Out of Reach

by Carrie Arcos

  Turns out, however, I did learn some interesting facts from Mr. Parnell. He was, after all, a WWII history buff.

  One day, as I was just about ready to lay siege on France for the third time, something Mr. Parnell said caught my attention. It was in the early stages with Micah, when my parents still didn’t know, and I was telling myself that everything was fine with him.

  “How many of you have heard of crystal methamphetamine?”

  I pretended to study the map of the world, though I knew it by heart from weeks of playing. If anything, I learned my geography from that class. A few people raised limp hands.

  “Bet you didn’t know how much it was used in World War Two. Variations of it were given to both Allies and Axis soldiers to help them battle fatigue. Soldiers who needed to stay awake all night or for days at a time took the drug. Supposedly, some of the Japanese kamikaze soldiers took meth right before they went on their suicide missions.”

  I had thought being a kamikaze had more to do with an honor code, but I didn’t say anything. I squeezed one of my little purple infantrymen tightly in my fingers.

  “Didn’t it mess them up?” Ron asked from behind me.

  “Sure. Soldiers came back totally addicted. Get this, even Hitler used it.”

  “No way,” Ron said.

  “Yes. He was a total hypochondriac.”

  “What’s that?” Mike whispered next to me.

  Someone who thinks they’re sick all the time, you moron, I thought. I shrugged.

  “He always thought he was going to catch something. He even thought the clean air could give him germs. He took all kinds of drugs. His doctor supposedly gave him daily injections of the drug for Parkinson’s disease symptoms. It was considered a super drug, because it made you energetic and aggressive.”

  Hitler, a meth user. Kind of gave some perspective.

  “Can’t meth, like, kill you?” Keisha asked.

  “Eventually. Look, meth has been used to treat all kinds of ailments, like narcolepsy and obesity. It’s even used as a decongestant in Benzedrine. Legally, the drug companies now market meth under the name Desoxyn, which is prescribed for ADHD.”

  In one movement, every head in the class turned to look at Justin. He had been diagnosed with ADHD back in the third grade. He used to have to go to see the nurse every day after lunch to take his medication. He always came back super mellow.

  He held up his hands. “I’m not a meth user!”

  “Are you sure? You better read about what doctors are putting into you.” Mr. Parnell laughed, which only made Justin madder. “Just kidding.”

  It was my turn to roll the dice. I looked at the board and debated attack; I decided to bide my time.

  “All joking aside, crystal meth is very serious. I don’t want to ever hear about any of you messing around with it.” Every now and then Mr. Parnell’s tone got all parental. “It will strip away everything you love, make you its bitch, and then kill you.” Throwing in a cuss word really solidified that he was trying to make a point and identify with us.

  The class became silent and we almost had a real moment. Until Ron yelled out, “Aw, he cares, he really, really cares!” Which made everyone laugh. Mr. Parnell got all flustered and ordered us back to world domination.

  It was kind of ironic that we spent each day plotting different ways to kill and annihilate one another, especially since he had just talked about taking better care of ourselves. Imagining them all doped up on meth, I suddenly felt sorry for the little plastic men on the board. I put my head down on the table and surrendered for the day. Mr. Parnell didn’t even notice.

  * * *

  I didn’t think much about dying, although I almost did when I was in junior high. It had been raining for days, and at the first letup Micah and I took out our bikes and went for a ride. The weather was perfectly crisp and a little windy, with large gray clouds hanging and swaying above us like clothes drying on a line. The sun played peekaboo, coming out for a few moments at a time before hiding again. We rode past the clubhouse and the school and out onto the dirt back roads.

  I had to pedal hard to stay parallel with Micah, so I wouldn’t fall behind and get hit in the face by the mud flying off his tires. The whole road had been transformed into a giant mud pit with small pools of quicksand and puddles of dirty brown water. My jeans were covered in thick splatters by the time we reached the drainpipes.

