can’t we...” her voice trailed off when she saw the fiery look in my eyes. I passed her the bottle of tearless shampoo, and without another word she took it. Gemma wasn’t the best hair washer in the world, but she was learning and liked to do more and more things on her own, so I let her wash it herself while I went to clear the kitchen table and then start cooking dinner.
“You eating, too?” I asked.
“I live here, don’t I?” my father answered. “What we havin’?”
“Chicken and broccoli.”
“Make me some rice or a potato or something, too. Hey, Gemma?” my father suddenly called out, turning his head.
“Yeah?” she replied.
“Yeah? Is that how you talk to me? Yeah?”
“I mean, yes, sir?”
“Kid ain’t got no manners,” my father said to me as he took another sip of his cognac. “Hurry up in there,” he cried out. “We only got one bathroom, and I gotta take a shit.”
I closed the anatomy book sitting on the table, put away Gem’s pencil box, and then spied the science packet Mr. Freedman had given me earlier in the day.
I lifted the materials and stared at them for a moment.
A college preparatory institution, huh?
I tossed the packet in the garbage and moved my kettlebell by the wall to prepare for the nightly workout I’d be doing later.
The Radiance Academy. Ha fucking ha.
TWELVE
The next day I stepped out of the Emergency Exit Only door at the back of school, paying no attention to the sign that warned an alarm would sound if anyone opened the thing during school hours.
That alarm hadn’t worked in years.
Once outside I thought about how much I preferred snow to cold, icy rain. Especially when the wind whips it sideways and it stings your skin like needles. Storms, when they hammer Detroit, pound with no mercy, and I could tell a big one was coming.
I pulled my hoodie tight, put my hands on the top silver rail, and got ready to jump over Fenkell’s back fence.
“So now you’re ditching my class?”
I turned but didn’t answer.
“Mrs. Notley’s been here three times these past two weeks,” Mr. Freedman said. “There’s still another visit.”
“I ain’t going to that school.”
Mr. Freedman jammed his ungloved hands in his coat pockets to fight off the chill. “Brains trumps brawn in this world, son. And really, what’s the income expectancy of a professional, um”—he looked at my swollen cheek—“skateboarder, anyway?”
“Very high,” I told him. “When you make it to the top.”
“You could break your neck,” he answered. “Or should I say, ‘have your neck broken for you’?”
Though I would have preferred to keep it entirely secret, almost all of the other students at Fenkell knew exactly what I did on Saturday nights. And kids talk. Fact is, with each new victory, the reputation of Bam Bam—only people who didn’t really know me called me that—was growing into a local legend.
Funny, though, how no one actually has the power to stop underground cage fighting even though everyone knows it’s going on. After all, it is illegal. But so is drug dealing, pimping, dogfighting, and so on. It’s like all this stuff exists, and though pretty much the entire community is aware of it, no one does anything about it.
Maybe they just can’t? Who’s gonna stop it anyway, the cops? Hell, they don’t rule these streets; they only hope to contain the chaos. It’s gotten so bad ’round my ’hood that they don’t even send in ambulances to help injured people without a police escort.
Even if someone is dying. A person could be lying there bleeding in the middle of the street, and unless there is a free cop car in the area, an ambulance won’t even be dispatched if it’s after the sun has set.
Naw, ’round here only one crew makes the laws of the land: the Priests. They rule without rival.
“Whereas becoming a doctor...” Mr. Freedman continued, stamping his feet to keep warm. “With your knowledge of the human body, maybe you could heal people instead of hurt them.”
I put my hands back on the top of the silver railing and got ready to jump the fence.
“I gotta go.”
Time was ticking and gettin’ to Loco’z early wouldn’t hurt none. Nothing breaks routine.
“Let me ask you, son,” Mr. Freedman said as he placed his hand on top of my arm as if he was going to stop me. “As a school official, am I really supposed to just let you jump the back fence of this campus right now and watch you leave?”
I looked up. Twenty-five yards away, three kids were jumping the fence in plain view. Ditching school was a tradition at Fenkell. At least seventy-five kids a day hopped the back fence, even more on testing days.
My eyes answered Mr. Freedman for me: Who are you kiddin’?
He gazed at me with the look of a man who wasn’t angry. It was like he understood and even respected that I had my reasons for doing what I was doing, even though he didn’t necessarily agree with them.
Mr. Freedman removed his hand from my arm. “Okay, go.”
I readied to jump, but before I did he reached out and grabbed me again. “But just know that the only reason I’m even out here right now is because I care, son.”
“Why?” I shot back. “Why do you care? Tell me. I’d really like to know. Why in the world do you care?”
With each word I spoke, frost blew out of my mouth like puffs of white smoke.
He responded, calm and even. “Come on back.” He nudged his head toward the school building. “And I’ll be happy to tell you.”
With a strong push, I hoisted myself over.
“Another time,” I said through the wire.
“Just remember,” Mr. Freedman told me. “Everyone needs help at some point in their life, son. It’s a rule without exception.”
