Bold

by Julia Swift

  “No, that’s not what she’s panicking about, it’s after the accident, trapped in the truck.”

  That was the thin guy and he’s still on the Ferris wheel, but I’m bringing him back down for that.

  “Were you trapped?”

  “Yes.”

  “But that’s not it, either. You know what it is that’s making you unable to breathe. Tell us Sasha.”

  “I think they missed something, in the hospital. Like a hole in my lung.”

  “Or maybe scar tissue formed after.”

  The bored woman adds, now interested, now totally attuned to my needs, my fear.

  “Exactly.”

  “Or maybe the medicine they gave you caused something else to go wrong.”

  “Or lying in the hospital for so long your heart muscles atrophied and you can’t get them back.”

  “Or the stress caused an ulcer that’s sending acid up into your lungs.”

  “Whoa, stop. There is no hole in your lungs, or scar tissue or heart attack.”

  The therapist jumps in just when I’m finally getting something from these guys.

  “It’s a panic attack which can be bad enough, but when you’ve experienced real trauma, it gets coupled with other symptoms to become Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

  “Like Vietnam Vets?”

  “Yes.”

  The thin guy…

  “And people in plane crashes.”

  The sleazy guy…

  “Or hurt in hurricanes.”

  The grandmother…

  “Or having to watch your one true love die.”

  “And rape victims.”

  That was the bored woman.

  37

  Sasha

  I meet Mom on the street in front of the therapist’s office. She pulls up the pickup truck and I slide into the passenger seat. I stare at the dashboard... it’s moving in toward me, but it doesn’t smell like blood.

  “You’re breathing again.”

  I turn to see Mom smiling, wearing new maroon lipstick.

  “I like that color on you.”

  Mom looks at herself in the rearview mirror.

  “You know you can always talk to me. Anything you want, I’ll do everything I can to make it happen.”

  “That’s the problem, I have no idea what I want. I used to want to go to college.”

  I can see her freaking out at the thought that I don’t want to go to college. After all, I am the only kid left with a chance at a future.

  “Mom, calm down, I still do. But I have no idea for what. I don’t know what I want to do with the rest of my life, now that I have one.”

  “Neither do I. You’ll be off soon doing something amazing I’m sure. And your brother, he doesn’t need me anymore. Maybe we can explore what to do together?”

  “Mom?”

  “Yes honey?”

  “Thanks. For listening outside my door to make sure I’m breathing.”

  “You’re my baby.”

  She leans over to kiss me.

  “Mom, you’re driving. Watch the road.”

  38

  Will

  I ask myself why I care over and over on the train ride home. I exit in Palmdale and go straight to the library where I read about how few doctors practice where Ricky lives, and how much it costs to help an injured kid like Scar Boy. I discover when Pacoima was founded, who lived there at first and how it changed. I research what actually happened the night Scar Boy was stabbed and think about what else Ricky told me he’s tried to do with his life since then.

  I find a secluded section of the library to write and it all starts coming out, I’m in the zone. The more I write about Ricky and what led to him to the game store robbery, the more I question what I’m trying to say. Once a crook, always a crook?

  No. After spending time with Ricky, it’s clear he’s not a bad guy, he’s just looking out for his friend and that has forced him into tough situations. Yes, in bad neighborhoods people commit crimes, or at least ones that end up on the news. But people everywhere commit crimes… for money, love, revenge, even boredom. But some people are desperate. It’s not because they’re evil, there’s something else we don’t see because no one takes the time to find the truth. And usually the truth isn’t so clearly good versus evil.

  My dad always tried to reveal a bad guy’s human side. He wasn’t saying their crimes were okay, he was exploring why they committed crimes and how things could change. That’s what he was doing the day he was kidnapped, the day he was murdered.

  I am doing what my dad loved to do even though I feel like I don’t really know what I’m doing sometimes. And not just when it comes to writing. It’s everything – school, girls, basketball, Mom, even this aching that I wish would go away. I try to ignore it, but it won’t leave. It followed me across the country. How long does it take to feel normal, 100 percent? I wish I had listened to Dad more when he was here.

  I remember why it was so hard to listen. He used to get on my nerves, always asking questions. I remember feeling like we never really had conversations, but interviews. I tuned him out, always had plans or made myself scarce during the time right before his trips. And when he made me go with him, made me miss my Friday night basketball game because he thought it was more important for me to walk on the longest wall in the world, or sail over the equator, I resented him. Now I wish I hadn’t worn my headphones, wish I didn’t get so angry at him for wanting to take me along, even if he had to do work while we were traveling.

  I remember sitting in the front row at the funeral. After Mom broke down, I had to focus. I wasn’t going to be like her. I couldn’t stand the pity I saw in people’s faces so I focused on him, even looked at him head on because I knew he wasn’t going to look back at me. Problem with that was that there was only a small stone box that held his ashes. Everybody assumed that Dad and I had this amazing bond. But I’m not sure I ever really knew him. I always took for granted that he’d be back, we’d muddle on and then when I was old, we would become friends, go to basketball games, hang out like real fathers and sons. I didn’t expect this. And now that he’s gone, I don’t know what to do. All that was left of him was a box, and inside it’s just dust and what happens to the memories I don’t remember, but he does and he’s gone? Or the ones we never got to create?