  The two large concrete pipes ran underneath a major road, connecting to a concrete water channel. That day they were deserted. Usually you could find a handful of kids playing and hanging out there, especially in summer. And because of all the rain, they had a steady stream of water flowing out into the dirt passageway.

  We parked our bikes on the side of the hill and ran down to the drains. I carefully avoided the water, while Micah splashed right through it.

  “Hello!” he yelled into the dark drainpipe.

  “Hello,” it answered him back faintly.

  Micah walked inside without having to duck his head.

  “Where are you going?”

  “The other side. Come on. I wanna see how full the river is.”

  The river, as we called it, wasn’t really a river. It was a manmade channel where all the water collected during the rainy season. Sometimes it got pretty high, but most of the time it was bone dry and kids used it as a skate park.

  I knew we weren’t supposed to play in the drainpipes. Mom had told us this all the time, but I couldn’t really remember why, so I followed Micah.

  I walked behind him, straddling the stream of water, a foot on either side, and waddled my way through the tunnel. We had ridden or walked in the pipe before, just not when it was so wet. It was darker than usual because it was so overcast. I wished we had flashlights. I didn’t like the idea of running into bugs or spiders.

  “Isn’t this supposed to be dangerous?”

  “Look, we’re almost at the end.” Micah pointed ahead of him to the slant of light.

  I heard a couple of cars pass overhead; their sound rumbled through the drain. I imagined a hole opening up and a car falling through it.

  About halfway through the tunnel, I heard another noise, like a roaring during an earthquake. At first I thought it might be an earthquake, and I braced myself against one side.

  Then Micah yelled, “Run!”

  He bolted past me, back the way we came. I turned as well, but not before I saw a wall of water coming toward us.

  The sound in the tunnel was so loud it felt like it had entered my brain and joined my racing heart and heavy breathing. I slipped and fell and got back up, but I had a shooting pain in my left ankle that traveled all the way up to my spine. I stumbled.

  “Micah!”

  The water was too fast. I knew I wouldn’t make it. It felt like a cold, wet brick hit the back of my legs and knocked me down. I couldn’t get back up. The water pushed me under along with tree branches, paper cups, cans, and mud. My arms and legs flailed all around, trying to find something secure to latch on to. I screamed, but my voice was swallowed by the noise of the floodwater. The water grew thicker with mud, making it almost impossible to hold my head above it. Something scraped my side and I was thrown against the wall and went under. I clawed myself out, coughing, trying to clear my lungs.

  As I was about to go under again, someone grabbed my wrist and held on as the water and debris rushed past. Almost as quick as it came, the wall of water was gone.

  I looked up and saw Micah. “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” I started coughing again and threw up.

  Micah jumped off the metal ladder attached to the side of the drain, which he had climbed to get out of the flash flood. “Here, get on.” He bent over and lifted me onto his back, carrying me piggyback out of the tunnel.

  Outside, he set me down gently on the road and wiped my face with his hands and dirty shirt. My ankle throbbed and I couldn’t put any pressure on it. I started to cry. I couldn’t help it.

  “I
t’s okay, Rach.”

  “I did something to my ankle.”

  “Let me see.”

  Micah bent down and lifted up my pant leg. He touched my ankle.

  “Don’t! That hurts.”

  “It’s pretty swollen.”

  I started shaking because of the pain and cold.

  “I should ride home and get Mom.”

  “No, don’t leave me here. What if it happens again?” I didn’t feel safe anywhere near the pipes.

  “Can you ride?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Micah climbed up the side of the hill to where our bikes were. He chained them together and locked them. Then he came back down for me.

  We were both wet and streaked with mud.

  He bent down again in front of me. “Get on.”

  “You’re gonna carry me?”

  “It’s not that far.”

  I knew it was probably a mile at least, but I got on Micah’s back and wrapped my arms around his neck. He was bigger than me, but not by much, so I knew it would be hard for him to carry me all that way, not that he said anything.