I gazed at him through the crisscrossed silver steel. “I help myself,” I answered, and a moment later, I was gone.
“Need a ride?”
The weather had turned from bad to nasty with screaming winds, rain that slashed, and chunks of rock-hard hail starting to pelt us as darkness crept over the afternoon sky. Gemma and I could barely hear each other talk on our march home from school. Keeping our heads low and leaning forward into the gusts, we did our best to protect ourselves from the vicious weather. If I hadn’t been holding her hand, I think the wind might have actually blown my sister off her feet and down the street like a cheap plastic bag caught in a wicked tornado.
“I said, need a ride?”
“Who’s that?” Gemma asked in reference to the brown car that was riding along beside us.
“My science teacher.”
“What’s he doing? Did he follow you? His window’s down and the inside of his car is getting all wet.” Gemma’s eyes were narrow, her face tight, and I could see small droplets of freezing cold water dripping from her eyelashes. “You know chinchillas like to…”
“Get in,” I said, making a decision. I opened the door, hustled Gem out of the cold, and the two of us climbed inside the warm car.
Yeah, he’d followed me. And yeah, he wanted something, too.
“I’d like to invite you to dinner,” he said to us as I closed the door.
Gemma waited for
me to respond, knowing it wasn’t her place to talk.
“So, whaddya like to eat, young lady?” Mr. Freedman asked with a smile aimed at my sister.
Gemma looked at me before answering. She knew not to speak to strangers, especially grown men, but since she was with me, she figured it was okay to respond.
“Meatballs.”
“Meatballs? I love meatballs. Say, might you know anywhere that we can get some good and tasty ones?”
“Uh-huh.” Gemma looked over at me again before answering, but I remained silent. “I know a place that serves the biggest, most delicious meatballs in all of anywhere.”
“You doooo?” Mr. Freedman asked with an exaggerated tone.
“Yep, I sure do,” Gemma answered, her voice growing more enthusiastic. “And if you have never had them then you are going to love, love, love them because they’re big and they’re round and when you put your fork in, juicy juices come out and mmmm-mmm, do you wanna go?”
“Well, you’ll have to ask your brother,” Mr. Freedman responded.
Gem looked at me with big, pleading eyes. “Can we take him there, Doc? Can we go to Spagatini’s, please?”
Leverage. Mr. Freedman knew he had it, and I knew I didn’t.
“Well, don’t think I’m lettin’ you off the hook for that third set of sight words later tonight.”
“YAY, MEATBALLS!” Gemma exclaimed.
“On King Street, right?” he asked me.
I nodded. Gemma buckled her seat belt and smiled so wide, her lips stretched to the far ends of her face.
“Spagatini’s,” Mr. Freedman announced as he reached for his dashboard, adjusted a dial, and raised the heat in the car so we’d get warm more quickly. He and I made eye contact through the rearview mirror. “Here we come.”
THIRTEEN
My sister and Mr. Freedman might be ordering meatballs in red sauce over thick spaghetti with a hunk of the house’s special garlic bread on the side, but dinner for me consisted of only proteins and vegetables, none of them covered in salt or cooked in oil or butter.
“Strictly grilled,” I said to our waitress. “No sauces or seasonings or anything, please.”
“You got it.” She made a note with a short green pencil, then scooped up the fourth place setting at our table since there were only going to be three of us. “Be right back with your drinks.”
“Gonna be kinda bland,” Mr. Freedman said to me as our waitress walked away.
“I don’t eat for taste,” I said. “I eat for energy.”
I knew it would only be a matter of time before Gemma started staring at the machine with the clutch thingy where you could win a giant toy. And sure enough, not three minutes after we’d ordered, she looked at it longingly, then looked hopefully toward me. But she knew better than to ask. I only had twenty-five dollars in my pocket and I needed to score more whey powder for my protein shakes. Muscle recovery and endurance were far more important than stupid arcade games that had been rigged for players to lose anyway.
“So let me guess,” Mr. Freedman said to my sister. “You’re in, hmmm…tenth grade?”
“No,” Gemma said with disbelief on her face that someone could think she was that old.
“Eleventh grade?”
“Noooo.”
“Twelfth, you’re a senior in high school?”
“No way, I’m only in kindergarten.” Gemma rolled her eyes as if this man must be from outer space. “But I do like a boy who’s in first grade only I think I might have to dump him because he picks his nose a lot.”
Mr. Freedman laughed big and warm. “Oh, this one’s a cutie,” he said. “I mean adorable.”
“Napkin on your lap, please,” I told Gem as I helped her spread the white cloth over her thighs. “And not too much root beer,” I added as the waitress brought our drinks.
“Your food’ll be right up.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Freedman said.
Again, Gem looked longingly at the arcade machine. There must have been three hundred toys, some pink, some blue, some fluffy, most of it junk, behind its glass window. Her eyes turned to me and I shook my head no, but I tried to do it subtly so that Mr. Freedman wouldn’t see. However, our red booth in Spagatini’s wasn’t the biggest space in the world, and Mr. Freedman caught on that my sister and I were having a back-and-forth silent exchange about something behind him.