  My papers are all wet. I’m crying, really crying, but this time I don’t want anyone to see. If I keep my head down, maybe no one will notice.

  39

  Sasha

  I heard my dad ask my brother why I was upset. Xander told him a boy broke my heart. I was glad not to have to talk to my dad about what happened at the therapist’s office. He doesn’t deal well with trauma. He can handle me winning awards and earning straight A’s very well. He’s good at celebrating the highs. That counts for something.

  I’m not happy Xander made me sound like some girl whose life gets turned upside down because a guy lied to her. Will did not break my heart. He didn’t get in far enough to cause real damage. He did make me forget about school for a while, and that is not okay with me. I may not know what I want to do with my life, but I know I don’t want to be dependent on anyone. I’m going to make my own money, and the surest road I see is to excel in school. I respect my teachers, but I can’t get over the secretary-teacher-nurse thing. I don’t want a girl job with little money and not enough respect.

  I’m in the library now to catch up on work, but I can’t stop staring at the librarian. Add librarian to the list. That’s a hard one, because I love books so much and the quiet, safe world here, but I’m supposed to be bolder than that. So add librarian to the list.

  I have to move. I can’t keep looking at her. I feel guilty like I’ve betrayed her by saying I don’t want to be her. I move around the corner and immediately realize it was a mistake. Will is here. Sitting hunched over in a corner, writing. I’m about to leave, but I notice he’s crying. More fake tears, probably. But he doesn’t know I’m here and he seems to be hunch
ing over more, like he hopes no one will notice. He wipes his tears away and makes his way to the bathroom. He left his papers. Hmmm. I just want to know if he’s crying for real or not. I deserve to know that much. He never gave me an explanation at the party. He actually never gave me very much. So I’m taking this.

  I grab his papers and run. It’s not until I’m outside that I realize I stole something. Too late now. Might as well read it. I unfold the sheet and see the words “game store,” “camera phone,” “scar.” He wrote about us? About the guys? He better not have given away anything that can lead the police to Ricky… No, he didn’t. And he didn’t mention me, so my mom won’t flip. Lisa will probably be pissed she’s not in the paper. But this is too good for the school paper. I hate to say it, because I always thought that everyone who wrote all the books and the articles had to have deep souls. That’s why I love libraries – it’s like the best party in history packed with the most amazing people. He is so shallow, how can he write like this? And why was he crying?

  Okay, isn’t that what got me into this mess in the beginning, wondering why he was crying? It doesn’t matter. This is good, professional good, city paper good. I could return it. But he’s probably back now and he’d be pissed. And anyway, he’d just give it to Amber, and this is too good for Amber. And not only because I want revenge on Amber for kissing Will. She can have him. But his work is too good for her.

  I could bring it to The Los Angeles Globe. What would I do, walk in and say, “Hey, here’s something you gotta publish.” It might help if I used correct grammar. Great, now I’m going to be all self-conscious about what words I use. If I do this. I’m doing this.

  *

  The Los Angeles Globe is in this really old building, which looks extremely official right now and I feel very unofficial. I force myself to walk through the door. My shoes clack loudly on the stone floor. I enter the newsroom and scan the cubicles. Everyone seems in a rush and annoyed. I take a deep breath and stare hard until the colors start to come. One woman in the corner is bright purple and deep red. Passionate and compassionate. I stand in front of her until she notices me.

  “Excuse me, where do I submit letters to the editor?”

  40

  Will

  I stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes are red, and there’s snot coming out of my nose. Even though I look terrible, I feel better. It’s kind of like what happens after you puke.

  I hit the button on the hand dryer, turn the air jets toward my face. My eyes dry out like the time Dad and I rode a motorcycle in Kenya. Our helmets didn’t have plastic shields to keep the wind and bugs off our faces. We were way out in the bush and we ran out of gas. We hoofed it 20 kilometers to find water, another 15 for gas. That was the first time I saw a giraffe in the wild. They’re freaky animals, they look like something that was made wrong and then escaped. They’re different, they stand apart from the crowd. Like Sasha.

  The hand dryer shuts off and I check myself in the mirror again. My skin is all red now, but at least my eyes are dry.

  I do a lap around the main room of the library, make sure no one saw me. All clear. I sit down – where are my papers? My notebook was right here. Or was I at a different table? No, there’s my pen. I ask the librarian shelving books nearby.

  “Did you take my stuff, it was on this table?”

  She points to a sign.

  THE LIBRARY IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR PERSONAL PROPERTY.

  I ask two more people, but they didn’t see a thing. I look in the trash, find nothing. My notes are gone. But my backpack is still here. Maybe it’s fate telling me to lay off the tough stuff. A basketball rolls across the library floor. I pick it up and spot Jake Jenkins across the table. A challenge, one that I can face and conquer without ripping apart my insides.