  “Mom’s gonna kill me, and then you,” I said.

  “Nah. We’ll just tell her you fell off your bike.”

  “How?”

  “Your back tire slipped and spun in some mud, and then the whole thing flipped. I fell helping you up.”

  “Yeah, that’s why we’re so dirty.”

  “While she’s checking out your ankle, I’ll come back and get the bikes. She’ll never know.”

  “You think it’s broken?”

  “Probably sprained.”

  Micah’s breathing labored as he carried me. I tried not to move, to make it easier for him, and rested my head on his shoulder.

  “Thanks for saving my life.”

  “That’s what older brothers are for.”

  “If it had been you, I couldn’t have held on for so long.” There was no way I could have pulled him out of the flood.

  “Yeah, I’d probably be dead by now.” He tried to laugh, but he couldn’t catch enough breath. “Nah, you would have found a way. If you had the chance, you would have saved me.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mission Beach, another beach in San Diego County, was on a stretch of sandbar along the Pacific Ocean. Between Ocean and Mission Beach the coastline broke, creating an inlet of water that spilled into Mission Bay. The only way to access Mission Beach was to head inland by car and then over a long bridge that connected to it. The map looked confusing, and watching Dillon navigate the roads didn’t provide any more clarity, but it didn’t really matter; I was happy to be moving forward.

  Once over the bridge, we could see the bay looping itself in and around the land, where hotels laid claim to pristine spots of sand. Grassy parks with picnic benches dotted the landscape. Children played on wooden swing sets. Boats with white sails were tied to wooden docks.

  I closed my eyes and lifted my face to the sun. Perfect weather. If Michelle were with me, she would have remarked on the deliciousness of the day. She had a habit of saying that word a lot. Delicious. Everything was delicious to her. I had tried on the word, but for me it didn’t have the right fit.

  The Big Dipper, one of the oldest running oceanfront roller coasters, reared in front of us at an intersection. It looked unsteady, and for a moment I imagined the cars flying off the track and crashing below. The passengers would die screaming, in a rush of adrenaline. Not a bad way to go, I supposed. You would be with a group of people, some of them maybe even your friends. My great-grandmother died a year ago. She was old, alone, and in a dark hospital room that smelled of antiseptic and urine.

  The faint screams of riders made me want to jump out of the car, have some fun, fade into the crowds of people. But the light turned green and Dillon gunned the car again, causing heads to turn, and made a right. He parked in front of a store called 360 Surf.

  The door chimed as we walked inside. All kinds of beach gear and large surfboards were stacked against the walls, a row of skateboards and skateboard paraphernalia were off to the left, and wet suits and clothes occupied another aisle. A man with bleach-blond hair wearing board shorts and a graphic T greeted us.

  “Dillon, what’s going on?”

  They gave each other that guy side-hug and handshake.

  “Hey, Reeves. These are my friends, Tyler and Rachel.”

  “Hey,” he said, and shook Tyler’s hand, then mine. “You picking up your board?”

  “Is she ready?”

  “Good as new. I’ll go get her.” He walked to the back and disappeared behind a curtained door.

  “Reeves is legit,” Dillon said, as if I were waiting for his declaration. “He and his brother Spencer own the place.”

  Tyler walked over to a rack of hats and began trying them on. He made a funny face at me when he put on a pink snow-flaked ski cap with long sides that tied under the chin. He held out a skull beanie for me. I put it on.

  “Not you.”

  “No?” I asked. “Because what you’re wearing says Tyler all over it.”

  “What do you mean?” He laughed. He removed it and tried on a baseball cap. I put the beanie back and pulled on a floppy sun hat.

  Not long afterward, Reeves returned with a surfboard and another man, who looked just like him. They both showed Dillon the board, and Dillon ran his hands along the sides.

  “She looks great. Hi, Spencer.”

  “Dillon,” Spencer said. He nodded a greeting in our direction.

  “Told you,” said Reeves. “Anything else you need?”

