Breaking Point (8 page)

“Why are you doing this?” He echoed my thoughts.

I handed him a few books. “Because I'm not an asshole.”

He pulled out towels and dried them. Then he took some other books and started washing and squeegeeing with me. Finally, he said, “No, I guess you're not.”

He
guessed
. My shirt reeked of the crap. But I let it go. I handed him another stack of clean books. “What is this shit anyway?”

“Potatoes,” he said. “This shit is potatoes.”

Then I could smell it. “But where would they get potatoes?”

“Not real potatoes. Powdered potatoes, the kind they use in the cafeteria. Three or four boxes, I'd guess. Just poured them in, then filled my bag with water.”

“How do you know?”

“I had a friend once who talked about a prank like this. There are chives, too—the green stuff.”

I smelled it now. Gross. I wanted to get out of there, away from the stink of potatoes and chives and bathroom. But mostly, away from David, away from what I'd almost become. I wasn't that far gone. I told myself it wasn't like what he'd said about the Germans. Because David didn't want to be my friend either. I handed him the washed-off backpack, and he put his books in.

I was fifteen minutes late to class.

I opened the door. Mom stood, holding a piece of paper. “We need to talk.”

Conversation had been slow around there. Afternoons I spent holed up in my room, only coming out for dinner, which I made in the slow cooker, starting at six in the morning. It had been almost two weeks since Charlie had initiated me into the Mailbox Club. He still ignored me at school. I'd gone back to calling Dad, not every night, but weird times, when I figured he wouldn't expect it. I still hated Gate, hated living with Mom.

Now, Mom held out the paper. I saw it was a telephone bill. I looked away.

“You've been calling your father,” she said evenly.

I didn't answer.

She tried again. “Twenty-two calls, Paul. Twenty-two one-minute calls to his answering machine. And he hasn't called back.”

“How do you know he hasn't?”

“I know, sweetheart.”

I didn't need her sympathy, didn't want it. Something inside made me yell, “You don't know anything. He's called a bunch of times, but late at night. We talk all the time.”

“Paul…”

“Just because you couldn't hold on to him doesn't mean he left
me
. It doesn't mean…”

I saw her restrain herself from reaching for me. “It shouldn't mean that, honey. But it does. It isn't your fault.”

“Of course it's not. It's your fault. Your fault. You drove him away. He couldn't stand it anymore. He couldn't stand you anymore. And you fucked me up so bad he couldn't stand me either.”

“Don't use such language.”

But the word felt good, liberating. So, I repeated it. “Fuck.” Then, again. And again. Because it made me someone else, someone normal and happy, someone who used words like that, like St. John. I repeated it, over and over until she walked away, wounded. Then, I was glad. And still, I kept repeating it, because that word was the only thing that kept me from crying.

The knock didn't startle me this time.

“Give me a second,” I told Meat. I put on jeans, a T-shirt. I'd laid them aside, just in case.

The ride was as wild as the first time, and I was as drunk—this time on something called Piesporter that Charlie's parents had brought from Germany. I think it was wine. I climbed into St. John's backseat after our tenth mailbox, feeling the alcohol seep through my system. Charlie said, “I'm hungry, St. John.”

St. John put down his window and spat into the cooling night. “Everything's closed, Charlie. It's four
A.M.
”

“I know that,” Charlie said. He hadn't been drinking, so he sounded reasonable.

“So what—?”

“Turn here.” Charlie pointed to a street we'd nearly passed. St. John veered left with a string of obscenities. A few blocks later, Charlie instructed another turn, then another into a strip-mall parking lot.

It was deserted. Abandoned cars loomed like crouching criminals. St. John glanced at Charlie but said nothing. He passed a consignment store window filled with battered strollers, a Chinese restaurant. We reached the 7-Eleven.

“See? Closed.”

“Move along.” Charlie flicked his hand as if brushing a speck of dust. St. John rolled forward. At the end of the line, there was a bagel place, its pink neon sign announcing
B GELS.
Charlie held up a hand. “Here.”

“But it's—”

“I know it's closed.” Charlie's voice was patience personified. “That doesn't mean we can't eat here.” He gestured toward the pink-lit doorway. “See?”

I made out two images. At first, I thought they were homeless people, which Miami had plenty of. I looked closer. They were sacks filled with bagels.

“They drop them off, each morning, early,” Charlie said. “They trust people to stay away out of the goodness of their hearts.” Charlie looked at Meat and me for the first time. “Take them.”

I started. Seemed like wine made you drunk a different way than ouzo. Drowsy, dreamy, mind barely recognizing the body's actions. Beside me, Meat said, “All of them?” When Charlie nodded, Meat said, “What'll we do with, like, three hundred bagels?”

Charlie grinned. “Question is, what will they do with
no
bagels at breakfast time?” The smile vanished. “Take them.”

“Wicked.” Meat laughed and shoved me at the door. I opened it, feet still heavy with sleep, wine making me powerless to resist Meat's push. I stumbled forward, found my balance, and followed Meat to the doorway. All the time, I heard Binky's words,
The pretty apples are the poisonous ones
. But that was just something she'd said because she was jealous. Smothering me, like Mom. I took another swig from the bottle I still held, somehow, reached for the bag. Heavier than it looked, its plastic caught in my fingers. I hefted it onto my back. Meat lifted his without effort. We walked to the truck. Meat hurled his bag into the cargo area, and I followed. I wondered what the storekeeper would do—for a second. Charlie reached over the seat back, and we high-fived.

“Good job, men!” Charlie said, and St. John started the car like he already knew where we were going.

“We def, we fly,” St. John was singing.

“What are you, a rapper?” Meat asked, and St. John clammed up.

