Breaking Point (5 page)

“There are lots of weeping Madonnas,” Binky said. “They weep for the crucifixion of Christ or the sins of mankind. Some cry blood, but this one was just water. Old ladies in our church say she grants wishes, too.”

I looked again. It sure was old. You could barely tell what it was, but sure enough, there were tracks of tears. And for a second, I envied Binky being able to believe in that, in anything. “Do you believe it? The wishes part, I mean?”

“You're not supposed to. The church believes in miracles, like with God, but not luck or magic or superstitions like knocking on wood. Not officially, anyway. But there are lots of superstitious people.”

Which didn't answer my question. So I asked, “Have you wished on it?”

“Never had anything to wish for, really.”

I shook my head. Seemed like all I'd ever done was wish, and I didn't need a statue for it.

Then, suddenly, she spun around like a little girl. She looked up at me. “But I have something now—a wish.” She closed her eyes, and we stood, silent. When she opened them, she looked at me again. She smiled. She turned and planted a soft kiss on the glass cover. “Did it. Now, you.”

“What'd you wish for?”

“Secret.” But she kept looking at me until, finally, I closed my eyes and wished too. I knew I should wish for something important, Mom to stop crying all the time, or money, or for Dad to return my calls. Or even to be happy with who I was, with the one friend I'd ever had besides my mother. Or to believe in—something. But I closed my eyes and wished:

Please, let me make more friends. Please let me be popular
.

I was ashamed of the wish. I opened my eyes and saw Binky's face, so close.
I should kiss her
. But I didn't want to. Even though I knew her wish had been about me—maybe especially because of that. Instead, I said, “Do I have to kiss the glass?” When she nodded, I did.

It was only later, sitting in Binky's family room, waiting for Mom to pick me up, that she looked at me and said, “Of course, Grandma always said, ‘Be careful what you wish for. It might come true.'”

“You spend too much time with that girl,” Mom said on the drive home.

At that point, I was almost ready to agree with her, but I didn't. “I only see her at school. And Fridays.”

“But she calls you at home, invites you over. It's not a proper way for a young lady to conduct herself.”

“We're friends.”

Mom said nothing. We drove in silence, watching the neighborhood turn from … well, turn.... Finally, she said, “I suppose you're right. It's just … we have no time together anymore between my job and just scraping to feed ourselves. We were so close before your father did this to us.”

“We're close,” I said. And part of me was thinking,
God. I have one friend, and it's too much for her
. But the other part thought how easy, how easy it would be just to go back to who I'd been. Mommy's little boy. Do what she wanted and never worry.

She patted my shoulder. “I'm glad you still think so.”

I shrugged her hand away. She looked wounded and yanked about three hairs at once before replacing her hand on the steering wheel.

Sometimes, I realized, I hated her. And, more than that, I hated who I was when she was there.

I was still calling Dad, daily now, not leaving any messages, just calling. Hoping he'd pick up. It occurred to me that he was sitting there the whole time, looking at caller ID with Stephanie. They were laughing as I called over and over. The bastard. But that would be too callous, even for him. He couldn't actually refuse to talk to his own son. Could he?

“What are you doing?”

I'd started taking walks, long ones, to fill the time between dinner and bed. The rest of my time at home, I spent on the computer.

But today, when I got home, Mom was in my room. On her knees, my hard drive and monitor on the floor beside her. She tugged on the cables.

“No!”

She looked up.

Stay calm. Don't panic
.

“Don't pull that,” I said. I rushed to stop her before she yanked the main plug.

She jumped. But she stopped what she was doing and looked up at me.

“It's not shut down,” I said. “You can't just pull things without shutting down.” Then, more to the point, “Why are you in here anyway?”

“Oh.” She smiled. Actually, she looked happier than I'd seen her in a while. “I thought if we moved it to the living room, we both could use it.” She found the mouse and shut down the computer. I watched the screen go black.

“Use it for what?”

“Doing my taxes. Work at home.”

“God, Mom, I'll do the taxes.” Hard to keep the panic from my voice. Even after weeks at Gate, the computer was my only lifeline and, more important, my escape from Mom. How could I spend hours in chat rooms or playing computer games with her standing over me, judging? “I need it for homework.”

“You need it too much.” She snatched up the keyboard and gestured for me to get the hard drive. I thought about disobeying, but something stopped me from openly defying her. “You spend too much time on that computer. I read about kids who waste all their time on-line, or playing those horrible, violent games. They lose touch with reality. They have no relationships with real people.”

“I have no relationships anyway.” She was leaving, so, helpless, I followed. “Everyone at this stupid school hates me. I have no friends. I have no—”

“You have me.” She gestured toward a card table beside the TV. “I'm not saying you can't use the computer, sweetheart. I'm just saying you should at least sit with me instead of being locked in your room.” She put down the keyboard and touched my shoulder.

I pulled away and dumped the hard drive onto the card table, making it sway and her scramble to keep it from toppling. I stormed into my room and picked up the monitor. I fought the urge to throw it against the wall. Amazing how she'd suddenly asserted herself when it came to thinking of ways to screw up my life. I carried the computer to the living room and dumped it on the sofa, leaving her to figure out how to hook everything back up.

“I feel sick. I'm going to bed.” It was seven o'clock.

I walked around campus most days after school. Sometimes, I saw David Blanco, always near the athletic field, always with the dog. We crossed paths once.

