Stick

by Michael Harmon

  Feet dangling, I lowered myself, trying to pretend I was hanging from a monkey bar and not a pipe on the top of a building. Despite the breeze, beads of sweat gathered on my forehead. My body was plastered against the side of the building, my hands white-knuckled on the bar above me. I looked down to the balcony. I had guessed fifteen feet from up there, but here the gap from my toes to the concrete balcony seemed like a hundred.

  So I hung there. I could try to pull myself up, but there was nothing farther back on the roof to grab that would allow me to pull myself over to safety. The movies, I realized, were full of crap. There was no way I could swing my leg back up over the bar. I imagined a news helicopter hovering, the camera rolling as they reported on the poor demented teenager hanging over the edge of a nineteen-story building. Breaking News. Eat your dessert and watch the drama unfold.

  I don’t know how long I hung there, but my hands began to cramp and my shoulder sockets were tortured balls of fire. I was never good at making decisions. Decisions were made for me, and I followed them. Now I was alone. And in a bit of an uncomfortable position.

  I looked down again, cussing myself. Count to three and do it. Let go. Tuck and roll just like Vin Diesel or Tom Cruise.

  I let go.

  I quickly found that tucking and rolling when falling vertically does not work, and the pain that blasted through my body was proof of it. Forward motion was needed to roll. I landed like a collapsing scarecrow, my knees buckling, hitting my chin, my butt slamming into the concrete. I tasted blood, rolled onto my back, and lay there, looking at the faded stars rimming my eyes.

  After a minute or so, I detected no broken bones or extreme pain. Just the pain of stupidity, and a crunched tongue. I turned my head and spat a glob of blood and saliva.

  Preston didn’t have the blinds drawn, and as I lay there, looking into his room, I had a hard time focusing. I’d crashed pretty hard and was surprised I hadn’t alerted him.

  Taking another breath, I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them again. The lights were off, and the only glow came from the lamp on his desk. I saw movement through the sliding glass door.

  Preston, with shadows drawn about him, stood next to his bed, his clothes bulky. He stuffed items into his school backpack, intent. I shouldn’t say stuffed. Preston would never stuff anything anywhere. Whatever he was putting into the pack was carefully placed. Through the dimness, I could only see that what other items he put inside, he did with his typical organized manner.

  He was leaving. I was stuck on his balcony. Sudden unease spread through me as I watched him. I was spying, and it didn’t feel good. My imagined daring and heroic appearance disappeared, and I was left with being a Peeping Tom.

  Groaning, I tore my eyes from him and stared at the star-glittered sky. He was leaving. Where? Why? Had today pushed him over the edge?

  As I sat up, my head swam. Before I knew it, Preston had zipped up the bag and exited his room. Fear gripped me. I rose to my knees and crawled to the door. Please, God, be unlocked. I imagined myself stuck on the balcony all night, the sun rising, Preston’s mom coming in and seeing me curled up outside like a homeless stalker freak. Oh God.

  Gathering my courage, I crept to the slider. I reached up and pulled on the handle. It slid open gracefully, and I let out a breath. Now that I’d officially gone from a freako stalker to a criminal by breaking and entering, I somehow felt better.

  As an attorney, Tom wouldn’t agree, I was sure.

  I quietly shut the balcony door behind me, then opened the bedroom door. I was just in time to hear the front door shut: Preston leaving. Walking quickly, I decided to leave by way of the kitchen. Once out on the landing, I pressed the elevator button.

  In another minute or two, I was breathing the fresh night air outside the car lift, my crimes and humiliation averted.

  Then I saw him.

  The streetlamps cast his small frame in long shadows as he walked toward the bridge. I had my keys in my hand, and I looked at my car in the distance, then back at his fading figure. I followed, hustling after him.

  Across the bridge and to the downtown core, Preston walked quickly, head down, hands in his pockets, hood pulled over his head. Twenty minutes later, he left the business district, turned right, and headed into a neighborhood I’d never been in before.

