His face flushes red all the way to his ears. He dips down to touch his toes again and arches his back in pain.
“Aaaaaanyway, the teachers said we can’t use the bear now because it’s too dangerous.”
He pulls Mr. Reali’s massive key ring out of his pocket, bristling with keys. “So I gotta lug this bear up and lock it behind the drama stage. Bonus: I can get a new shirt, maybe, behind the stage there.”
I’m not looking forward to going back to English class after the scene I caused, and I figure I won’t be missed if I make another quick detour. Ms. Hunt will just think I’m still at the principal’s office.
“I’ll give you a hand,” I offer.
“Are you sure? Oh, thanks!”
I grab one of the bear’s big paws, PJ grabs the head, and we awkwardly shuffle-step the bear across the lobby toward Circle B, where the drama stage/auditorium takes up about a quarter of the second floor.
“Hey, where’s your tuxedo jacket?”
PJ grimaces. “I tried gluing my bouquet back together, but I accidentally glued it to my jacket, so I left it soaking in a bucket of water to try to dissolve the glue.”
“In a bucket of water? I would think a tuxedo jacket would be dry-clean only.”
PJ stops, stricken. “Oh. Crap. Good point.” He sighs heavily. “Maybe today isn’t the best day to ask Vern out after all. . . .”
I notice that the staple holes on his arm have started bleeding again and nod my head at them. “Dude, you’re bleeding.”
“Crap! Hold on—” PJ gently puts his end of the bear down. There’s a bathroom a couple of feet away, and he runs in.
A minute later PJ shuffles out, pale and serious.
He looks up and down the hall. “Uh, Kirby, c’mere. You might want to see this.”
I follow PJ into the men’s room, our footsteps echoing on the tiles. Being in the bathroom with PJ reminds me uncomfortably of this morning, when I cowered in a stall while he got beat up. The stillness of the room, the echoes, give the room the feeling of a church, and I badly want to confess to PJ, I was there. I watched them beat you up. But before I can say anything, PJ points to a pair of shoes visible under one of the bathroom stalls. Someone is sitting on the toilet.
I recognize the sneakers immediately, black leather with shiny gold trim. Rock-star kicks.
The shoes don’t move, not even a little, not even after PJ and I walk over and stand right in front of the stall door.
PJ pauses with his hand on the closed stall door. He looks at me, scared, and pushes the stall open with a creak like the front door of a haunted house.
Jake is slumped on the toilet. Eyes closed, mouth open, a thin line of drool dripping from the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t look asleep, like he did this morning in art class. He looks dead.
At first I think he really is dead, but then he twitches and I breathe again. PJ clears his throat tentatively, and Jake jerks a little, his eyes opening a crack. He tilts his head back and peers at us between his barely open eyelids.
“Kirb?” he croaks.
PJ and I stand in horrified silence as Jake breaks into a wide smile, like we just threw him a surprise birthday party. “Hey, guys!” he slurs. “Oh man, it’s great to see you.”
“Jake, what are you doing?”
He looks around groggily, like my question is hard to answer because it’s so obvious. “Nothing. What are you guys doing?”
“Are you okay?” PJ asks.
“Yeah,” Jake slurs. “Fine.” He tries to stand up, and does for a second, then slumps down to the floor on rubbery legs. He sits down on the floor right in front of the toilet, where everybody’s pee drips.
This can’t be Jake, because the Jake I know would never do that. This is way beyond a little charcoal on the sleeve of his shirt.
“Get the fuck up,” I say, disgusted. “Get off the dirty fucking floor.”
Normal Jake would launch himself at me like a bobcat for talking to him like that, but this version of Jake just smiles beatifically. “Not that dirty,” he says, his eyes closing as he pats the tiles like he’s petting a fluffy dog. “Not that dirty. S’fine.”
PJ leans over to me. “I think he’s on drugs.”
“Oh really, PJ?! Is that what you think? Are you sure we shouldn’t have the lab boys at CSI run some tests?”
Jake flaps a limp hand at us. “S’fine.” He smiles. I’ve never seen him so happy. “I’m just glad to see you guys.”