“Hey,” I said, like you say Hey to strangers you see walking, not sure they'll respond. After all, I didn't know him. I wasn't sure I wanted to.

But David said, “Hey” back, not meeting my eyes. The dog tugged its leash.

“What's his name? The dog, I mean?”

He grinned. “Trouble.” He reached to fondle its ears, and I flashed back to what Binky had said about Charlie Good.
That's trouble
.

I started to say something else, but nothing came to mind. When I looked up again, David was far away, leading the dog, Trouble, to the tennis courts this time. Through the green mesh fence covering, I caught a glimpse of Charlie himself, practicing, his blaze of white hair visible through the green. Trouble squatted.

I didn't stick around to watch, but somehow, I knew Charlie would step around it.

The word invaded my head Thursday morning.
Trouble
. Trouble at school, trouble at home, trouble with Dad. But not just that. Big trouble. In my brains, in my veins. I tried to shake the feeling over breakfast, frozen waffles still hard in the center.
Trouble is a dog
. But that wasn't it. Trouble was coming. I knew it.

The feeling followed me to school, like a kid kicking the seat back. It got out with me. It saw what I saw.

Though it was still early, a crowd gathered outside, halfway between the parking lot and the main building. All stared at the same point ahead. Some fell away, holding mouths, closing eyes. It was something bad. I started toward them.

“Maybe you shouldn't…” Mom started to say. But I was going. She couldn't stop me, so she said, “Let me go first.”

Which was stupid. I mean, I wasn't a baby anymore. Still, the trouble trailing us almost convinced me to let her edge ahead. Nice to have Mommy to do things for me. Not this time.

“Paul, don't—”

But I was already out, and then I saw it. Trouble. It was Trouble, all right.

At first, all you noticed was his fur, clean, white like always. Then, your eyes traveled up, searching for the red-ribboned ears, bright eyes. Nothing. Nothing but flies. Someone had cut the dog's head off.

In its place, a note, written in blood, or probably just red marker:

Should have scooped.

My stomach lurched. My eyes were closed, but still, I saw them. David, the mutant, leaning to whisper to his dog, to pet it. David, walking that stupid dog around campus each day, then leading it to the athletic field, the tennis court, to do its business where it did the most damage.

Should have scooped.

When I opened my eyes, I was almost alone. The crowd around me had drifted to the main building. Then I saw why.

Old Carlos, the janitor—Mr. Blanco—stood feet away. He held a shovel and his janitor's dustpan, wiped his eyes with two grimy fingers. God, he'd been crying. Over the dog? No. Because his son would be upset. Had Dad ever cried for me?

Mom took my elbow. “Come on.”

I didn't protest, glad for an excuse not to face David's father.

All morning, I waited. For something. Some horror, some sadness. Some acknowledgment that something bad had happened. Nothing. Between classes, they huddled, whispering.

Did you see?

Cool
.

Gross
.

Who you think did it?

Who cares?

Cool
.

Serves him right
.

Loser
.

I almost puked
.

Had it coming
.

Weird
.

Cool
.

But no one seemed sorry or even surprised.

I met Binky for lunch in the library. It was dark in there, and my eyes hurt. We weren't really supposed to eat there, but the room was empty except for us, so no one said anything. Binky offered me a banana from her sack.

It was too sweet, overripe. I gagged and put it down, its sugary odor mixing with the library's old balloon smell. I carried it to the farthest garbage pail so I wouldn't smell it, then sat back down. “I don't get it. Some psycho decapitated a dog here. Why are they acting like nothing happened?”

Binky didn't finish chewing. “Because nothing did.”

“Huh? Repeat that.”

“Nothing happened.” Another bite. I smelled tuna, onions, felt tears spring to my eyes.

“Nothing happened,” I repeated. “So the blood, the psychotic-looking note, that was all my imagination? 'Cause I should probably go home if I'm hallucinating.”

“I meant, nothing happened to them.”

“How could it not have?”

“Does anyone look upset?” Mrs. Booth, the librarian, shushed her even though we were alone. Binky whispered, “David Blanco isn't one of them.”

“So? Does that mean—?”

“Yes. David isn't one of them, which relieves them of having to do anything. If it was anyone else's dog, they'd have started complaining, called all the parents, investigated. People would pull their kids out of school, and everyone would be all upset.”

“And that would be a bad thing? Do you know most serial killers get started killing animals?” I'd read that on-line once. “Do you know that—?”

She put two fingers to my lips, a gesture more intimate than I wanted to think about, and said, “Parents say they send their kids here for a bunch of reasons. But it adds up to one thing: They don't want to worry about their kids. Spend enough, you don't have to worry.”

“And this makes them worry?”

“Not at all. It has nothing to do with them.”

I couldn't begin to understand that. Binky stood, tossed her lunch bag. When I didn't get up, she turned back.

“Right or wrong, the Blancos feel blessed that the school's educating their son. So, they don't mind that the administration's also letting it get spread around that David killed the dog himself.”

I stared at her, stunned. I hadn't heard that one. Finally, I said, “And you believe that?”

She shook her head. “You weren't listening, Paul.”

She left seconds before the bell.

David wasn't in class that day or the next. I knew because I looked for him. When he wasn't there Monday, I went to the janitor's cottage after seventh period.

It looked more like a tool shed or guest house than anyplace a family could live. Ancient coral rock with a green door so old it could give way under strong wind.