Cracked Up to Be (6 page)

“We’ll go this way.” I point in the opposite direction. “If we go down this street, turn left and walk through the park there’s this kind of wooded area. Beyond that, there’s a ravine. We could probably get some really good pictures there.”

“We’re not going to your house first?”

“I don’t want you to know where I live.”

He laughs. “Like I give a damn. But sure, let’s go to the ravine.”

We walk. I don’t know if I should be nice to him or if this technically makes him my guest because we’re near where I live and he has no idea where we are.

“So you and Chris really hit it off, huh?”

I keep my voice light and conversational, but Jake still seems to weigh every word like he’s trying to figure out which one of them is poisoned.

“He’s cool,” he says after a while. “I mean, he didn’t treat me like a new kid, you know? We hang.”

“He and Becky are going out—you know Becky, right? Becky Halprin? She’s captain of the cheerleading squad. Anyway, they had a date last Friday and they’re having another one this weekend, I think.”

“Yeah, Saturday,” Jake says. “It’s not really a date, though. A couple of us are going to go shoot some pool at Finn’s, wherever that is.”

“Finn Walters?”

“Yeah, you know him?”

“Yeah. He’s on the chess team. He’s, like, this superintellectual and yet still cool.” It could be all the blow he deals in the boys’ washrooms. “So it’s a night thing, right? When are you going? Around eight?”

“Chris says he’ll pick me up at—” He stops. “Why? Are you fishing for an invite or something? Because you’re not going to get one from me.”

“I’ve got better things to do with a Saturday night, but thanks.”

“Like what?”

“Like not hanging out with you?”

“Walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did.”

We laugh. And then we realize we’re laughing together and then we stop and then it gets awkward. I don’t do awkward well, at least mutual awkwardness, so I snap my fingers to make the feeling go away.

And then I can’t stop.

Even after Jake points it out.

“That’s really annoying,” he says.

So I kick it up a notch just to bug him and I keep it up until my fingers start to hurt.

We trek through the park and enter the woods beyond it. They’re not like the woods by Chris’s house. They’re a little denser, a little easier to get lost in, but I’m not worried. I like them. Nothing bad happened here and it makes the air less polluted, somehow. It doesn’t make me want to throw up.

“It’s really great out here,” I say without thinking. “There’s nothing—”

I shut my mouth.

“What?” Jake asks.

“Nothing. We’ll get good pictures out here, that’s all.”

He reaches into his book bag and pulls out his digital camera.

“But not here—it’s a little farther in. Give me that.” I hold out my hand and he steps back, clutching the camera to his chest. “Oh, come on, Jake. I’m not going to steal or break it. I may not respect people, but I do respect their property.”

He groans and hands it to me.

“I must be crazy.”

“You’re right; you are.”

I take it and run and the look on his face is
so great
.

“Parker!”

He has no choice but to chase after me, and I have a hell of a lead. I can hear my pulse pounding in my ears and the air is cold and sharp in my lungs and I like that. I get to the ravine ages before him, scale the nearest tree—which is also the biggest and the oldest—and wriggle my way along the thickest branch out.

The one that hovers directly above the thirty-foot drop.

When Jake finally catches up to me, I’m dangling from a pretty precarious angle, nearly upside down, and it probably looks terrifying from where he’s standing.

But it will be so worth this shot.

“Are you trying to kill yourself?” he yells, panting.

I keep my leg muscles tight around the branch so I don’t, you know, die.

“If I was trying to kill myself, I’d make sure you weren’t here.”

“Parker, get down from there. You’re making me nervous—”

“Pansy.”

“Fuck off.”

A little more . . .

The branch makes a few disconcerting creaking noises, but I’m going to pretend it’s not giving out under my weight. I hold the camera up to my eye, the view through the lens making me slightly dizzy, and get a good focus on the ravine. The edges of either side of it creep up the corners of the frame.

Jake’s either holding his breath or wetting himself.

Got it.

I right myself, snake backward and hold the camera out.

“Catch!”

“Parker, no—”

I let it go. It seems to fall in slow motion. Jake catches it like I knew he would and he starts swearing at me like I knew he would. When he’s finished, he turns the camera on and checks out the shot.