All the times Jake said he was tired because he was drinking NyQuil, was it actually something else? I guess it was. I know he drinks, and he smokes weed every now and then, but he never told us about anything heavier.
Man, I must be a pretty shitty friend not to have noticed this.
Jake seems to read my mind because the fog in his eyes lifts a little as he looks at me. “Dad must have upped his dosage,” he says. “They’re usually tens, but I think the doctor must’ve given him fifteens.”
Oh right, his dad’s painkillers. I guess that’s better than . . . heroin? I’m really reaching for a silver lining here. Jake tries to stand again and manages it this time, but after taking an experimental step toward us, he wobbles to one side and leans against the stall.
“Fifteen . . . maybe twenty.”
“You don’t look so good,” PJ says. “Maybe you should go to the nurse.”
Jake laughs, which is encouraging. “Uh, I don’t think so.”
He straightens up. His slick black hair has flopped down, like it often does, but he doesn’t push it back, and I wish he would. He doesn’t look like himself that way. “I just need some fresh air.”
“Ah yes,” I say. “Fresh air. The antidote to drugs.”
Jake gives me a dirty look. Good.
PJ pulls his phone halfway out of his pocket to check the time. “I hate to say this, but we should probably get going. I still have to drop the bear off and then get these keys back to Mr. Reali.” He shakes the massive bundle of keys.
It sure is a lot of keys. Heck, a key ring like that could probably unlock any door in the whole school. I remember Trey asking if I thought the raccoon was still up on the roof, and I’m seized by a strange compulsion.
“If you want some fresh air, I know just the place.”
— — —
We drop the bear behind the drama stage. PJ looks through the racks of costumes in the wings but can’t find a replacement shirt for his battered tuxedo.
Backstage, in the far corner, we find the rickety wooden ladder that leads up to the catwalk that runs through the rafters, high above the stage. I crane my neck back to look up at the catwalk, half hidden in the dark curtains above.
“Are you sure you can do this?” I ask Jake.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m cool.”
Jake does seem quite a bit better, although he’s still acting weird—he keeps remarking how amazing everything is and saying how much he loves me and PJ—but he’s not stumbling or sleepy anymore.
The three of us climb the ladder to the catwalk, the whole thing giving a disturbing shake with every step. It’s dark up on the catwalk and it smells like dust. Musty velvet curtains hang around us, muffling the sound of our footsteps on the metal grating. I peer over the railing at the stage far below us, then remind myself not to do that again as I grip the railing with both hands.
At the far end of the catwalk there’s another short ladder with a cage around it locked with a silver padlock. PJ hands me the janitor’s key ring, and I search through the keys for a silver one. There are three, and the second one works.
We climb up the ladder and push open a trapdoor in the ceiling that opens with a loud creak.
Sunlight pours down, blinding me. I close my eyes and grab the lip of the trapdoor and haul myself up onto the roof. I blink a couple of times, and then I’m looking at blue sky.
We’re on the roof.
PJ spreads his arms like wings and runs in a circle, scattering the white gravel that covers the rooftop.
“This is awesome!” He crosses to the edge of the roof and leans over so far that I’m afraid he’s going to tip over.
“Dude, be careful!”
“It’s fine. It’s not too high.”
I creep toward the edge and peek over to discover that PJ’s wrong. It is way too high. I look down into the courtyard and see the top of the flagpole below us. A potent rush of vertigo makes my head spin. It’s weird that flying with Dad, being one thousand feet up, doesn’t bother me, but standing on a roof thirty feet up makes me nervous, but there you have it.
“It’s not too high,” PJ repeats. “Besides, if I fell, I would just land on that ledge.”
He points down to a narrow ledge about five feet below us that circles the outside of the school.
I step back from the edge, and my heart rate dips back to normal. It is pretty cool up here. The roof is circular, like the building below us, and covered with little pebbles, like a stony beach.
I look back to check on Jake. He’s on the opposite side of the roof, arms crossed, looking out at the woods behind the school.
