More Than Good Enough

by Crissa-Jean Chappell

  I squatted on the sidewalk like a fugitive.

  “All right, Trent. Let’s talk, okay? Here’s the deal. Your father says you got into some sort of altercation and ran off. You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  How could I shape it into words? My dad got wasted. That’s the way it goes. The man drinks a sixer every night. This time, he got a little out of control. He didn’t mean to hit me. It just happened.

  “Me and my dad started fighting,” I told the cop.

  “Okay,” he said. It seemed like “okay” was his default answer for everything. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “He got mad.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “Because I took something.”

  “You mean something that wasn’t yours.”

  I focused on the dent above his lip. If you stared at one part of somebody’s face, you didn’t have to look them in the eye. That’s a little trick I’ve learned.

  “Answer me.” He was totally over it now. “Did you steal your father’s motorcycle?”

  “Sort of,” I mumbled.

  “Well, is it true or not?”

  “Listen. I already told you—” I started to get up, but he pushed me, dropping a hand on my shoulder. I could’ve sued for harassment.

  The cop had no off button. He kept blasting away, screaming shit like, “When I talk, you listen.”

  Why did I have to listen? It’s not like anybody listened to me. Just because he had a badge and gun didn’t mean the universe put him in charge. Just thinking about guns made my stomach twist. If I got blamed for messing with it, they could charge me with illegal possession of a firearm. Then what would happen? I’d go straight to jail. That’s what.

  “Just stay where you’re at. You got yourself a whole world of trouble. Do you want to make it worse?”

  So typical. Why did cops always ask dumb questions like “Do you want to make it worse?” I mean, come on. Did he really expect an answer? This night couldn’t get any worse. You could pretty much bank on it.

  The cop was getting soaked. I could tell he was totally over this situation. He told me to follow him to the car, which was parked behind a building with coral rock walls. This was the school those kids mentioned. More than anything, I wanted to zap myself into their reality. Start over. Get a new name, one that belonged to me.

  I’d never been arrested before. Was he going to slap on the handcuffs? He still hadn’t mentioned the gun. Somebody must’ve heard it go off. Wouldn’t be the first time.

  “Am I going to jail?” Might as well face the truth.

  He studied my face. “Just calm down, okay? Your cheek looks a little swollen. How did that happen?”

  If I stuck to the facts, he’d probably throw Dad’s ass behind bars. Then I’d get sent to juvie or whatever. “I was skating, right? And I fell.” That’s what I told him.

  “Where’s your board?”

  “Back there with my sneakers.” Another lie, but how would he know?

  “So the rest of your stuff is in the park. Is that it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are you doing, running around with no shoes? You could step on broken glass. There’s scorpions out here, too. Saw a big one yesterday. Almost gave me a heart attack.”

  “Please,” I said. “Just tell me if I’m going to jail.”

  He slammed the door so hard I flinched. “Jail? That’s where you want to go?”

  Again. Another dumb question.

  “No sir.”

  The “sir” probably tripped him up. He stared. “Trent, I’m taking you home.”

  “What?” I must’ve blanked out or something. A high-pitched noise stung my eardrum. Damaged nerves. I don’t know.

  The cop pressed his fat arms on the window. “How old are you?”

  I couldn’t think straight. “Eighteen. No. I mean, I’ll be eighteen this summer.”

  He nodded. “Okay. Sit tight.”

  “Maybe you could drop me off someplace?” I was almost begging.

  “I’m not a taxi,” he said, walking away, slow as hell.

  I shivered against the fake leather seat, thinking about all the bad guys who’d sat in this same spot—the men who hurt people and took things away. I wanted to bust out of there. Just breathing in that stale, air-conditioned car made me feel dirty.

  “Can I go back and get my stuff?”

  “Listen, kid. I’m giving you a break here.” He got behind the wheel and started messing with a laptop—a clunky old Dell mounted to the seat. My school had better computers than that piece of crap.

  “I just want my hat,” I whispered.

