I stood. “We’re done. Bye.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The cool thing about Under the Bridge is that when it rains, you don’t get wet. With thousands of tons of concrete and steel above your head, you have a good umbrella. Sid sat on the usual wall after school, chewing a wad of beef jerky. He kicked his heels against the brick. “Are you on steroids?”
I dropped my pack. “No.”
“Are you going to beat me up?”
“No.” I shrugged. “In fact, I was called to my counselor’s office today to talk about my feelings of anger,” I said, smirking.
“I figured. That’s why I asked.”
I looked at him. “You figured that I was going to be called down?”
He nodded. “Yeah. After I went and told Ms. Potter you were on the edge of apeshit, she said she’d talk to you.” He held out his bag of dried meat. “Jerky?”
I stared, speechless.
“You said you wouldn’t beat me up. No take-backs.”
I snapped out of beat-Sid-up mode, taking a breath. “Why would you do that, man? I’ve got enough crap to deal with right now, and I don’t need you ratting on me.”
“Yeah, you do need me doing that. But I didn’t rat on you. Ms. Potter is cool. I trust her,” he said.
“Big mistake, Sid.”
“You were right when you got pissed at me. We’re a crew.” He looked at me. “I may be weird and antisocial and all that other stuff, Tate, but I’m not stupid. You’re heading toward some serious shit with Will and your bro and your family, and honestly, I’m afraid about it.”
“Maybe, but you shouldn’t have done that.”
“I did do it. And I’m right. Will is different, man. He’s hard-core, and if you two tangle, it won’t be pretty.”
“I can’t believe you really went there.”
“Just do me a favor, huh? Talk to her. She helped me with some stuff.”
I took a breath, thinking about her question. Did it feel good to hit him? It’d been hounding me all day. “What did she help you with?”
“After Cutter died.”
“Oh yeah?” I said, surprised.
He nodded. “Yes.” He gazed up, staring at the underpass. “Sometimes I was just wishing I could get out, you know? Like him. Just end everything. My dad and his drinking, no money, all that crap. Not like I wanted to actually kill myself, but just that feeling you get in the morning. Like you really wished you didn’t wake up. Like you could be … nothing.”
“Jesus, Sid, you should have said something.”
He shook his head. “I know what my life is, Tate, but she sort of helped me realize that it wasn’t set in stone. That just because I was born weird and my life sucks in general, it didn’t always have to be that way.”
I smiled. “You are weird.”
“I know. But that’s not bad. Just something to deal with.”
I looked at him. “She really helped you, huh?”
“I guess.”
“Cool. And I’ll think about it. Talking to her and stuff.”
“Good, because I suck at this human stuff.” An awkward moment passed. “Piper tells me you want in on the Invitational.”
I hopped up on the ledge. “Thinking about it. You?”
“Naw. Not a corporate hack.” He slid me a look. “No offense.”
I laughed. “None taken.”
He looked across the street, chewing his beef jerky. “Pipe wants to do it.”
“Yeah.”
“The rules state that first, you need a sponsor. Second, you need a team. At least three people. Teams compete, win or lose, and there’ll also be an individual winner. That person gets a national sponsor.”
“Yeah.”
He nodded. “Get Badger to sponsor us and I’m in.”
“Really?”
A smile lit up his face. “Of course I’m in. We’re a crew, remember?”
I smiled, hitting his shoulder. “You know, Sid, you’re not that bad after all.”
“Don’t get emotional.”
“Sorry. Didn’t think hitting you on the shoulder was emotional.”
He shrugged. “First it’s hitting, then the next thing is you trying to stick your tongue down my throat. I know how things work.”
I laughed. “I’ll just have to keep my feelings to myself. Just always know I want you.”
He hopped from the ledge as Piper crossed the street. “Are we going to skate? I feel a romantic interlude coming on that I’m not too comfortable with.”
As we set our packs on the concrete platform at the edge of the Monster, Corey and his crew showed up, saw us, and sat at the rails. Piper smiled, nodding to them. “Dude looks like a raccoon.”
I threw Sid a look. “Be back in a minute,” I said, heading toward them. Corey saw me coming and stood, the expression on his face uncertain. I lifted my chin at him. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
A moment passed, and I wondered why I was doing what I was doing. I cleared my throat. “How’s the face?”
He didn’t answer.
I sighed. “Listen, Corey, I might think you’re a prick and a bully, but I shouldn’t have done what I did.”
He narrowed his bruised eyes at me. “So?”
I shrugged. “So I shouldn’t have jumped on you so quick.”
He studied me, licking his lips. “This some sort of joke?”
I clenched my jaw. “Take it how you want it, but no, it’s not. And it’s not an apology, either. You’re an asshole. But I shouldn’t have jumped you so quick.”
He blinked, studying my face. “Okay.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The next day before school, after another evening of pins and needles in the house, I grabbed my board and pack and headed down to room 143. Mrs. Nelson was Indy’s English teacher, and she sat behind her desk talking to a student when I came in. She made eye contact with me as she talked, so I stood to the side for a few minutes until the conversation was over.
