Fat School Confidential (31 page)

    “
That’s bullshit. They would’ve done whatever to get me, and you know it,” she said, angry with my attempts at hindsight.

    “
Maybe we ought to take you to the police, just so you can say you made the decision to be with me.”

   
At the time, I didn’t think much of what I said, or how Wendy would take it when I said “to be with me.” We didn’t so much as consummate our relationship. At this point, with our days—and nights of A.O.S. behind us, and with the cops and the news people closing in on us, it was looking as if we never would.

   
But before Wendy could respond, there was another call. It was Ellie. I motioned to Wendy to keep quiet while I answered.

    “
You told me you would call me,” Ellie started.

   
She was in full distress.

    “
What’s happening?” I asked. I told her early in the morning I would call her in a couple hours. Those couple hours turned out to be more like seven.

    “
What do I tell them?”

    “
Who?”

    “
The news people. They’re outside the door.”

   
No fucking way. This couldn’t be happening.

   
But it was.

   
And no matter how much I wanted it not to, it wouldn’t go away.

   
Did Ellie—and in turn, Bobby—deserve any of this media attention? What had I brought down on them? I fucked up

beyond anything I could ever imagine. And now, I was on the news? When I was a kid I wanted to be famous. But infamous? No. Not like this.

    “
Where’s Bobby?” I asked.

    “
In his room.”

    “
Could you not say anything?”

    “
That’s what Daniel said,” Ellie replied. “He said they will take care of it.”

   
Of course, they will. Daniel and company were determined to keep a handle on the story before it got out of hand. Of course, they were probably the ones who alerted Fox News in the first place. And the story was getting out of hand already.

   
My reasons for Ellie to keep quiet were simple: I didn’t want much, if any press on me. News stories tended to be one-sided, and I already knew which side Fox would take. But I had a feeling Ellie was in over her head and didn’t want to say anything the news people would take and twist to their liking.

   
Finishing the call, I turned to Wendy. “So, have you thought of what I said?”

    “
About going to the cops?”

    “
Yeah. About going to the cops,” I replied, starting up the car.

    “
How?”

    “
Don’t know yet.”

   
Pulling out of the gas station, I jumped onto the Ninety-Nine.

   
Heading south.

   
I couldn’t think straight. Too many scenarios played out in my mind. What if we didn’t turn back? Would the bosses at A.O.S. leave us alone? Would the local news continue to

follow us to L.A.? Would the local sheriff defer to the Highway Patrol? Would guns be involved?

   
Giving Wendy full reign of my satellite radio’s offerings, I figured she could use music to distract her from her own despair.

   
Not that I needed a distraction.

   
With AC/DC and Ozzy Osbourne and Bruce Springsteen joining our old standbys David Bowie, the Who, and Queen, we made our way to the next last big town before the Grapevine: Bakersfield. The terrain to our left and right didn’t change much since Reedley, just miles upon miles of the same, nondescript orchards and fields and cattle ranches and fences and grain silos and fruit stands.

   
I tried to make small talk to further distract Wendy from the obvious. She wasn’t in the fetal position she assumed the night before, and she wasn’t shivering, but she was miserable.

    “
I’ve got a friend who’ll put us up for a couple days, at least until we can get you settled in that school,” I said, trying to break the tension.

    “
Cool,” Wendy replied, before asking, “But how am I gonna apply for financial aid?”

    “
We’ll worry about it when we get there.”

    “
I’m worried about it now.”

   
My cell vibrated again. Grabbing it, I answered the call.

    “
Hello, this must be Joe, right?” asked the woman on the other end.

    “
Yes. Who’s this?” I asked. I was worried at first it might have been one of Wendy’s sisters.

    “
This is Phyllis, from KMPH in Fresno. Do you have a minute?”

   
My knee-jerk reaction was to hang up. Instead, I glanced at the caller ID, confirmed to myself that the call was indeed local, then turned down the volume on the radio. I stammered, “Uh, am I on the air?”

    “
No, but we’d like a chance to hear your side of the story.”

   
My side of the story? Was she serious? What about Wendy’s side of the story? Certainly, she was more newsworthy than her fucked-in-the-head teacher, right?

    “
I don’t know. Can I call you back?” I asked.

    “
Yes. Of course. Let me give you my number—”

   
I cut Phyllis off with “It’s on my caller ID.” And after an awkward moment, we said our goodbyes.

    “
They want to interview me,” I said, turning to face Wendy for her reaction. As expected, she was none too pleased.

    “
This just isn’t right. We were supposed to get famous from our work, not this way,” Wendy railed, before adding, “I mean, we were gonna take on Hollywood, with your writing and my writing—“

   
I interrupted her with, “Your writing? Your writing is good but I see you more in front of the camera.”

    “
Really?” Wendy asked, a little coy.

    “
It’s not much of a stretch when you think of it. I mean, a movie star is kinda like a rock star.”

   
Wendy smiled, replying, “Not quite.”

    “
What’s the difference? Anyway, who can compare to Wendy-Fucking-Barts?” I added. She laughed that untroubled, carefree laugh of hers.