  “Unbelievable.” He punched a couple keys on the laptop. Glanced at me again. “Do you smart-mouth your father like that?”

  “You don’t know shit about my dad.” I turned away from him, twisting my body as far as possible.

  He got so quiet, I could hear the laptop’s empty hum. “Something you want to tell me? Go on. Now’s your chance.”

  This guy couldn’t make up his mind. Talk. Don’t talk. Well, I wasn’t talking to a cop. That’s for damn sure.

  “Okay,” he said. “It’s your choice. Totally up to you.”

  That was a complete lie.

  Nothing was up to me. I had no control unless I detached from reality. That’s how skating used to feel if I landed a sweet trick. The same numbing effect when I blasted tunes on my Gibson. Or when I finally unlocked Prestige Mode on Call of Duty. And when I was flying down the highway with Pippa. All the beatings in the world couldn’t make me trade that moment in time.

  As the car lurched through the neighborhood, I kept my eyes shut. I didn’t need to see the road. I could sense every turn, all the stops and starts.

  I wasn’t going anywhere.

  eleven

  Headlights scraped away the darkness. As we pulled up to the house, I glanced through the window and there was Pippa in the yard. She looked so worn out, like a smaller, less intense version of herself.

  The cop marched me to the front door where my dad stood, waiting. I tried to move toward Pippa, but Dad got in the way.

  “They got into another one of their crazy fights.” He wouldn’t shut up. “Teenagers, right?”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it,” I said.

  “Just settle down, okay?” the cop told me. “You’re in enough trouble right now.”

  I watched the man’s face, the way it changed. If I told the truth, would he believe me? Or would it make things worse? Maybe I would go to jail. And if that didn’t happen, Dad would knock me around again. In my head, I got this picture: me and Pippa in the backyard, playing pirates, the rope tightened around us.

  “That’s the girlfriend.” Dad jerked his thumb at Pippa. If I could’ve jumped on him, I would’ve ripped his lips off. But I couldn’t breathe, much less jump.

  “Is that true?” the cop asked.

  I glanced at Pippa, but she kept her head down. Behind her, a macramé plant hanger dangled. It looked like something a kid would make in art class. It tilted in the damp breeze, tipped and swayed in pointless circles.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Yes what?”

  “She’s my girlfriend.”

  He nodded like he knew all along. “Okay then. Thanks for being honest.”

  Ten minutes later, the cop was leading Pippa to the car and pushing her into the backseat like a criminal. I stood there feeling helpless as they passed the mailbox at the end of our street—a metal box strapped to a giant paperclip-looking thing, defying gravity and logic. I couldn’t stop thinking about Pippa, who was sitting where I’d been just minutes before.

  My mind shuffled through a montage, as Mr. Bones would call it: Pippa kissing me inside the abandoned missile base. The weight of the motorcycle rumbling beneath us. Her s
kin, warm against mine.

  I wanted zombie powers more than ever. I’d run straight to Pippa’s window and carry her to the Everglades. We’d learn the secrets that only gators know: the stillness of things, waiting for just the right moment, as we sank beneath the surface.

  There were no trees at the end of my block. Only a canal laced with weeds. I didn’t have magical powers. I couldn’t even shape my thoughts into words. The cop had done all the talking. He’d told Dad that I was walking a fine line. He’d seen it before. And I better stay away from girls if I knew what was good for me. But there was something he didn’t understand.

  Pippa was good for me.

  The day after the “incident,” Dad went back to his usual bullshit. He didn’t apologize for freaking out. He didn’t talk about what happened. He just revved up the blender and gulped his stupid protein shakes.

  I stayed out of his way, as much as possible.

  In my cave, I read magazines about black holes and the mysterious force known as dark energy. I didn’t want to go back to school, but compared to sitting around the house, it was starting to look semi-endurable. Plus, I was missing Pippa like crazy. I tried calling her cell a million times, but it always went straight to voicemail. Either she hadn’t paid her crackberry bill or she was completely ignoring me.