Mrs. Nelson was in her mid-fifties, and though I’d never had her, I’d heard she was hard. She turned to me as the other student left. “May I help you?”
I nodded, stepping to her desk. “I’m Tate Brooks. Indy’s brother. He’s in your class third period.”
Her eyes darkened. “He does occasionally come to my class.”
“He’s suspended right now.”
“I am aware of that.” She smiled, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. More sarcastic than anything. “I suppose you’re here to get his homework?”
“No.” I dug in my pack, ignoring the jab, and took out “Stealing Home.” “I was wondering if you could read this. He wrote it. I think it’s good.”
She looked at it as I held it out to her. “Is it an assignment? We’re working on essays right now. I believe he has two that have not been turned in. Of course, along with just about every other assignment this semester.”
“No. It’s just something he wrote. A story. He loves writing.”
She didn’t take it. “I’m sorry, Mr. Brooks, but I don’t have time to be entertained with something written by a student who doesn’t care enough to attend my class, let alone complete the assignments I hand out.”
I nodded. “I know, but if you could just … he writes all the time, and I think if you read it, you’d like it.”
She pursed her lips, irritated. “Perhaps your brother should concentrate on what work he does have if he expects to get anywhere useful in his life. He’s welcome to come see me anytime to speak about the matter.”
I tucked “Stealing Home” back in my pack. “Whatever.”
“Excuse me?”
I stared at her. “Fuck you, lady.” Then I left.
“Yeah, I did.”
Ms. Potter looked at me. “Why?”
I looked back at her. I wasn’t about to gush about taking Indy’s story to Mrs. Nelson. “Because she’s a bitch.”
She took a breath. “I talked to Vice Principal Poppe, and she’s agreed t
o let you out of detention.”
I furrowed my brow. “Why? I told a teacher off.”
“I told her I’d get you to see me instead. For anger-management sessions.”
I laughed. “I’ll take detention.”
“Did you think about my question, Tate?”
I paused, not sure I wanted to get into this. “Yes.”
“And?”
“Yeah, it felt good. And yes, I wanted to hit him.”
“Do you think that’s good to feel that way?”
“I think he deserved it.”
“That’s not what I asked. Is it good for you to feel rewarded by causing pain to another person?”
I shook my head, frustrated. “No, and I know what you’re getting at. I’m not some psycho who gets off on hurting people. It’s just …,” I said, looking away. I’d never really thought about it like this, and it was disturbing. “It’s just that it makes it stop, you know?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
I shrugged. “It makes it stop. All the shit in this world. All the people who should do the right thing but don’t. You can’t talk them into it. It’s easier to just make them.”
“So forcing them through violence makes them do the right thing?”
I looked at her. “The kid got a new board, didn’t he? Tell me that isn’t right.”
“That may be true, but do you think there could have been a peaceful way to solve the problem? Maybe through proper channels?”
“Don’t give me the no-violence bullshit, okay? It might work in your little world, but it doesn’t work in mine.”
She leaned forward on her desk, her palm under her chin. She fiddled with a pen. “If the police had been contacted, they would have contacted his parents and the school. It would have been moderated, and a solution could have been reached, including punishment.”
I smiled. “I solved the problem in three minutes.”
She sat back, frustrated. “So we should all just go around beating up people we disagree with? Come on, Tate, you’re smarter than that. You’re not a brute. I know it.”
For the first time, the real person seemed to come through, and for some stupid reason, it meant something to me. “I talked to him.”
“Who?”
“Corey. Told him I shouldn’t have jumped him so quick.”
She blinked, then smiled. “Wonderful.”
I shook my head. “Not really. Just makes it easier for douche bags like him to keep pulling stuff.”
“Then why did you talk to him?”
I looked away. “Because I know you’re right, but sometimes things just can’t be that way.”
On the way home, I noticed flashing lights down the alley adjacent to the skate park. Yellow police tape cordoned off the entrances, and several police cars, an ambulance, and two unmarked cars surrounded the area. A news crew filmed off to the side of the scene, and I stopped where a group of skaters were watching.
I stood next to Billy Oliver, a sophomore I’d seen around the park. “What’s up?” I asked.
“Found a dead guy behind a Dumpster.”
“Bum?”
He shook his head. “Nope,” he said, pointing to two detectives questioning a kid. “Alex Larson found him.”
Trepidation filled me. “Who was it?”
“Lucius. Deal went bad, I guess. Beat to death.”
I furrowed my brow. “Any word on who did it?”
He shook his head. “None, but it was pretty brutal.”
I nodded. “Looks like things will change around here, then,” I said, my mind swimming.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I skated the sidewalk in front of the field house after talking with Ms. Potter and watched as a busload of girls from another high school piled off and streamed inside, blocking my way. They wore volleyball uniforms. I thought of Kimberly Lawson.
As the last girl filed off the bus and the coach followed them in, I kicked my board up, strapped it to my pack, and went inside. Up a twenty set, to the left, and down a carpeted hall found me at the doors to the gym. I peeked inside, and the stands were filling with students and parents while the Lewis and Clark varsity team warmed up, bumping and setting and spiking as their opponents put their bags down and got ready. This was a different world than mine, that was for sure.
