Under the Bridge

by Michael Harmon

  Mr. Halvorson—the teacher who had thrown Indy up against the locker for skating down the hall—sat behind his desk, the empty chairs in his classroom almost cold now that the butts of twenty-eight Honors English seniors were no longer in them. He didn’t like Indy. I couldn’t think of a teacher who did, though.

  He looked up when I came in. “Can I help you?”

  I looked at the foot of his desk. A baseball bag, cleats sticking out the open top, lay there. “I’m Tate Brooks. We met the other day.”

  He nodded, indifferent. “Yes. Your brother Indy. The skater.”

  I nodded. “The person.”

  He sat back, crossing his ankle over his knee. “What can I do for you, Mr. Brooks?”

  I shifted on my feet. “I was wondering if you could read something.”

  He pursed his lips. “You’re a writer?”

  I shrugged. “I was just hoping you could take a look. Maybe let me know what you think.”

  He contemplated. “Why not give it to your English teacher?”

  I balked, digging for an answer. My teacher would know in a heartbeat that I hadn’t written “Stealing Home.” I shrugged again. “I heard you had a book published, so I was figuring you’d be the best judge.” I smiled. “That and you’re the department head.”

  He smiled, taking the compliments as intended. “What is it?”

  I dug in my pack, taking out “Stealing Home” and handing it to him. “It’s not very long. Just a short one.”

  He studied it. “ ‘Stealing Home,’ huh?” He grinned. “A baseball story?”

  “Yeah.” I played dumb, pointing to his baseball bag. “You’re the coach?”

  He nodded. “I guess you could say by default. I’m the only faculty member with college ball under his belt, so I was nominated. We lost Coach Xavier two years ago to the University of Arizona.”

  “Cool.”

  Mr. Halvorson tucked the story in his satchel. “Depends on who you talk to, huh?” He stood. “I’ll get to it as soon as I can.”

  I smiled. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  I stared at the blackness of the ceiling for over an hour, my mind running over all the things that could solve our issues, and anger bubbled up in me. I was used to dealing with things head-on. Have a problem, either bust your knuckles on it or blow it off. This was different.

  The barrel of that pistol aimed at my face scared me more than I liked to admit. And the flashing image of Will with his finger on the trigger and that cold look in his dark eyes, telling me he’d like to pull it, shook me to the bone. Fistfights were one thing, but staring at your death was over the edge for me.

  I’d always known what to do. Even if I didn’t think about all the different angles of something like my mom or Indy did, and even though I used my fists instead of my mouth more than I should, I’d always trusted my instincts to deal with what was right and wrong. Now I realized the barrel of that pistol was forcing me to think, because I was afraid. I hated being afraid, but I had to figure this out, and I had to figure it out before Indy got in too deep.

  I had to get to him. Talk to him. Find out the whole story. Tell him Mom wanted to see him, and that Dad would lay off him if he came home. I rose from bed and dressed in the dark, slipping my shoes on and opening the window. Throwing my board onto the lawn, I crawled out, and the night met me with as much foreboding as I met it with.

  There were two places I knew Indy might be, and I ran a pretty good chance of coming across Will at either. Will and his damn gun. Will and those cold eyes. With a shudder, I realized he was the first person I’d ever really been scared of. A person who rubbed me so the wrong way that I wanted nothing to do with him ever again. I realized what it was then. Will didn’t care. I did. And my dad had always said that if you’ve got nothing to lose, you’ll do anything to win.

  I just wanted out of this situation because my dad was right. I couldn’t win. But I couldn’t get out, either. I couldn’t give up on my brother.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was across the street and in the shadows Under the Bridge, waiting to see Indy come out of his hidey-hole to peddle drugs. I waited. Must be a slow night. No cars, no sign of movement. Then a car rounded the corner and idled down the street.

  They stopped at the curb, waiting, and a figure came out of the shadows a moment later. I could tell right away it wasn’t Indy. The figure was much bigger, tall, skinny, and slope-shouldered. Not Will. Somebody else. Probably some kid they’d sucked in just like Indy.