“Decent,” he mutters. “But you’re lucky I caught my camera.”

The branch I’m on protests a little more. I stand very, very carefully and maneuver my way to a branch on the opposite side. It’s tricky.

“You’re good at that,” Jake says, as I settle on my new branch.

“I’ve lived in trees my whole life.”

“Do you have some kind of retort for everything?”

“I’m the straightest talker you’ve ever met.”

“Oh, really? I think most of what comes out of your mouth is—”

And that’s when the goddamn branch gives out.

five

The fall takes no time and forever
.

I land on my feet for a split second and then my legs crumple and I’m flat on my back and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry or swear because I can’t believe the
other
branch broke, so I just lay there not moving instead.

“Jesus—Parker?” Dead leaves crunch under Jake’s feet as he hurries over. I should say something. He kneels down. “Parker? Are you okay?”

“I can’t feel my legs.”

He turns white. “Are you serious?”

“No.”

“Not funny,” he snaps. “You’re okay?”

“I’m fine.”

I prop myself up on my elbow and ignore the insistent, toothachelike pain going on in my right ankle. Jake doesn’t need to know about that.

“Nice catch,” I say.

He laughs and stands, brushing the dirt from his knees.

“Like I was gonna catch
you
. Come on, let’s get out of here; it’s getting dark.”

I extend my hands. Jake looks surprised, but he grabs me by the wrists and hoists me up. I stumble into him. Busted. He gives me a look.

“You hurt yourself, didn’t you?”

“Nothing’s broken.”

“But you hurt yourself, didn’t you?”

“I’ve had worse injuries on the cheerleading squad.”

“Parker,” Jake says impatiently. “What hurts?”

“Ankle.”

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He pauses and looks awkward. “Uh . . . do you need to lean on me or—”

“No,”
I say emphatically. “I’m good for limping, thanks.”

“I have this crazy feeling you’d say that even if you weren’t.”

We make our way back through the woods. I take a sharp breath in for every step forward, but I don’t think it’s anything serious. I’ll get the compress out when I get home and I’ll be good for Monday or I could run up and down the stairs until it’s so inflamed I couldn’t possibly make it to school.

But I’ll give Jake credit. He slows his pace to accommodate my stupid injury and he doesn’t go tearing off into the woods like I might’ve done to him.

I kind of wish he would, though, as he feels the need to pass the time by talking.

“So what’d you do that you have to see Ms. Grey once a week?”

“Run-of-the-mill-delinquent stuff,” I say. “It’s none of your business.”

“Okay.”

Limp, limp, limp.

“I got drunk at school. A lot. Earlier this year.”

I only admit it because it’s something he probably already knows. People talk. I can’t be the first person he’s asked about me.

He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Do you have, like . . . a problem?”

“Yeah, and that was my solution.” He looks all uncomfortable and I laugh. “Lighten up. If I say I don’t, you wouldn’t believe that, right? Anyone who says they don’t have a drinking problem usually does.”

“Do they?” he asks. I take a hard step on my ankle and gasp. He pauses, but I wave him off before he can ask if I’m okay. We keep moving and he starts talking again. God, I wish he’d shut up. “So why did you drink?”

“I—” Limp, limp, limp. “What does Chris tell you about me?”

“He said the pressures of being popular made your brain snap.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

I’m so touched; he lied for me. Might as well go along with it.

“It was something like that, yeah.”

“I’m sorry it was so hard for you,” Jake says. He
means
it. And then he gets quiet, but now
I
want to talk.

“Do you feel you know me a little better now?” I ask.

He gives me an appraising look.

“You’re not that bad.”

“It’s the sprained ankle. It ups my likability because I can’t kick your ass with a broken foot. You probably have a thing for girls when they’re vulnerable because they make you feel like that much more of a man—”

“I take it back; you
are
that bad. You’re—” He shakes his head. “Never mind; just shut up.”

“You totally softened after I fell out of the tree. I’m just saying.”

“Yeah, well, I think any decent human being would.”

He picks up the pace. My ankle gives me no choice but to fall behind.