  Nestled against the river, the decrepit houses, broken-down cars, garbage-strewn yards, and barking dogs were more numerous than the occasional well-kept and tidy home. Spokane might not be a sprawling metropolis with all of the metropolitan problems that bigger cities had, but we did have one thing in common with them: not a lot of money.

  Hardened people were made hard by scratching a living from low-paying jobs, and more than a few of the neighborhoods showed the wear and tear of an economy that had sputtered and stalled for years. This was one of them.

  This late, most houses simply had a porch light burning; some had nothing at all, just black shapes in the night. Streetlights were few and far between, and I had a hard time following Preston. I did notice that he slowed his walk, taking his hands out of his pockets. He turned his head left and right as he went, as if he was looking for an address, and his posture changed, too. His sloped shoulders were squared, his walk steadier.

  A car came from behind, its headlights glowing as it drove slowly toward us. I was half a block behind Preston, and as the car passed me, he suddenly stopped and turned around, watching the car come. I stepped behind a massive maple tree next to the sidewalk, watching. The car sped up and drove by, under the pressure of Preston’s attention, and as it rounded a corner, Preston broke into a jog, following it.

  I, in turn, followed, pacing him, slowing as he rounded the corner. Two blocks up, I saw the taillights of the car disappear once again.

  Preston kept jogging, then abruptly stopped. I realized the car hadn’t turned a corner. They’d turned their headlights off and were driving slowly toward a car parked on the side of the street.

  I couldn’t help but wonder what Preston was doing. A drug deal? Trafficking in stolen stuff? Meeting with an assassin to kill Tom, who I was sure had given him the black eye?

  I didn’t know. Couldn’t know with him. Preston was a mystery at every turn. I watched him carefully as I crept closer.

  As I did, I saw that the car had stopped. The doors opened. Three figures got out and walked toward the parked car. My skin tingled. Eyes back on Preston. It looked like he was taking his clothes off. I blinked, confused, and the next thing I knew, he was running.

  Straight toward the car.

  From half a block away, he ran right at them, angling across the street at a sprint. I caught a flash of silver glinting on him as he did. I saw a flowing shadow waving behind him, and as he passed one of the few streetlamps, I gaped.

  Preston wasn’t Preston. Black tights with silver lightning bolts staggered from hip to ankle. A silver cape edged with jagged black streamed behind him. A black plastic motorcycle chest plate, ribbed with the same silver lightning bolts. Elbow protectors. A utility belt. Black leather gloves. And last but not least, a silver mask covering his eyes.

  A superhero.

  Preston Underwood thought he was a superhero.

  In any other place or time, I would have started laughing uncontrollably. Watching him sprint awkwardly down the street, his knobby knees knocking, his arms pumping, his cape waving, I would have thought it the funniest thing in the world.

  But not here. Not now. Not when the full realization of what he was doing slammed into me as hard as the football my dad had drilled into my chest.

  You never do anything dangerous, do you?

  My breath left me just as I heard the muffled sound of the men breaking the car window. Preston kept on, running closer to them. Intent on breaking into the car, the three men hadn’t noticed him charging. I swallowed back a scream, watching in horror as he reached his targets.

  He stopped, and just like in every movie I’d ever seen, he faced them, hands on hips. I co
uldn’t hear what he was saying. I did, however, hear them laugh.

  They walked toward him.

  Just as the first man shoved Preston, I ran. I ran harder and faster than I ever had on the field. Faster than with any football tucked in my arm heading toward a championship. I ran with my teeth clenched, fear in my heart, tears gathering in my eyes, and panic coursing through every fiber of my body.

  When Preston slammed into the ground, I lowered my shoulder and hit the first guy harder than Tilly had ever pounded an offensive lineman into the turf. I felt the air leave him, heard his teeth crunch together, saw his feet leave the ground, and heard his ribs snapping.

  The guy flew backwards, then skidded across the pavement. My momentum carried me on top of him. His head snapped back and hit the pavement, and he went out like a light. I stared into his slack face, wondering for an instant if I’d killed him. Then I heard a scream.