  I waited around for a half hour and four cars more, but the same guy came out each time, so I split, skating further downtown to the Coldstone. I couldn’t knock on the door, I knew that, but I figured if I hung out long enough, he might come out or go in. Not much of a chance, but the only alternative was to lie in bed all night staring at the ceiling.

  As I skated, I thought about Mindy, the prostitute I’d talked with, and wondered if she’d be there. I wondered if everybody down there had a story like hers, sad and screwed up and full of all the things nobody wanted to hear about in a world painted with just the right tones. I sighed, kicking my board up as I reached the corner of the building.

  And almost ran into Will. I stepped back, my breath catching at the surprise. He smiled, the streetlight over us casting a glowing bubble on the dirty sidewalk. “Well, if it’s not Tatertot.”

  I gripped my board, not wanting this. “Where is he?”

  He shrugged, grinning wider. “Not here. But I am.” He walked closer, facing me. “You want to settle our little problem, skater boy? Your bro isn’t here to see what I’m going to do to you.”

  I met his eyes, and everything I’d seen in them before was there now, but just bare and raw. Nothing to lose. “I don’t have a problem with you, Will. I just want to know where he is.”

  He shook his head, his teeth flashing. “You don’t seem to get it, Tater. Your brother is finished being second dog to you.” A wicked look came across his face, and he nodded, enjoying this game he was playing.

  “I’m not top dog to him.”

  “You’re right.” He leveled his eyes at me. “I am.”

  The gun I knew he had on him loomed huge in my head. “I don’t give a crap about what you do or anything, Will, and we don’t have a problem. He doesn’t belong here. That’s all. I’ve got nothing against you.”

  “Oh, he belongs here, all right. It’s you who doesn’t, and maybe we should settle that score right now, because I’ve got something against you.”

  “I don’t want to fight you.”

  He laughed. “It ain’t going to be a fight, you stupid fuck.”

  I shook my head, my heart hammering. I could feel it coming. “Stay away from him, Will. It’s not worth it. You can pick anybody else. Just not him.”

  He smiled, reaching behind his back. “You don’t have shit to say about—”

  I hit him with the flat of my board square on the side of the face, and he went down like a lump, crumpling to the sidewalk, his cheek split open, deep and bleeding. He moaned, and before he knew what was going on, I reached down and fumbled at his waist, bringing out a snub-nosed revolver and stuffing it in my pocket. In an instant I knew I was so far in this that there was only one way out.

  I should kill him. I should put the barrel of the pistol to his head and pull the trigger. I should end it the only way it would truly end, because if I didn’t do it, he’d end up doing me. I took the pistol out of my pocket. He opened his eyes. I put the barrel to his forehead. I cocked the hammer back.

  But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t be him. I was more. Better. Kim watching me beat that jackhole up in the parking lot flashed through my mind. No. I would be better. But I could scare him. I bent close to his ear. “You don’t care, Will. I know that. And I was afraid of it. But I’m not anymore. You picked the wrong family. The wrong kid. Leave him alone.” Then I was gone, walking down the sidewalk with my bloodied board in my hand, my knees shaking and a pistol in my pocket.

>   And I knew I was in trouble.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Every bone in my body screamed to hand the pistol over to my dad the next morning, but I didn’t. He’d flip out, pry the truth out of me, and go on a rampage, and I didn’t want that. My dad might be a tough son of a bitch, but he couldn’t stop a bullet. Neither could I, though, and my mind was blank about what to do.

  There was no way I could give it to Mom, either. I knew her well enough that I knew the first thing she’d do would be the right thing. She’d call the police. I thought again about Ms. Potter. It’s not the rules you follow, it’s how you follow the rules. Right isn’t always right, and for Indy’s sake, I had to figure this out before I spilled the beans.