“
I
wouldn’t,” I say to his back.

We split up at the corner to my house after I give him directions to Chris’s and it’s tense and awkward and unhappy, but that’s the way I like it. Jake should know—well, everyone should know—there’s no such thing as a decent human being. It’s just an illusion.

And when it’s gone, it’s really gone.

six

“WIN OR LOSE!

“IT’S ALL THE SAME!

“WE DO OUR BEST!

“WE’VE GOT GAME!
. . .”

“Stop!” I shout. I don’t even want to hear the rest of it
.

The girls stare at me, frozen in a ludicrous pose, arms up and out. They remind me of Barbie dolls wearing orange and yellow. This is a new cheer. Becky tabled it. I didn’t want to do it, but she begged for months. “You have to let us try it, Parker! The girls will be great!
”

But they’re not great. They suck and the cheer sucks
.

“No,” I tell them. “Absolutely not. It’s a cheer about being okay with losing—how can you think that’s appropriate on any level, Becky? Do you want us to look like fools when we play against St. Mary’s?”

“It’s not about being okay with losing,” Becky snorts. “It’s about good sportsmanship!”

I ignore her. “Line up! We’ll do the Victory chant for now and I’ll figure out something else later, but forget this ‘do our best’ piece of shit. We’re not doing it. And you were all terrible.”

Becky’s mouth drops open
.

“I’m sure she doesn’t totally mean it like that, guys,” Jessie says, staring at me
.

Mom bursts into my room and opens the blinds. I pull the blankets over my head and groan. There’s something about the early morning rays of sunshine beating down on my face that makes me want to puke.

“Today’s a big day!” she announces. “How does your foot feel?”

“I don’t know; I haven’t stepped on it yet. Oh my
God
, Mom, would you close the blinds—”

“You should be excited! Today’s the day we’re bringing Bailey home!”

Bailey. The dog. We passed the interview process, filled out the adoption forms, and I chose the dog next in line to be put down, even though he’s not a puppy, because I’m thoughtful like that. Bailey’s a ten-year-old harrier with a happy disposition and I think he’ll make a great daughter, for a dog.

Mom leaves. I swing my legs over the bed, touch my foot to the floor and stand. It feels better, but I doubt I’ll be walking Bailey this week. Falling out of a tree was good for something; Mom or Dad can bond with the dog during the first few integral days and then they can forget he was ever supposed to be for me.

“Oh, Bailey, look, Bailey! Say hello to your new mommy and daddy and sister! Oh, that’s a good boy!”

The shelter volunteer is this huge woman who slobbers nearly as much, if not more than, the many dogs surrounding us. Most of them are barking like crazy and there’s something about the sound that goes straight to my stomach. The shelter is too small for the number of animals here and it’s hot. I snap my fingers to make the feeling go away and glance at Bailey, who stares at me with these big golden-brown eyes. For a second, it’s weird. I feel like I’m doing something good, but not just for me.

“Now, Bailey, you be
good
, you hear me?” The woman kneels and gives Bailey such a long hug I think he’ll suffocate and die. “We’ll miss you. . . .”

Oh my God, I think she’s crying.

Sure enough, when she stands, her eyes are bright and her cheeks are damp. Lame, especially considering they were gearing Bailey up to die in a couple of days anyway. The woman passes the leash to Dad, stifles another sob and wishes us well. Bailey’s strangely calm about the whole thing. Even the car ride home. Maybe he’ll be such a good dog we won’t even know we have him.

When we get home, he explores each room at his leisure, sniffing at anything and everything, every nook and cranny. He does it with a practiced disinterest and I wonder what his deal is. His last owner was abusive.

Bailey edges up to the door of my room.

“Bailey.” He turns and looks at me. “No.”

I block his path and close the door so he can’t get in. And then I say it again:

“No. That’s
my
room. You’re not allowed in there.”

He just looks at me and wags his tail. I hold my hand out and he sniffs it.

“So what did you do that no one wanted you, huh?”

I crouch down and scratch him under the chin, behind the ears. I think he likes it; I don’t know. We’ve never had a pet before.