Next stop was the park. St. John pulled beside the playground, and he, Charlie, and Meat left the car, slamming doors because there was no one to hear. I followed, slower.

“We used to hang here as kids,” Meat explained as we pulled the bagel bags out the back door.

I thought of Binky's church, of swinging in the September humidity. But it was October, cooler.

“Now, we still party here,” St. John added.

We opened the bags. Charlie pulled out smaller bags holding sesame, garlic, and pumpernickel bagels. He threw them at us. I caught one. Salt. I hated salt. Still, I kept it. “Over there.” Charlie pointed to the playground. I stumbled across the patchy sand to the merry-go-round and sat. “Leave the wine in the car,” Charlie had said. Meat sat beside me, then St. John on my other side. When Charlie came, he shoved between St. John and me. He'd hidden the big bagel bag in the back, then shut the tailgate. Were they as drunk as I was? Charlie wasn't, so I kept quiet, not wanting to sound stupid. In fact, we were all silent, eating our bagels, soft and gummy, still hot in the cool night. The hard salt punished my mouth, but I didn't care.

Charlie broke the silence. “Know what makes me mad?” Without waiting for an answer, he said, “If people, teachers, our parents, saw us tonight, they'd say, ‘They're just a bunch of kids.'”

“We are kids,” St. John said.

“Speak for yourself,” Meat said. “My parents are kids compared to me.”

St. John considered that. “We're old enough to drive,” he said. “Old enough to screw.”

I thought, briefly, of Amanda Colbert.

“Old enough to die,” Meat said.

“Exactly.” Charlie bit a bagel and chewed it. We all waited, in case he had something else to say. He swallowed. “Remember those kids who shot up that school? Killed, like, fourteen people. All the jocks, people who gave them a hard time.” The merry-go-round swayed beneath us.

“That's screwed up,” St. John said.

“Yeah,” Meat said. “Weird when stuff like that happens.”

Charlie said, “Yeah. Mostly because it's stuff you thought about doing yourself, taking charge like that. Taking control, making the bastards pay.” He pulled out a second bagel. “Not that any of us would do it for real, of course.”

“'Course not,” St. John said. “But everyone acts like you might.”

“'Cause we're young,” Meat said.

“We're shit,” St. John said.

“Shit,” I echoed, because I hadn't said anything yet.

Charlie threw his bagel in the sand beneath us. “I'm so sick of that. The so-called adults. Think they know it all with their questions.” He clasped his hands together, looking for all the world like my mother. “Charlie, angel, you don't know anyone with a gun, do you? Do you ever feel angry, honey? Do you ever feel misunderstood?” He turned to me. “Well, do you, Paul?”

I started. The merry-go-round squealed. St. John and Meat laughed. Finally, I said, “I don't know.”

“Don't you, Paul?”

“Don't you, Paul?” St. John echoed.

“Don't you, Paul?” Meat, with a giggle.

Charlie said, “Sure you do, Paul.” He patted my shoulder. “How could you not? The so-called adults don't understand, do they? They don't understand about honor. They don't understand about loving your friends, about taking care of one another.”

I looked at Charlie. Then, Meat and St. John, a tall shape and a bulky one. Were they my friends? I mean, they never even talked to me at school. Yet Charlie spoke of friendship, love even. And here they were including me, letting me be part of this night. This incredible night.

“Right,” I said.

“They aren't like us,” Meat said.

“Right. That's why I get mad when you two bicker like children.” Charlie gestured toward St. John and Meat. “Or when Einstein here acts like a scared little boy getting to play with the big kids. 'Cause we have to stick together, have to be loyal, respect one another. Have to take control.”

“'Cause everyone thinks we're scum,” Meat said.

“They don't know better,” Charlie said.

“But we do, right?” St. John said.

I turned, feeling Charlie's closeness. He nodded. “Right, Paul?”

I shifted. Why was Charlie putting me on the spot? But I said, “Right.”

Before I'd turned to Charlie, I'd been watching down the street. Now, I looked back. A car. A police cruiser, lights off. It curled around the outer edge of the park, closer and closer. Finally, it pulled beside St. John's truck and stopped.

“Shit,” St. John whispered. I felt something like a foot to my stomach.

“Be cool.” Charlie's eyes narrowed.

The door opened. The cop stepped out, a short, muscular guy, the kind who became a cop so he could have authority over someone. Like guys Dad knew in the army. Or Dad.

“Morning, boys.”

“Morning, Officer.” Charlie, who was sober, stood.

The cop eyed us. “I
said
, good morning, boys.”

I shifted an arm on the cold, metal bar and said, “Good morning, Officer” with the others. The merry-go-round squeaked. Would they call my mother? I'd rather just die in jail.

The cop came closer, walking chest-out. “What are you boys doing out this time of night?”

Again, Charlie picked up the slack. “Waiting for sunrise, sir, reliving childhood memories.” He gestured toward the merry-go-round. “It's not a school night, sir.”

“Little breakfast, I see?” The cop gestured toward the bagels, just a small bag. The others were hidden.

“Yes, sir. Care for one?” Charlie—how could he be so cool?—Charlie reached for the bag by St. John's feet.

The cop stiffened, like he thought Charlie might go for a weapon, then relaxed. “No, thanks.” I heard the grit of sand under my shoes, the sound of night insects, and watched, mesmerized, the strobing light on his squad car, turning, turning. The cop turned on his flashlight, shone it on St. John's truck. “This your car, son?”

Charlie nudged St. John, who said, “It's mine.”

“Mind if I have a look?” Without waiting for an answer, the cop walked closer.

Oh, God
. All those bagels. If he saw them…