  Could I really blame Pippa for cutting me off? She must’ve been scared out of her mind. I doubt that she’d ever seen shit like that. Unfortunately, it was becoming part of my daily existence.

  By afternoon, Dad was acting nice again. He was all like, “Let’s get some new tires for the Jeep.” And “How does pizza sound for dinner?” It was totally bizarre. So I’d just nod at him or slide my way out.

  Meanwhile, a bruise had leaked across my cheekbone, like somebody attacked me with a Sharpie. My ribs still throbbed whenever I coughed. Worst of all, there was the shame of what Dad did to me.

  Dark energy.

  That’s what I was made of.

  I stared at the marks on my body and planned my revenge. First, I’d slam my fist into his teeth. Then I’d pound him so hard, he’d need his jaw wired shut. That way I wouldn’t have to hear his stupid lies anymore.

  On Monday morning, I crashed so hard I didn’t wake up in time for class. Okay. That’s an understatement. I stayed passed out until late afternoon. My spirit was definitely in the land of the dead. When I woke up, I heard Dad yelling on the phone.

  “Who’s in charge of that school?” he yelled. “A pack of morons?”

  At least that’s something we could agree on.

  It didn’t take long to figure it out—I’d gotten suspended for skipping. So the school was like, “Trent’s failing all his classes,” then they tell me to stay home. Yeah, that made a lot of sense.

  Here’s the equation:

  Avoiding Dad + School Suspension = 0

  I grabbed the keys to the Yeti. Fast-walked through the living room. Dad had finally stopped yelling. I listened for his boomy voice. Hard to believe he used to sing in a band. His vocal cords were shot to hell. Yeah. Mr. Rock Star. Living the dream.

  Dad was standing near the kitchen window. He must’ve felt my stare, the laser beam of hate pouring into his neck. “Think you’re special? Is that what your mother told you? That’s why she put you in that special school, huh? A music school. What a fucking joke.”

  He moved in my direction. Until right then, I hadn’t even looked at him. I was way too freaked out. His massive gut swelled above his shorts. Tattoos stained his bare legs. He was bigger than me in a way that had nothing to do with strength.

  We were right there, both of us.

  “Where’s your special school now?” he went on. “You can’t even hack it in that school for idiots. So what does that make you?”

  “I’m not an idiot.”

  “You sure about that? Because I used to be like you. A hot shot. Up on stage, thinking I was in the big leagues. Only an idiot would believe that. Keep dreaming, son. You’re never gonna be anything.”

  Dad left the kitchen. He didn’t even try to stop me from taking off. It was pretty obvious he didn’t care. I bet he wanted me to go away permanently. Crash my car on the Florida Turnpike and die in a flaming wreck. Yeah, he would probably enjoy that.

  I reached for a glass on the table, but it was dirty. Same with the cups in the sink. I leaned over the counter and turned on the faucet. Stuck my head under the cold water. Gulped it down until my throat turned numb.

  The sun was fading as I cruised through my old neighborhood. Pippa’s house was on the corner near the canal. As I sped past, I couldn’t help imagining her there on the porch, looking real cute in her checkered tights.

  I was smiling so hard, my cheeks stung. The smile melted when I reached the house-formerly-known-as-mine. That big-ass Ford was parked crookedly in the driveway. My mom’s boyfriend. She’d been seeing him off and on for a while, but I could never remember his name.

  Mr. Nameless waddled into the backyard. He had these camo shorts that looked diaperish, a stupid pair of wraparound sunglasses, and a jug of bleach. I watched him crouch on the lawn like a garden gnome.

  God, I hated him.

  He was slopping bleach all over the place, making a giant mess. This was his cheap attempt at killing weeds. What’s so bad about weeds, anyway? You can make wishes on dandelions. Nobody ever wished on a carnation, as far as I can tell.

  I pulled down the sun visor and leaned back, just in case he saw me. As I rolled past, Mom slipped out of the garage. She was chugging from a tall plastic cup, but I figured it was her beverage of choice: white wine. Nice job, Mom. Nothing like getting the party started before sundown.