  I stuffed it in my pack before I left for school. Dad didn’t say a word when I left, and Mom was already in the salon for one of her early birds. No sweat off my back. I didn’t feel like talking anyway. I felt like dissolving into nothing. Just like Sid had after Cutter died.

  I knew Angie and her friends hung out in the student parking lot under the freeway before school, and that was where I went. She wasn’t there, but three of her friends were. I’d gone to junior high with one of the guys, Pauly Higgins, and we’d gotten along well enough. He’d skated until he got into the Goth scene, and we’d drifted apart. The guy was as demented as he looked, but cool, and he always wore the long black overcoat, chains, makeup, and dyed black hair that made them who they were. “Hey, Paul.”

  He nodded, his eyes heavy with black eyeliner. “ ’Sup, Tate.”

  “Looking for Angie.”

  He laughed, shaking his head. “She doesn’t come around much anymore.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Thirteenth and Bernard. Green-and-white house on the corner.” He eyed me. “Looking for your brother?”

  I nodded. Word spread quickly.

  “I’ve seen him.”

  “Where?”

  “Rave down on Second last night. You know the warehouse?”

  “Yeah.”

  “There’s one there almost every night now.” He shook his head, pausing. “He’s hanging with that skinhead, you know.” He eyed me. “The skinhead has his tag on Angie, so be careful.”

  “Yeah.”

  He stared at me, the black eyeliner making the almond-shaped orbs look ominous. “Guy is bad news.”

  I nodded.

  He stepped away from his friends, motioning me away. We walked, and he lit a smoke. “Listen, Tate, I’m not the one to be telling you this because I like my dope as much as the next guy, but I always liked you.” He exhaled. “Your bro is dealing heavy at the raves. Not the light shit, either.”

  “I know.”

  He nodded. “Knew it wasn’t your crew’s bag. Thought I’d let you know.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No sweat, Tate. Indy was always cool.”

  As I turned away, he called to me again. I looked at him. “Yeah?”

  Pauly frowned. “He’s using, too.”

  Piper sat on the grass near the east entrance to the school when I got there, and I gave him some skin. We had a few minutes before class started. “What’s up?”

  He shook his head. “Old man went on a binge last night, dude. I swear when that guy starts on the booze, the world is going to pay.”

  Piper’s dad was the worst kind of drunk. “You sleep in the garage again?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Had to padlock the damn door from the inside this time. He was falling all over himself banging on it.” He paused. Piper’s dad wasn’t a topic he spoke of often. “Indy back at school today?”

  I shrugged. He’s using. “I don’t know if they’ll even let him back in now.”

  Piper smiled. “Funny thing. I saw Will this morning hanging around the park. Like he was looking for somebody or something.”

  I shrugged again. “Huh.”

  Piper studied me. “Looked like a truck hit the side of his face.”

  “Wow.”

  “You wouldn’t know anything about that, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  He deflated, slumping his shoulders. “Crap, Tate.”

  I looked off, down Under the Bridge. “Tell me something I don’t know, Piper.”

  “How’d it happen?”

  I told him, adding what I’d seen in the apartment.

  He grunted. “The gun.” I nodded.

  “Not your run-of-the-mill scum, huh?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “What’d you do with the gun?”

  “I have it.”

  His eyebrows popped up. “With you? Like, here?”

  I nodded.

  He looked around. “Not a good situation.”

  “I couldn’t leave it home. I know Mom searches our room, and Playboys and grass are different than a pistol.”

  “Dude, bringing a gun to school is, like, a capital offense now. They’ll fry you.”

  I shrugged. “If I threw it away, a kid could find it.”

  Piper looked at me. “You’re going to do something stupid, aren’t you?”

  I shrugged again. We’d known each other too long. “I’m not going to do anything unless Will does. I never wanted a problem in the first place.”

  “Listen, Tater, you know I hate Big Brother as much as the next normal-thinking person, but maybe you should think about going to the detectives. If he can get one gun, he can get another.”