   
If only.

   
I checked the odometer. We were passing the hundred-mile mark. Farmland made way for low-lying commercial and residential structures.

   
We were now in the outskirts of Bakersfield.

   
It was only a matter of time before the Grapevine loomed ahead, and then, Los Angeles.

   
Like a nervous bird, I glanced before and behind me, looking for black and whites.

   
Nothing.

   
Sailing past an exit, I noticed what appeared to be a sheriff’s car stationed at the on-ramp. Then, another exit, and another sheriff car.

   
Were they hovering overhead as well?

   
Was this coincidence? Or was this part of Daniel Abrams’s determined scheme to rein me—and Wendy back into the fold of A.O.S.? Coincidence or not, my many-hours-long, out-of-body sensation—compounded with the stress and sadness of leaving my family and my job and my old life behind, let alone dealing with Wendy and her wants and needs, not to mention screening all those phone calls—had left me claustrophobic to the point of atrophy.

   
Phyllis from KMPH called me, again. I let it go to voicemail. I checked it right away.

    “
Hi, Joe. I understand your hesitation to go on the air with us. I also understand that you are heading towards Los Angeles. Our local affiliate will be switching over to the national network soon. At that point, it’ll be out of my hands. Could you please call me back?”

   
National. That meant only one thing: Everyone I knew would find out what a deranged fuck-up I had become. All my friends. All my family. Everyone I met in passing. Ex-girlfriends. Bullies from school days long ago.

   
My mom.

   
She’d have a fucking heart attack. She had an enlarged heart that I’d known for some time. She was taking medicine for that but she’d die for sure. I just knew it. I’d be forevermore blamed by my siblings and everyone near and dear as the one who broke Mama’s heart.

   
I just couldn’t—no, I wouldn’t let it come to this. I had to do something to avoid national attention.

   
I was at the breaking point. Wendy had no idea how out of sorts I was, but I was at the edge. There was just too much bearing down on me. On us.

   
I began to pray. Yeah, me. This fallen, haven’t-been-to-confession-in-twenty-five-years, part-time agnostic, church-going-only-to-look-religious-to-my-family Catholic. If nothing else, the praying kept me from doing anything drastic. That was, if there was anything more drastic than what I had already done in the last sixteen hours.

    “
Is this Joe Rourke?” Asked the gravel-voiced man on the other end of the phone.

    “
Yes. Who’s this?”

    “
This is Sheriff Henderson of the Tulare County Sheriff’s Department.”

    “
Oh. Hi.”

   
The sheriff squeezed out a guttural “hi” before adding, “Can you and Wendy come up to Pixley? We’d like to ask you both a few questions.”

   
Pixley. I remembered passing it. With a name like something out of that old sixties’ TV show, Green Acres, Pixley was another dead-end migrant farm town in the middle of a dead-end strip of flatland—with a sheriff’s substation to boot.

   
That meant driving back north close to fifty miles. We were getting nowhere and nowhere fast.

    “
And if we don’t?”

    “
Then the state highway patrol will be stopping you. Look, all we want to do is ask a few questions to each of ya. If things check out, then you’re both free to go.”

   
Free to go. Now that’s what I wanted to hear.

   
The directions memorized, I thanked Sheriff Henderson and ended the call. Getting off the freeway at Panama Lane, I turned to face Wendy. From her downward stare, she knew the jig was up.

   
If we could convince the authorities we were of sound mind and consensually going to L.A., then maybe we could be on our way. That was, if no one else stood in the way.

   
And so, at a little after one in the afternoon, we headed north.

   
What would await us was anyone’s guess.

Chapter 17

Consequences

    “
What are you thinking about?” Wendy asked.

   
What wasn’t I thinking about? My thought process was maxed out. But I didn’t want to burden her anymore than she was already. Not that she was burdening me with anything. No, not me.

    “
I’m thinking about your living situation,” I replied.

    “
Didn’t you tell me we were staying at your friend’s?”

    “
Yeah, but that’s only for a few days. You’ll need a dorm or apartment once you’re enrolled in school. We talked about this.”

    “
Yeah, but I won’t know anybody. Where will you stay?”

    “
At my mom’s. About eight or nine miles from downtown.”

    “
I have a hard time sleeping in a strange place,” she said.

   
My sarcasm kicked in. “What do you want me to do, tuck you in? Read you a bedtime story?”

   
Wendy shrugged, offering an anemic “I dunno.”

    “
You can’t expect me to stay with you all night. I mean, really?”

   
Glancing at me with puppy-dog eyes, Wendy’s look suggested she did indeed want me to stay with her, should the occasion present itself. But did she want me to stay the night, or did she want me to stay the night?

    “
It would help,” she replied, glancing my way.

   
Why didn’t she act this way when we were at that rest stop all fucking nightlong? Or, perish the thought, back at A.O.S.? Like that mattered. I was too mixed up to do anything about it had she tried to get me to make the first move. What the fuck was she trying to do? And why now?