  That’s one thing she had in common with Dad.

  Maybe the only thing.

  She squinted up at the car. I’m sure she recognized the Yeti. After all, it used to be hers back in the day. And don’t get me wrong. I was mad as hell. But when her eyes locked onto mine, I got this weird tingle in the back of my throat. I mean, she’s still my mom, right?

  For a second, I almost pulled over. Would she let me stay if I promised not to damage her life? Maybe things could go back to normal. Yeah, I must’ve been crazy thinking shit like that. As long as Mr. Nameless was in charge, nothing would ever be normal.

  Then I noticed the For Sale sign.

  It was lassoed with party balloons, like it might lift into the sky. I kept staring at it, hoping the sign would do just that. I could totally picture it—the grass unrolling like a carpet, tugging my mom, Mr. Nameless, and everything else along with it.

  My stream-of-consciousness went like this:

  Am I being punked?

  Mom is NOT selling the house.

  She just can’t.

  I slammed the brakes. Turned off the ignition. Jumped out and marched over to He Who Shall Remain Nameless. The sting of bleach cut the air. My vision blurred as I got closer. He acted all surprised and stuck out his hand, offering me a fist-bump, which, of course, I ignored.

  “Trenton,” he said, as if my name was a greeting on another planet.

  Did I mention that I hated him?

  Mom tugged me into a hug. She still hadn’t let go of her drink. The cold plastic cup seared into my ribs.

  “What happened to your eye?” Mom was staring. Big time.

  “Nothing.”

  She grabbed hold of my chin and twisted it against the sunlight. Mom’s death-grip was brutal. She used to lick her thumb and smear the dirt off my face. I almost expected her to do it again. But even Mom’s spit couldn’t erase the stain under my skin.

  I pointed at the For Sale sign. “You’re selling the house?”

  Mom chewed her lip. I knew what that meant.

  It meant she was going to start lying.

  “Well, I’ve been meaning to talk to you, love,” she said, taking another sip of her drin
k. She chomped the ice and didn’t say anything else.

  Mr. Nameless took over. “This place is too big for us. We could save a lot of money not having to pay property taxes.”

  Us.

  We.

  Not me.

  I grabbed the cup out of Mom’s hand and slam-dunked it. Ice cubes skittered across the driveway, leaving snail trails in the sun. “You didn’t even tell me!” I was screaming now. “I can’t believe you’re doing this!”

  “Stop it,” Mom said. “You’re getting all worked up. My god. It’s only a house.”

  “Oh right. I forgot. I’m not allowed to express an opinion.”

  “Look at you, all cheesed off about nothing.” The more booze she guzzled, the more British she sounded. “My god, Trent. It’s not like I’m abandoning you.”

  “Too late for that,” I said, walking away.

  A hand sank onto my shoulder.

  “Trenton.”

  I spun around, completely on auto pilot. Balled up my fist, reeled back, and swung.

  Mr. Nameless didn’t see it coming.

  Neither did I.

  In my entire life, I’d never hit another human being. Guess there’s a first time for everything. He sort of tripped sideways, flinging his arms out. I give him credit, though. Five seconds later, he staggered back on his feet like Stone Cold Steve.

  Mom was freaking. “What’s wrong with you?” she kept yelling. Basically letting me know I was going to hell. When I reached the car, she said, “You’re no better than your father.”

  It killed me, hearing her say that.

  A rope had knotted up inside me. I could feel it getting stronger, pulling at my guts, as I struggled to break free.

  I shoved the key in the ignition. The Yeti lurched forward and slammed to a stop. I tried a couple more times. Same deal. I jiggled the clutch and finally gunned it out of the driveway. So much for my dramatic exit.

  As I drove, my head was looping on double speed. I’d been roaming without a destination all day. I couldn’t go back to the Rez because Dad was there. And wherever he was, you wouldn’t find me. At this point, we were opposing forces of nature.