  It wasn’t Preston. I twisted, turning to look back, and there was Preston, sitting on his butt, calmly spraying a canister of pepper spray into the face of the second man. The guy sprang away, writhing, clawing at his burning eyes, screaming bloody murder as he inhaled the fire.

  With the canister empty and the third guy coming at him, Preston scrambled at his belt, fumbling for something.

  “Stop!” I heard the word coming from my throat, a bellow more than a scream, before I knew I said it. The man did stop. He looked at me. He was big. Bigger than me. Around twenty or so, he had a scraggly goatee and wore a Harley Davidson shirt, and his eyes were dark discs in the shadows cast by the streetlight. He glanced at his buddies, one still writhing on the ground, slobbering pepper spray and mucus, the other laid out cold on the concrete.

  Anger replaced my fear, and just like the lightning bolts running down Preston’s costume, it struck me. I stomped toward him, fists balled, ready to take the beating Preston had taken for me.

  The guy blinked, looking from me to Preston, who sat calmly, staring at me. The man shook his head. “You’re crazy.” Then he ran.

  The pepper-sprayed man groveled on the ground, rubbing his eyes. Preston frowned at me. “What are you doing here, Brett?”

  I walked over to him, reaching down and offering my hand in the semi-darkness. The stars still glimmered, the rage faded, the street was quiet, and I looked into his masked eyes. “I guess I’m helping a…superhero.”

  “You’re not Batman.”

  He’d put his pants and hoodie back on, and I almost felt like what had just happened was normal. He adjusted the backpack on his shoulder. “Batman isn’t real, Brett.”

  I stopped, remembering the black eye, the bruises. Those guys would have torn him apart tonight. Then again, when I’d turned back to him after the guy ran away, he’d had a Taser in his hands. “Preston, this isn’t a joke. You’re not a superhero.”

  When he’d gotten back into his regular clothes, his usual demeanor returned. Slump-shouldered, hands in his pockets, and passive, he looked at me. “You are, though.”

  “What?”

  His eyes pierced mine. “You dress up in a colorful costume and pretend you’re something you’re not every Friday night to play a game. I do the same thing, but there are two differences between us.”

  “What?”

  “The first is that when you dress up like an idiot and beat the crap out of your opponents, thousands of people think you’re sane. They cheer and they clap and they wish they were you.”

  “And the second?”

  His expression hardened, and his voice was like a viper’s hiss. “The second? The second difference is that what you do is completely useless. It’s idiotic. You play a game for points on a scoreboard. There’s no value to it, and therefore, there’s no value to you.”

  “This is your way of thanking me?” I pointed back the way we came. “I might play a stupid game, but I don’t go out risking my life for a stolen stereo! You’re the idiot, Preston.”

  He spoke quickly, anger and contempt lacing his voice. “I wasn’t thanking you, and perhaps you didn’t know it, but there are two million high school sports injuries a year in this country, thirteen point two percent of which are head injuries. Anybody with an ounce of logic would realize that suffering a head injury for no reason is the definition of being an idiot, but I didn’t call you an idiot. I called football idiotic, which is different, but you wouldn’t know that because your brain can’t handle anything more complicated than how many steps to run in a pattern so you can catch a ball.”

  “Well, that doesn’t matter anymore because I quit—remember? And besides, even if football is useless, what you’re doing is useless, too.”

  He swung his backpack at me full-force, and in the next second he was on me, flapping his arms, slapping me, trying to hit me. I felt like I was being attacked by a herd of sixth-grade girls. Hunching over and putting my arms over my head, I waited until he was finished.

  Finally he stood back, panting, his eyes wild, staring at me.

  I peeked at him through the crook of my elbow, expecting another flurry. “Are you done?”

  He kicked his backpack, sending it into the street. “I know I’m not a superhero! I know I’m not strong or tough and I can hardly walk down the street without tripping over my own fucking feet, but if I’d just been able to do something when—” He stopped suddenly, swallowing, and I saw tears in his eyes.