  “Well, I’m looking for some information.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You know Micah Stevens?”

  “Sure. Sure. The guitarist.”

  “This is his sister. She’s looking for him.”

  Reeves and Spencer looked at me with that sad expression I’d come to expect.

  “He came into the shop, what? A couple of weeks ago?”

  “Yeah,” agreed Spencer.

  We always seemed to be a couple of weeks behind Micah. We were too late.

  “He wanted to know if I could loan him some money. I know I probably shouldn’t have, but I felt bad for the kid. He didn’t look good,” Reeves said, giving me the sad face again. “I gave him fifty bucks.

  “He hadn’t asked for money before. He wasn’t the type, you know, he’s not a mooch or anything. Haven’t seen him since.”

  It was odd hearing them speak about Micah, as if they really knew him. For me, their version of Micah had never existed before today. Their Micah didn’t quite seem real.

  “Did he say what he needed the money for?” asked Tyler.

  Reeves shook his head.

  “For drugs, right?” I said.

  “Probably,” said Spencer, avoiding my eyes.

  “You can shoot straight with her. It’s her brother,” Tyler said. “We came all the way down here looking for him.”

  Reeves started speaking slowly, as if every word counted. “I’ve been clean for two years now. Micah didn’t really ask for our opinion, but we gave it to him. Nothing I could really do beyond that.”

  “He used to come in here from time to time with a guitar slung over his shoulder and show us a new song he was working on,” Spencer added. “They were good.”

  “Did he tell you he took off?” I asked. “That he didn’t even graduate?”

  “No,” Reeves said. “Micah is a good kid. Funny. Talented, but he’s playing a dangerous game.”

  “No one starts out selling,” Spencer said. “It just happens. You need the meth, the coke, whatever, more than anything. And then you’re in the cycle.”

  “Selling?”

  They all looked at me this time with pity, except for Tyler, who studied the floor.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” said Reeves. “I thought you knew.”

  “Did you know?” I asked Tyler.

  Tyler looked at me. “Yeah.”

  My gut f
elt like it had been hit. “Keep going,” I said to Reeves.

  “That’s it. End of story.”

  “What does that mean, selling? Are there dealers we could go to or other kids like him that sell? Who supplied him? Maybe they know where he is.”

  “Whoa,” Dillon said. “You don’t just walk up to a dealer and say, ‘Excuse me, sir, but we’d like a record of your employees.’”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not like it’s being broadcast. Everything’s underground. Besides, the shit comes up from Mexico now,” said Dillon.

  “Or white trailer-trash desert people,” Spencer added.

  “These people aren’t part of little street crews.” Dillon leaned in close for effect. “If you cross them, they’ll kill you, wrap you in a plastic bag, pour gasoline on it, and set it on fire.”

  “All right. Enough, Dillon,” Tyler said.

  “So you’re saying Micah was in a Mexican gang?” I vaguely remembered news stories about the drug-cartel wars happening in Mexico and near the border. It seemed impossible that Micah could somehow be connected.

  “No, of course not,” said Reeves. “He was selling, that’s all I know.”

  Spencer said the obvious: “Your brother is into some serious shit. There’s no way around it.”

  He’s in trouble, not the kind you can get out of so easily, if you know what I mean, the more serious shit, the kind where someone could get themselves hurt or . . . The words in the e-mail played in my mind. I thought of what could take the place at the end of those dots.

  “How do you know he was dealing?”

  “You just know.”

  I hadn’t thought it could get any worse for Micah, but he’d just gone from an addict to a dealer in a matter of seconds. My mind spun at the implications. Arrest. Jail time. I pictured him sitting behind the glass, reaching for the phone so we could talk during visiting hours. At least I would know where he was.

  “What if it was your brother?” I wanted them to put themselves in my place, to understand that Micah wasn’t some typical sad story. He had family and people who cared about him, people who weren’t going to let him destroy his life.