by Jeff Shelby
The engine roared again and I forced my eyes open, my heart still hammering, my shoulder numb and my leg screaming.
The taillights faded into the darkness.
It was quiet, except for what sounded to me like a dog whimpering in the street. Which was weird because I'd never seen a dog at all. It was crying, trying to make louder sounds, trying to get someone's attention, but the high-pitched whine wasn't making it very far.
And then I realized I was the one making the whimpering sound.
I tried to roll over in the street and every part of my body screamed in pain, like I'd been set on fire. I tried to push myself on my back toward the curb, but my leg gave out.
Dizziness wrapped around my head. Vomit lurched in my throat. I was colder than before.
Footsteps. Slow. Then fast.
Then my name.
I tried to twist my head around to see, but the pain flooded through me again and the entire world spun.
The darkness of the night was back.
And it smothered me.
SIXTY FIVE
My eyes fluttered, then closed again.
The lights were bright.
I squeezed them shut.
I opened them slowly, my lids stuck with all sorts of crud.
The room actually wasn't that bright. There was a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall in front of me, a dim light on just to the side of it. I was lying in a bed. There were a couple of beeping sounds to my left. I rolled my head over to the side.
My dad was sitting in a chair next to the machine that was beeping, his eyes closed.
I was flat on my back. My shoulder ached like crazy. And my left leg felt so heavy that I couldn't move it.
I swallowed and rolled my head in my dad's direction again. “Dad.”
He started in the chair, stood, and came over to the bed. He looked tired and he was in his work clothes, his tie loosened at his neck. “Hey. Hey. How are you?”
I swallowed again. “Am I in the hospital?”
He nodded and laid a hand on my forehead. “Yeah. You're pretty banged up.”
I closed my eyes again. “I got hit.”
“Yeah,” he said. “You did. By a car.”
I swallowed again, trying to clear my throat of what tasted like sawdust and blood. “Car.”
“Yeah,” he said. “You were hit by a car.”
I opened my eyes again. My shoulder throbbed. My leg still felt like a steel beam that I couldn't lift. “How do you know?”
“Your friend,” he said. “She got hold of me.”
“Friend?”
“Amy Mitchell,” he said. “She's the one who found you. She called 9-1-1. She called me. You were right outside her house. She heard the car and then the... ” He paused and took a deep breath. “And then the accident.”
I blinked a couple of times. The TV was tuned to ESPN. A basketball game.
“I remember going up in the air,” I said. “And landing. That's it.”
“You were out cold,” he said, his hand still on my forehead. “You've got a concussion.”
“And what else?” I said, my stomach convulsing and tears sprouting in my eyes. “I can't feel my fucking leg, Dad.”
His hand brushed over my forehead and pushed my hair back. “Your ankle's broken and pretty sure your knee is a mess, too. Your ankle is already set and in a temp cast. You'll get a more permanent one in a little bit. They wanted you to wake up and rest a bit before they do that. They've given you a bunch of painkillers, so that's probably why it's numb.”
“What about my knee?” I asked, tears rolling down my face.
“Probably some tears,” he said. “It's pretty swollen so they haven't done an MRI yet, and they wanted to get the ankle taken care of. We'll know more tomorrow.”
I ripped off the sheet and blanket that were over me. I was wearing a blue hospital gown. My left knee was the size of a balloon, red and fat and ugly. My ankle was in an open splint and looked to be about the same size. Cuts zigzagged up and down my leg. My right leg looked completely normal.
My dad grabbed the sheet and blanket and pulled them back over me. “Think the car hit you on your left side. Your shoulder was dislocated but it's back in place. Gonna hurt for a while. Like your head.”
I couldn't stop the tears now, and my chest was heaving. Basketball was over. The suspension didn't matter. They'd made sure I couldn't physically play.
They won. I lost. And it all washed over me and I cried like a three-year-old who had been pushed off his bike.
My dad reached back and pulled his chair to the edge of the bed. He sat down, found my hand under the sheets, and wrapped both of his around mine. He didn't say anything and he didn't tell me not to cry. He just sat there and held my hand and waited until I was done.
I finally ran out of tears and he placed a box of tissues on my chest. I wiped at my eyes and my nose and handed him back the box.
“Thanks,” I whispered.
“It's okay to be upset,” he said, squeezing my hand. “Your friend is pretty upset, too.”
“Amy?” I asked. “What? When you got to me?”
“There, yeah, on her street. But here, too,” he said. “She came and sat in here for a while.” He shook his head. “That girl is one tough kid.”
“Is she still here?” I asked. “I don't want her to see me.”
“Crying?” he asked, cracking a smile. “Think you'd have to do a lot more than cry to freak that girl out. She cares about you, Brady. Trust me. I told her to go home, but she won't. She's outside, waiting.”
I was trying to picture my dad sitting there with Amy, trying to figure out what they would've talked about. And what she thought about finding me in the street.
“Did you tell her?” I asked. “Why I was going to see her?”