  In the next breath, he snatched up his pack and ran. His footsteps echoed down the street as he disappeared into the darkness. And as I watched him go, I knew I’d hurt him. This wasn’t a game to him, and it wasn’t pretending. I felt like a fool. There was nothing for him to win, I realized, because he couldn’t win his father back to life.

  I cut the headlights and coasted to the curb in front of my house. Thank God there were no lights on, and as I opened the car door, I hoped my dad was beer-sleeping. A tornado wouldn’t wake the guy up when he fell asleep with a beer in his hand.

  I knew I was in all kinds of trouble. I’d stolen back my car, which he knew about now for sure; I’d quit the team and declined a scholarship; and at one-thirty in the morning I was way past my curfew. A week ago if I’d ever thought of doing those things, I’d have thought I’d be better off slitting my wrists and jumping off a bridge.

  As I tiptoed up the porch stairs, I grunted. Tiptoeing? It was like sneaking back into prison. Straightening, I opened the front door. It banged into something. Pushing, I moved whatever it was and poked my head in, looking down.

  There, barely glinting from the moonlight, was a box full of every trophy I’d ever won. I smiled. At least it was a big box.

  “Those are yours.”

  His voice came from the recliner. His words were slurred, but not like the usual drunk-and-half-asleep slur. I stepped inside. He turned the lamp on.

  I shut the door. “I’m sorry I’m late and I’m sorry I took my car. I should have told you.”

  He pointed to the box. “You earned those. Keep them. Nothing else, though.” He held his hand out. “Keys.”

  I looked down at the box, then back at him. “What’s going on?”

  “It means you no longer live here. You take your trophies and get out.”

  “Dad, come on. I said I wa—”

  “GET OUT!” he boomed.

  He was half drunk, but this wasn’t just the booze talking. The football drilling my chest flashed through my mind. I wondered for a second if he’d turned into a total jerk or if I’d just gotten old enough to know he’d always been one. “Okay. I’ll pack my clothes and leave.”

  He shook his head. “You take the clothes on your back and that box full of wasted dreams. Get out.”

  “Dad, come on.”

  “You screwed up, Brett. You’ve thrown away everything you’ve been given, and this is what happens to people like that. Give me the keys.”

  “No.”

  He stood, his eyes boring into me. “Now!”

  “Or what? You got a football you want to hit me with? Maybe grab me
and shake me? That’s one of your favorites, right? Throw me up against the wall? Slap me again?” I stared right back at him. “You know what I did tonight? I tried to help a kid who lost his dad. Murdered right in front of him. He goes out and tries to make the world a better place because of it. You know what I do? I catch a fucking ball. That’s all I’m supposed to do, right? And now your poor little world is ruined.”

  He came at me, his eyes flaring, and as he did, I raised my hands and shoved him. Hard. He flew back, crashing against the recliner and falling to the floor. His expression showed that he was as stunned as I was. I swallowed, then shook my head. “You’re never going to touch me again. All I wanted was a dad. Just a dad. Not a coach or mentor or teacher. Just a dad.” I looked at the box of trophies, then kicked. They flew across the room, scattering. “I’m keeping my keys,” I said.

  He blinked, staring.

  I slammed the door shut on the way out.

  Back in my car, I drove to the nearest parking lot and sat. Then I dialed Mike. I got his message, then called again. He answered on the fifth ring. “Hey, Brett,” he said, his voice sleepy.

  “Hey,” I said, uncomfortable. “What’s up?”

  “Well, it’s two a.m. I was sleeping.”

  “Yeah. Sorry. You mind if I camp out at your house tonight? My dad and I got into it.”

  He hesitated. “I heard about today with Tilly and Killinger. Your new friend went apeshit on them.”

  “If that’s what they say.”

  “He’s the one with the eggs, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Both of them are gunning for you now. You know that, right?” he said.

  “It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m done.”

  “You’re not coming back to the team?”

  “No.”

  He paused again. “I can’t believe you’re doing this, Brett.”