  41

  Will

  I don’t know how I would have made it through the past few weeks without basketball. Sasha has been ignoring me, not that I’ve made any effort to talk to her. We live in two different worlds at school. Turns out Jake Jenkins is actually cool. He knew I could teach him a few things from my days on East Coast city courts. I head to the locker room to change shoes for basketball practice. At our first game, when the announcer called out my name, a couple of seniors tossed tissues in the air, chanting “cry baby.” Then they waved them after my first basket, my second, my third, but by the time I scored 31 points that night – the most ever by a Palmdale Falcon freshman – everyone joined in with the tissues. Now it’s kind of my trademark.

  I put on my sneakers, take a leak, walk into the gym, I’m the first one ready for practice. One of Amber’s minions interviews my coach for The Spectator. I’m glad I don’t write for them anymore. Amber didn’t believe me when I told her someone stole my notebook. She wanted to know if they stole anything else, my phone, my wallet? No, only the notes. I was going to rewrite it from what I could remember, but why try to impress someone you don’t respect?

  42

  Sasha

  I’m supposed to be walking to school, but my feet keep taking me in the other direction, down the road. School is weird now. The teachers haven’t noticed a difference, I’m still the good girl who always knows the answer or can fake it really well. But now I hate to be stuck in those walls with those people.

  When I wanted the other kids to like or at least notice me, I had a goal, a reason to be there. But now I’m convinced there is a whole world packed full of fascinating people right outside the school’s front door. Well, maybe a little farther than the door. I’ll probably have to go into the city, but they’re there, not here and now I know I’m not afraid to find them.

  I feel like I’m living someone else’s life. And I feel sorry for her, but I don’t want to be her anymore. I’m not that shy, quiet girl. She’s back on the road where the accident happened. I’m almost there now. I want to go see her.

  You know how when people die in car crashes, for years afterward you see candles or ribbons or stuffed animals by the side of the road in the same place? I want to do that for her, the old me. Because she’s not here anymore and part of me misses her. She was good and sweet and loving and always knew what she wanted and what she was supposed to do. I miss that.

  I’m at the spot now, where the two trees lean toward each other. Cars speed by, but I don’t care. I’m not scared they’ll hit me, I’m safely on the shoulder of the road. And I’m too busy thinking of her to care what the people in the cars think of the girl standing alone. I hope she would be proud of me.

  I lean down and touch the spot where she stopped and I began. It’s warm. I look up and see the sun shining down through the wind in the trees. For a second, I remember being her, on the ground, looking up at the trees. And we feel like the same person. But I’m sure I wouldn’t have suffered quietly, I would have grabbed the ambulance driver and made him see me, even if it meant kicking him or biting him since I couldn’t talk.

  I want to say good-bye. I want her to know I haven’t forgotten her dreams. I want to find her that college classroom full of friends and that guy to love her. More for her than for me. I still don’t know what I want.

  Maybe I should have brought a candle. But no, it would only burn out, and I don’t want her to worry that I’ll ever forget.

  43

  Will

  I’m asleep in bed when the home phone rings. Who in the world is calling? It’s not even light out. Is it Griff? He’s never good at figuring out time zone differences or keeping straight which number is my cell versus landline. I reach for the phone, but before I can find it, the ringing stops. The number is blocked. How annoying. I lie in bed for a minute, waiting for Mom to yell at me for having my friends call so early. Enough time passes, I’m off the hook, it’s not for me. I drift back to sleep as Mom knocks.

  “Will, can I come in?”

  Oh no, she just got news, something horrible happened in the world. Someone died, we’re under attack or is it Bill?

  “Sure.”

  She
enters with today’s Los Angeles Globe. Maybe we are at war.

  “When were you going to tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  I sit up, worried something has gone majorly wrong. She points to an article in the paper, my article. I can hardly believe my eyes.

  “How’d this get there?”

  Right in front of me, almost word for word is my story, the one that disappeared in the library. I can’t read it fast enough. I’m convinced it’s a mistake, but it’s not. There’s my byline, right under the heading. Just like Dad used to have.

  “Are you angry?”

  “What are you talking about? My son published his first story.”

  “I know, but this is how Dad got his start.”

  “Sweetie, I couldn’t be more thrilled. You set yourself a goal, you went for it and you succeeded. I’m gonna buy 50 copies.”

  She sits next to me on the bed.

  “I thought that moving away was the answer. I thought it would jump start our lives again. You set a goal and achieved it, but I’ve been... paralyzed.”

  I remember all the time she spent watching television on the couch.

  “But now that I’ve seen how strong you can be, you are, I’m going to try harder. I promise.”

  Mom hugs me. Not an adult tap on the back hug but a real squeeze me in her arms tight hug. I can feel a tiny piece of my aching deep inside disappear.

  *

  I walk to school, nobody’s looking at me differently. Nobody reads newspapers anymore. I open my locker to grab my Geometry book as Amber walks past. I’m dying to know how the local newspaper got my article.

  “Hey, Amber.”

  She stops.

  “I hope you’re not expecting congratulations.”

  “Well, actually –”

  “You could’ve said another paper was interested in your article, instead you lie and come up with some story about your notebook being stolen?”