I try to enjoy the scenery myself. The sky is clear, limitless. It feels like if I could figure out how to let go, I could float up, up, and away into the endless blue. It’s been so long since I went flying with Dad, I didn’t realize how much I missed gaining a little altitude.
Trey would be disappointed to see that there are no vultures circling.
The dead raccoon is a couple of feet away, to our left, and PJ and I walk over to check it out. Getting thrown onto the roof hasn’t done anything to improve its condition. Its guts are leaking out in a wide splat, like a dropped cherry pie.
PJ whistles. “Grody.”
“Wicked,” I agree.
Jake strolls over, elegant as a runway model, smoking a joint.
“GEEZ,” I yell. “Don’t you ever stop with the fucking drugs?!”
Jake winces. “Not so loud, dude! I’m trying to even out. It’s just weed, for fuck’s sake.”
“It is just weed,” PJ agrees.
“Thank you,” Jake says, pulling another long toke and finally smoothing his hair back, thank God. He takes in the scenery and sighs. “Wow. This is beautiful.”
He sits down next to the raccoon and dangles his legs over the edge, which makes my heart skip.
PJ sits down next to Jake, pleased to temporarily be in his good graces, although I’m pretty sure it’s just the pills making Jake so friendly. PJ dangles his legs over the edge too, kicking them back and forth like a kid on a swing.
I sit down a few feet away from the edge and slowly scoot forward till I reach the lip. I try to stick my legs out over the edge, but I can’t. They simply won’t do it, so I cross them under me instead.
For a couple of minutes the three of us just chill and stare out over the schoolyard, wrapped in the rich, earthy smell of Jake’s joint. It’s beautiful up here. I should be enjoying it, but I can’t. I’m so annoyed with Jake. First the knife and now this. It doesn’t matter if I get him out of trouble; he’s just going to get himself back in. He’s wasting his life. It makes me want to push him off the damn roof.
I pick a smooth little pebble off the roof next to me and examine it. It looks just like all the other pebbles on the roof. It’s white, about the size of a large pearl. It’s warm in my hand, from sitting in the sun. I turn it over and notice a small vein of gray running up the side. On the side directly opposite the gray line, there’s a little pucker in the rock, a kind of fold. The rock is oblong, like an egg. I realize that actually it’s different from the other rocks on the roof. It’s unique.
I toss it off the roof and watch it fall all the way to the schoolyard below. Then I grab a handful of stones and let them run through my fingers with a clatter. Nobody will ever notice that one rock is missing from all of these.
Clouds float past the sun, creating shifting patterns of light and dark that drift across the parking lot. Beyond the parking lot, cars cruise slowly through the school zone on Main Street.
Jake quietly says, “I think I’m moving to California.”
“Uh-huh,” I say. “Sure.”
Jake says “I’m moving to California” so often, I’ve gotten used to tuning it out. It’s almost his catchphrase. Like one time he asked for avocado on his hot dog at the Shuckburgh Corner Store, and of course they didn’t have any, and Jake said, This is bullshit. I’m moving to California.
Another time I was at Jake’s house and I heard him upstairs getting in a huge fight with his dad. When he came down to the living room where I was watching TV, he was crying. It was the only time I’ve seen him cry. “My dad’s an asshole,” he said. “I’m moving to California.”
We walked to the drive-in afterward, climbed through a hole in the fence, and watched the end of one of the Fast and the Furious movies. I can’t remember which one. The one where they drive their cars fast. Jake spent the whole movie describing how great California is and all the stuff he was gonna do with his sister when he got there.
The whole California thing, it’s just a fantasy. One of those daydreams you construct to help you get through the tough parts of the day.
Jake’s eyes are half closed as he considers me, smoke drifting out of his nose like a dragon. “I mean it this time, Kirby.”
Something in his tone of voice makes me think he’s serious. “What?”
“California is nice,” PJ offers cheerfully. He points to Jake’s joint. “Marijuana is legal there, so that’ll be nice for you. And Kirby and I can visit you. We’ll come out to the coast, have a few laughs. . . .”
“How are you going to get there?” I ask skeptically.
“There’s a bus leaving from the Greyhound station down Main Street today at three thirty. I’ll walk over there and buy a ticket.”