He nodded. “I did. I didn't want to. I thought it was your place, but I knew you wanted her to know, and I didn't know when you were gonna wake up. So yeah, I told her.” He smiled again at me. “She was grateful. That you wanted her to know. I think she's actually pretty grateful for a lot of things you've done for her in the past week.”
I shook my head. “I don't think so.”
“I do think so,” he said. “But she's in a really tough spot, and she probably doesn't know how to be grateful right now. And I don't blame her.” He shook her head. “I really don't.” He fixed his eyes on me. “But she said you were the only one that seemed to care.”
I looked away from him, embarrassed and tired and a whole lot of other things I couldn't sort out right at that moment.
“I need to let the doctor know you're awake,” he said. “He's going to come in and check your vitals and probably poke you a little bit more.”
“When can I go home?” I asked. “I wanna go home, Dad.”
“We'll see,” he said, standing up. “Not tonight. You're here until at least tomorrow because of the concussion and to get the permanent cast. But we'll see what the doctor says.”
Anger immediately filled my lungs and I wanted to scream, to stand up and walk the fuck out of there. But I knew I'd fall down and that he'd never let me leave. Knowing I needed to be there didn't make me want to be there.
“Brady?” my dad said.
I rotated my head on the pillow and looked at him.
His hand was back on my forehead. “You'll play again. We'll get you through this.” He leaned down. His eyes were shiny and wet. “We'll figure it out.”
More tears blurred my vision. “Did she see anything? I mean, the car? Did she see it?”
He hesitated. “No. It was dark. She said she heard the car and then probably what was you hitting the ground.” He paused. “So, no, she didn't see anything. Did you?”
I stared up at the ceiling. I'd tried to get a look at the car, but couldn't because of the dark and the headlights. I could still hear the car engine roaring in my ears.
“It was on purpose,” I rasped. “I know that.”
“But did you recognize the
car? Or see anyone?”
The tears leaked out of the corners of my eyes. “No. I couldn't. I tried. But I couldn't.”
He tried to disguise a sigh, clearly hoping I'd remember something. “It's okay. We'll talk to the police and we'll see what happens.”
I tried to say “okay” but nothing came out.
He kissed my forehead. “I love you. You'll be okay.”
My dad told the truth. Always.
But part of me thought just this once, he might be lying to me.
Because nothing felt like it would ever be okay again.
SIXTY SIX
My dad came back with the doctors and they did just what he said they would do, poking at me and checking my vitals and all of my injured parts. Every tiny movement caused my entire body to radiate with pain and I shut my eyes tight, locked my teeth together, and just wished for it all to go away.
I drifted off to sleep and when I woke, the lights were dimmed in the room and Amy was sitting in a chair next to my dad. He was saying something to her that I couldn't hear. I tried to speak but my throat was dry and felt like it was filled with gravel so it came out as a ragged grunt. They both looked at me and my dad came over to the bed.
He grabbed a massive cup with a straw in it and held it to my lips. I took a sip. The water cleared the gravel in my throat.
“Thanks,” I said.
He set the cup down. “How are you?”
“Great.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Amy's here. She was getting ready to leave.”
I tucked my chin down so I could see past him. She was sitting in the chair, her elbows on her knees, looking at me.
“You wanna talk to her for a minute before she has to go?” he asked.
I didn't. I was embarrassed. I was afraid I might cry again. I was afraid I'd throw up or something. But she'd been there a while and I could tell by his tone that he thought I should.
“Okay,” I said.
He laid his hand lightly on my shoulder. “I'll be back in a few.”
He stopped and said something quietly to Amy in the chair, then disappeared through the door to the hallway.
Amy stood. She was in jeans, an orange sweatshirt, and white rubber flip-flops. Her hair was pulled back from her face with a thin, white headband. She pulled the chair over to the bed and sat down.
Her hands were folded tightly together. “You've looked better. I mean, not like you’ve looked great recently. Not with the black eye and split lip.”
I tried to nod, but my neck and shoulder throbbed, so it was more of a bob than anything else and I winced.
A thin smile crept onto her lips. “I probably shouldn't make jokes when it looks like it hurts to laugh.”
“It's fine,” I said.
“You were a mess when I found you,” she said.
I shifted, trying to get comfortable and trying to find some part of me that didn't hurt. “Did you hear it?”
She nodded. “I was sitting in the living room, reading. I heard the car engine and I just thought someone was flying down the street, being an asshole. But then I heard something else, like they'd hit a trashcan or something. So I got up and looked out the window.” She chewed on her lip for a second and looked at my ankle. “I saw this mangled bike on the sidewalk and I realized it was you rolling around.” She moved her eyes from my ankle to me. “I ran out of the house. When I got to you...you looked dead.”
It was pretty much what my dad had told me, but it felt a little different hearing it from her since she actually saw it all.
“So I went completely dramatic horror actress and started screaming my head off,” she continued. “Screaming for help and I don't know what else. I had my phone but someone else had to dial 9-1-1 because my hands were shaking and I wouldn't let go of your hand.” A tight smile formed on her face. “Then I calmed down a little, found your dad's number through the Internet, and called him.” She paused. “He's incredibly cool, by the way.”