  “Yeah, then they’ll bust Indy for dealing, and you know that if Will or his uncle did kill that dude, they’ll come after me for snitching them out. No way. This is street, and you should know that.”

  He stood. “I think you should go to the pigs.”

  “You going to say anything?”

  He shook his head. “No, but I think you should.”

  By third period the gun in my pack felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, and I’d been looking over my shoulder every five seconds in the halls. Jumpy wasn’t the word, and I spent the whole hour wondering what I should do with it.

  When class let out for lunch, I walked to the student office. The lady behind the counter didn’t look up. I cleared my throat. A paper taped on the counter read YOUR MISTAKE IS NOT MY PROBLEM. She kept her eyes down, writing in a ledger. “Yes?”

  “Is Ms. Potter available?”

  She looked up, irritated at the interruption, then frowned. “Did you have a teacher’s note or an appointment?”

  “Uh, no. But it’s sort of important.”

  “She’s busy. You’ll have to make an appointment.”

  “Ma’am, it’s really sort of important that I see her—”

  “I said you’ll need to make an appointment. Ms. Potter isn’t on call for every student who wants to see her.” She went back to writing in her ledger.

  I sighed. It was like every school in the world hired people who considered anybody under twenty years old to be some sort of subhuman organism. “She’s a counselor.”

  “And …?”

  “Well, her job is to see students who want to see her. That’s what a counselor does.”

  She looked up, thin-lipped and irritated that I was interrupting her job, which apparently was being the most miserable old lady in the world. “Make … an … appointment,” she said before looking down at her papers.

  Something in me popped, and I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream my head off. I was trying to do the right thing, but of course you can’t do the right thing unless you do it the right way. I tapped the counter. She looked up. I stared at her. “Screw … you,” I said, then walked to Ms. Potter’s door and went inside.

  She looked up when I came in. “Tate?”

  I set my bag down, plopping in a chair across from her. “Yeah, I know. I don’t have an appointment. Ms. Tightass out there let me know.”

  She groaned. “Not another f-bomb, I hope?”

  “Nothing she didn’t need.”

  Just then, her phone rang, and I could h
ear the lady out in the office squawking into the receiver. Ms. Potter smirked, then sighed. “I’ll deal with it, Irene. Thank you. It won’t happen again.” Then she hung up, looking at me. “Tate, there’s only so much I can do to help you. You have to help yourself, and doing these things doesn’t help.”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, I know. As long as I do it your way, we’re all good, right?”

  She blinked. “What does that mean?”

  I looked around, not interested in discussing why this sucked so much. “So, when we’re talking, is there some sort of confidentiality thing that says you can’t tell other people what we talk about?”

  She eyed me. “Yes. Everything you say to me is confidential. Unless I believe you or another person is in danger, being abused, or otherwise being harmed. Or if you tell me that a crime has occurred.”

  “So basically, we should talk about the weather,” I said, laughing with contempt.

  She studied me. “What’s going on?”

  I looked at her. “I’m pissed, that’s what’s going on.” I shook my head. “I’ve got a huge problem and I don’t know what to do, and honestly, I’m in over my head, because I don’t have anywhere to go.”

  She nodded. “And that makes you mad. I can understand that.”

  “No, you don’t understand anything. You make me mad. This school makes me mad, because you’re full of shit.”

  “Why?”

  I frowned. “Your entire job supposedly exists to help us, but you set the whole system up to nail us, and it’s bullshit.” I clenched my teeth. “Unless you have some kid who needs a schedule change or lost a fucking library book, you’re useless.”

  She swallowed, then cleared her throat. “What happened, Tate? Tell me.”

  I shook my head. “You expect me to tell you anything? You’re here for this school, not the people in it. Just like that crack in the office.”

  She was flustered, and I almost felt bad for her. But it was the truth. I had a gun in my backpack, and I knew what would happen if I gave it to her, because according to this school, doing the right thing was the wrong thing. She looked at her desk, contemplating something I didn’t know. “Tate, that’s not true.”