Wait . . . is he serious? I can never tell when he’s kidding. God, I hate him.
“You always say you’re gonna move to California.” I try to mimic Jake’s voice, his deep monotone, as I say, “I’m gonna go to California and learn to surf and go shopping with my sister. Shuckburgh, Sucksburgh, Fuckburgh. School sucks. Everything sucks. Blah, blah, blah.” I throw another rock off the roof and then stare Jake right in the eyes to show I’m not scared of him. “Why don’t you wake up and smell what you’re shoveling?”
Jake looks at the joint between his fingers like it just said something, then tosses it over his shoulder, back onto the roof. He takes a long, shaky breath and looks straight ahead, out over the schoolyard. “I can’t stop taking my dad’s pills.” He says it in a weird voice. He doesn’t sound confident like he usually does. It sounds like a sentence he’s never said out loud before.
“He doesn’t notice,” Jake continues. “The bottles are so big and he’s zonked out most of the time himself. Or he’s not even there. He’s on the road so much. . . .” He takes another deep breath and plunges forward. “California is warm. I can go outside and walk on the beach. And it would be nice to see my sister again. It’s been years. I bet I’m taller than her now. I don’t know if I am or not. Isn’t that weird?”
I want to tell Jake that I know how he feels, but I can’t.
He turns and sees my expression, which I guess doesn’t look great. “I know it annoys you that I talk about my sister so much, but maybe she can help me. . . . I don’t know.” He moves the pebbles around, raking them into lines with his fingers. “I just gotta do something different.”
A little voice in my head suggests, Maybe you should move to California too, bud. I could start over. Avoid my parents and all their bullshit and Melanie and all my bullshit—but I can’t. As annoyed as I am with my parents, I wouldn’t do that to them.
Jake already said when the bus leaves, but I ask again anyhow, to fill the silence. “What time does the bus leave?”
“Three thirty. I’m gonna leave right after school, and by the time my dad gets home from his trip tomorrow and sees I’m not there, I’ll be, like, halfway through Texas or whatever. I’m not gonn
a tell my mom because she’ll try to stop me. But once I’m already there”—he throws a handful of pebbles off the roof—“I guess she’ll be cool with it.”
“You’re going to bus there?” PJ says. “That’s gonna take forever.”
Jake shrugs. “I’ve got more time than money.”
“How much money do you have?”
He pulls a crumpled wad of money out of his pocket and smooths the bills out on his leg. I count three tens, a twenty, a couple ones.
I’ve never taken a bus to California, but I’m pretty sure it costs more than fifty-something bucks. I reach into my pocket and hand Jake another twenty, which is all I have.
Jake protests, pushing it away. “Ah, no, man, c’mon. Don’t.”
“I honestly don’t think you can make it to California with only fifty bucks.”
He grudgingly takes the money. “I guess you’re right.”
PJ hands Jake a two-dollar bill. “Sorry. It’s all I’ve got. I spent the rest on jelly beans.”
Jake scrutinizes the bill. “Did you draw sunglasses on George Washington?”
“No. I drew sunglasses on Thomas Jefferson. But don’t worry. It’s still good. They’ll take it.” PJ nudges Jake. “Treat yourself. Buy some nice marijuana.”
“PJ,” I say.
“Sorry.”
I have a sudden urge to get off this damn roof. “I gotta get back to class.”
“Yeah,” PJ says, checking the time on his phone, “I have to give these keys back to Mr. Reali, then finish setting up in the gym.”
“Okay, cool,” Jake says, staring out across the parking lot. “Just give me one more minute. I just want to spend one more minute . . . like this.”
— — —
Like I said, Melanie got sick twice. The first time she was five years old and I was only three, so I don’t remember it. She got my bone marrow, I got these lovely kitchen-countertop teeth, and she got better.
My parents periodically reminded us of the fact that it was my bone marrow that saved Melanie and that I was so brave for donating it, but whenever they brought it up, Melanie and I would give each other unimpressed looks, because, I mean, c’mon, I was only three. It’s not like I volunteered.
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