I nodded. “I know.”
“No, I mean, he is, like, kick ass cool,” she said. “He got there, thanked me, said he'd call me in an hour to let me know how you were. He rode in the ambulance with you. Then, like, one hour later on the dot, he called me. He told me I didn't have to come here, but I told him I wanted to. So he put me on the list as family so I could come up here.” She looked away from me. “He kept thanking me, for finding you and for calling him. And then he told me why you were coming to see me.” She paused, chewing on a thumbnail. “He didn't ask a bunch of questions or make me feel embarrassed. He just told me why you were coming and if there was anything he could do to help, he would.”
Which sounded just like my dad.
“I wanted to hug him, but I thought it would be awkward,” she said.
“He wouldn't have minded,” I said. “He's a hugger.”
We sat there in silence for a few minutes. One of the boxes above my head beeped every so often. The TV mounted on the wall was muted, but the screen would change and flash light across the room.
“I was worried about you,” she finally said.
“I just didn't want you showing up at school and not knowing that the police are coming around,” I said. “I know how mad you’ve been at me. I didn't want you to get caught blindsided again.”
“I saw you in the street and for the first time in a couple of weeks, I actually cared about something else. Someone else.” Tears pooled in her eyes. “I didn't want you to be hurt.”
I felt the tears starting to spring in my eyes and I swallowed hard, trying to stave them off. “I'm okay.”
She looked at my ankle and knee, then frowned at me, the tears freely running down her cheeks. “You're a total disaster, Brady.”
I snorted out a laugh, the tears rolling down my own face. I didn’t even try to hide them. “I'll be okay eventually.”
She laughed, too, and nodded. “Yeah. You will.”
The machine beeped a couple of times. I wiped at the tears on my face. My shoulder burned when I moved it.
“It had to be Derek,” she finally said.
“I know.”
“Or Ty or Blake, or all of them.”
“I know.”
“You didn't see anything?”
“No.”
“I wish I'd gotten up when I first heard the car,” she said. “I just figured it was some idiot racing down the street.” She paused. “By the time I got to the window, all I saw were taillights going around the corner.”
Every time I closed my eyes, I was looking back over my shoulder, trying to get a better look at the car and who was driving it. But all I could see were the blinding headlights. When I took off pedaling, in my head, I thought it was Derek. After everything that had happened and after Ken coming to tell me that he'd stood up to him, it just made sense. And it made sense, too, that Derek had been smart enough to do it and get away with it. Amy had been right all along.
He was untouchable.
“I should've called you,” Amy said.
“Why?”
“And then you wouldn't have been on the bike,” she said, ignoring me. “You wouldn't have been coming to my house. He couldn't have gotten to you.”
“Call me for what?” I asked.
“To tell you that you didn't need to come over.”
I wasn't following and I wasn't sure if it was because of the concussion. “What?”
She leaned back in the chair, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “I already knew about the cop. He's a detective. And I already talked to him.”
“You did? So did Raymond say something?”
She shook her head slowly. “Mrs. Chester, my pre-calc teacher,” she said. “She caught me at the end of class today. She’d heard about the video. Asked me about it.” She hesitated. “I didn't say anything, just told her it wasn't her business. She told me she had to report it. That mandated reporter thing or whatever they call it. A teacher is required to report anything like that.”
It was just like w
e’d both thought.
Unless the teacher—or coach—was an asshole.
“He was waiting on my doorstep after school,” she said. “He wanted to talk to me and I freaked. An unknown dude on my doorstep when I'm home alone is about the worst thing in the world to me right now. So I started telling him to go fuck himself and that I was going to call the cops and he held out his badge and I realized he was the cops. Was a pretty proud moment for me.”
I couldn't help but laugh and then winced as pain spasmed through my chest.
“Serves you right for laughing,” she said, but she was smiling when she said it. “Anyway, I told him I wasn't talking to him. I mean, I wanted to but I was scared to do it without my mom there. I can't explain it. So he left a card.” She reached a hand into the pocket of her sweatshirt and pulled out a small white business card. “See? Told me to call him if I felt like talking.”
“Are you going to?” I asked. “Call him?”
“I already did.”
“You already did?”
She nodded and slipped the card back into her sweatshirt. “About an hour ago. My mom came home a few minutes after he left and I was being a total bitch and she asked what my problem was and I just blurted it out. Told her what happened. She freaked, obviously. She wanted to call the detective guy right away, but I said no. I needed to think on it. Just because that's me. So I was sitting on the couch pretending to read but really thinking about what I wanted to do, and then you went and screwed up my thinking by getting run over by a car.” A faint smile crossed her lips. “Or something like that.”
“But you just said you already talked to him,” I said. “I don't get it.”
“I called him an hour ago,” she explained. “From here. Waiting for you to wake up. My mom and I are meeting with him tomorrow morning.” She paused. “And I'm telling him everything.”
“Wow,” I said, taking a deep breath, my chest aching as it filled, and exhaling. “Okay.”