I stood at the doors as people hustled by, and found Kimberly on the court, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail as usual. She looked like every other long-legged chick on the court hitting balls over the net. Black shorts, knee pads, tennis shoes, orange and black jersey, hair pulled tight. Just as I was about to walk back out, she looked up and saw me. She stared for a moment, then smiled before the coach yelled at her for missing her turn.
I walked in and found a seat on our team’s side. I’d never watched a volleyball game in my life, and it took me a while to figure out that you couldn’t score a point unless your team served the ball, but it was cool.
Kimberly was an awesome player, and after a few good saves where she dove in and bumped the ball up for another player to get, I found myself caught up in the game, cheering the team on. They were playing Mead, which had a good team. I heard the fans around me talking about a championship if they could take them out, and the tension was high enough that I thought I might have a feeling of school spirit.
By the end of the game, Kimberly had made a bunch of aces when she served the ball, which meant that nobody on the other side was able to return it. I felt like a complete goofball not knowing anything. I didn’t even know how long they would play, if there were quarters or halves or periods. But I had a good time. A strange good time. I almost felt like an alien in my own school; schools don’t have much use for skaters, and because of that, skaters don’t have much use for school.
LC won, and with the last serve capping the game, the crowd stood and cheered, going apeshit. I watched as the girls celebrated on the court, then gave the other team a cheer, and the coach huddled with them for a talk. People were filing out of the gym, and I stood, looking for Kimberly on the sidelines. When I found her, she was hugging her dad. He was totally beaming. Our eyes locked for just a moment before she focused back on the celebration, and a smooth river of electricity ran through me. I smiled, shaking my head at why I felt the way I did, and then I left.
I skated through the park on the way home, looking for Indy, wanting to talk to him about Gregory in “Stealing Home.” He wasn’t around, so I split, and I wasn’t really in the mood to skate anyway. By the time I got home, Mitchell the grom was sitting on our front porch. “Hey, Mitch. How’s the deck?”
He smiled. “Great.”
“So, what’s going on?”
He sniffed, scrunching his nose up, then picking it. He flung a booger. “Awww, just around, you know?”
Then I remembered. “The trucks. That’s right. They’re in the garage. Just a second and we’ll stick ’em on.” I opened the door and dropped my pack in the entry, calling out to Mom. No answer. She must have been in the salon with a late client. I went back out, waving for Mitch to follow me around to the driveway.
As I slid the garage door open, Will’s beat-up old station wagon pulled up and Indy got out. I straightened as my bro came down the driveway. “Hey, Indy.”
He looked tired. Dark bags under his eyes made him look strung out, and his hair was greasy. He wore a new gold necklace. Real gold. He smiled. “Hey, bro.” He looked at Mom’s car. “Mom inside?”
I shook my head. “Late client. In back.” Dad had built a small, one-room building for Mom to do hair in, and she’d been developing a clientele for a while now, working more.
“Cool.”
“You look like hell.”
He grinned. “Thanks.”
I smiled. “You coming home?”
He shook his head. “Getting some stuff. Clothes and crap.”
“Oh.”
He stood there for a moment looking at me, then smiled at Mitch. “Hey, shrimp.”
“Hey. You going to the Pro Skater Invitational?”
Indy furrowed his brow, like he’d forgotten. “Here?”
Mitch smiled. “Yeah. End of next week at the arena. They’re setting up the whole floor. Huge pipe, man, bigger than the Monster. It’s gonna be on national TV.” He burped. “They’re also letting local guys skate after the pros, but only sponsored. Top guy wins, top crew wins.”
Indy rolled his eyes. “Sorry. Not for me.”
Mitch looked at me. “You going?”
I thought about Piper wanting to go sponsored. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
Mitch smiled again. “My dad said he’d buy a ticket for me if I worked every day after school. I’m going.” He looked at us. “We could go together, huh? The whole crew or something, right? That would be bangin’.”
Indy shrugged, sliding me a glance. “Not interested, man. Sponsored guys blow. Listen, I’m grabbing my stuff and jetting. Take it easy.” Then he left, walking around the corner of the house to the front door.
I grabbed the trucks out of a drawer and set them on the driveway, then began unscrewing Mitch’s old ones from his deck. I glanced at Will in the station wagon. He took a drag from a smoke, then flicked the butt on our driveway. I stood. “I’ll be back in a minute, Mitch. Hang on.”
He grabbed the screwdriver and the wrench. “Sure. I can get the others off.”
“Good deal.” I walked down the driveway toward Will, then thought better of it, turning and going to our front door.
I found Indy in our room, stuffing clothes in a bag. “Hey.”
He continued stuffing. “Hey.”
“I read some of your stuff.”
He kept his head down. “Stay out of it. It’s not yours.”
I looked at him. “I read ‘Stealing Home.’ ”
He paused, said nothing, then went back to packing.
“It’s you, isn’t it? Gregory is you.”
He concentrated on his bag. “It’s none of your business, Tate.”
“Yeah, it is my business.”
He straightened. “What, then? What do you have to say?”
“Gregory killed himself.”
Under the Bridge Page 8