He turned and looked over his shoulder where he saw the dumb arcade game. Lights flashed and blinked across the top of the machine as if to cry out WIN ME! WIN ME! Stupid thing was like crack cocaine for kids, sucking up people’s hard-earned money for a high that lasted about three minutes…then you needed more.
In no time at all the waitress returned with our food. “I’ve got two orders of Spagatini’s famous meatballs,” she said, setting down a couple of plates that had been piled high. “And a grilled chicken and vegetable plate, no salt, no butter, no oil, no flavor.” She set my dinner down. “Just teasin’ honey.”
“Thanks,” I said.
Those meatballs didn’t stand a chance against Gem. It was the best meal she’d been served in a long time, and she gobbled down each bite as if I hadn’t fed her in a week.
“Food good?” Mr. Freedman asked.
“Mmm-hmmm,” Gemma answered, her cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk.
“Slow down,” I said. “It’s not going anywhere.”
Dinner was filled with a lot of chatter. Mr. Freedman knew how to talk to young kids, though—not all adults do—and Gemma opened up about her love of vanilla pudding, rainbows, and, of course, chinchillas. When she had no more room for even one more bite of meatballs, Gem looked at the machine, looked back up at me, and once again silently asked for a few bucks.
Though I still had half my food on my plate, the look on her face caused me to lose my appetite. Money was too tight to waste on a stupid arcade game that she had no chance of winning, but still, saying no to her always ripped my heart out. Gem deserved so much more than I could give her. But I had a fight on Saturday night and I needed my supplies to be fully prepared and at the top of my game, so all I could do was shake my head and feel guilty about having to say no.
“But I can do it,” Gemma blurted out, breaking our silent conversation.
My eyes narrowed and I glared. She knew better than to speak out like that, especially in front of a stranger.
“Here you go, honey,” Mr. Freedman said pulling a five-dollar bill out of his wallet. “Go get ’em.”
He slid the money across the table.
“No!” I snapped. There were daggers in my eyes as I glared at Mr. Freedman. Then I softened. “I mean, no thank you,” I added.
It was enough that I’d agreed that he could take us to dinner. But taking handouts? No way. We didn’t do that from anybody.
“Really, it’d be my pleasure, son, and besides, it’s only five bucks.” Mr. Freedman waved the waitress over. “Heck, I spend at least that much on my latte and muffin every morning.”
“Yes?” asked the waitress.
“Can this young lady please have five singles?” Mr. Freedman passed the five-spot to her.
“Sure. One sec.”
“Who knows?” Mr. Freedman said to me. “She might even win.”
“Some games are so rigged,” I answered. “There’s no way to win.”
“And sometimes, son,” he answered, “you just gotta believe.”
The waitress brought back five singles and handed them to Mr. Freedman.
“Here you go, honey,” he said as he passed the cash across the table to Gem. “Good luck.”
She turned to me and paused, waiting for permission. Gemma knew not to take the money without my consent.
After a small moment of silence, I nodded. She instantly smiled, scooped up the money, and called out, “Thank you!” loud enough for th
e whole restaurant to hear. Watching Gemma so innocently and excitedly dash to the machine caused me to burn on the inside. No matter how much I did, no matter how many sacrifices I made, it never seemed to be enough. I mean, I couldn’t even spring for a few stupid bucks for my kid sis to play a dumb arcade game. What kind of piece of shit older brother was I?
I wiped the side of my mouth with a napkin, ready to jam out of this place and get home already. Sometimes when I get like this, the only thing that can put out the fire burning inside of me is my kettlebell.
Mr. Freedman must have noticed my inner anger. “Really, it’s not a big deal,” he said.
“Why are you doing all this stuff for me?” I asked in an almost accusatory manner.
“Because I care.”
“Why? I’m just a nothin’ kid from the ’hood. There are thousands of us at Fenkell that no one gives a damn about.”
“I was a nothing kid from the ’hood once, too,” he answered. “A nothing kid who kinda liked science.”
I glanced over to check on Gem. With her tongue out she worked the joystick of the arcade machine as bells jingled and lights flashed.
“Felt like all through high school I had to ignore taunts of ‘teacher’s pet’ and so on,” Mr. Freedman said. “I wasn’t athletic like you, but eventually I earned myself an academic scholarship to a small college where I majored in chemistry. However, this was just when crack cocaine had started popping up, and some local drug dealers got the idea in their heads that Chemistry Boy needed to make crack for them.”
Our waitress came by. “Coffee?”
Mr. Freedman nodded. “Yes, please.” I waved my hand, no thank you.
“Of course, I refused,” he continued. “And of course, they didn’t like that, but making crack wasn’t all that hard and the recipe was out there, so these thugs began cooking it up themselves. However, the head guy got this fool idea that since I was a chemist, I could invent another kind of drug for him that could be turned into a big moneymaker like crack. But I refused again.”
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