Gotcha (9 page)

The most recent dose of painkillers is finally working. I can roll over onto my side without causing spasms of pain to run up my leg. I punch my pillow, trying to fluff it back up, and I pull the quilt over my shoulders.

What’s happening to us? We were just a normal class of kids, getting ready to move into the next phase of our lives. It’s creepy how Gotcha has changed us, or some of us. Is it because we expected it to, or is it the way the game is played that creates the bizarre behavior? If it had been someone
else who was being ganged up on last night would I have participated? God, I hope not.

My back finally starts aching from lying in bed for so long and I have to get up. Somewhere between my bed and my bum-hop down the stairs, I decide that now is the time to follow through on the decision I made last night. I clomp my way over to the phone in the kitchen. I can hear the drone of the
TV
in the living room, meaning Mom’s not going to overhear my phone call. Good. I’ll be spared the “I told you so’s.”

I quickly dial the number. Warren answers after the first ring, and the resonance of his voice jump-starts that familiar stir deep in my stomach. What is wrong with me? I’ll blame it on the painkillers.

“Warren, it’s me, Katie.”

“Hey, Kittiekat.”

I hate it when people use my dad’s nickname for me, but hearing Warren say it now...well, it gives it a certain...style.

“How’s your ankle?” he asks.

“Not very good. It hurts.”

“That’s too bad. How did you say you did it?”

“Just a stupid accident.” I’m surprised no one told him the story of what happened before he arrived at the party, but then again, as we were leaving, everyone was acting like nothing had happened.

“So, you were at Tyson’s with Joel Keister?”

“Yeah. Paige is mad at me, and Joel needed someone to link with.” I don’t know why I feel the need to explain it to him, but I do.

“Oh.”

Oh? What does he mean by that? Time to get to the point of my call. “Warren, I’m...I’m dropping out of the game.”

There’s a long pause. “Out of Gotcha?”

“Right.”

Another long pause. “You can’t do that, Kittiekat. Once you’re in, the only way out is to lose your bead.”

“Oh yeah? Who says?”

“No one drops out of Gotcha. It’s the rules.”

“Show me where they’re written.”

I can hear him sigh. “The rules aren’t written anywhere, you know that. But they’ve been passed down over the years.”

“Well that’s stupid! I don’t want my money back or anything. I just want out.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“I’ll give my bead away, and my name. It’s no big deal.”

“But someone has your name, Katie.”

And I have someone’s name, I think to myself but don’t mention. “Then I’ll give that person my bead.”

“And deprive them of their fun, as well as giving them a freebie? That won’t go over very well with the rest of the class, and I think you know what happens when you anger the Gotcha Gods.”

The Gotcha Gods? “Oh c’mon, Warren. It’s just a stupid game.” But suddenly I’m thinking he knows more about last night than he’s letting on. And maybe he knew exactly what
he was doing when he defused the situation with just his voice. Is there more to Warren than I thought?

“No, you c’mon, Katie,” he says and then adds, more gently, “Just hang in there a little longer. You’ll be tagged soon enough.”

“No! I’m not playing.”

Warren doesn’t answer, so I continue. “Okay then. I’ll let it be known that I’m...I’m going to stand on the street, near the school, and whoever has my name can just come and get my bead.”

“I can’t stop you from doing that.”

“Good.”

There’s another long pause. His lack of response is making me nervous. It causes me to babble on. “I actually think we should stop the whole game now before someone gets hurt.”

Warren laughs. It’s a beautiful laugh, yet it makes me feel queasy. “Not a chance, Kittiekat.”

“My name’s Katie. And just for the record, Warren, if something goes wrong, real wrong, it’s on your shoulders. I’m not part of it anymore.”

“That’s where you’re mistaken, Katie.” He says my name with emphasis. “We’re all in this together.”

“Not for much longer.”

“Whatever you say, Katie.”

I slam down the phone. Jerk! He saw what was happening last night. He knows it’s only going to get worse as we get closer to the end. I lied when I said it was “just a game.”
It’s not. Not at all. I could never understand how things got so bad in other years, but now I’m starting to get it.

It’s Wednesday and I still have my bead, but only because I haven’t been to school. Even if I wanted to go, I have no way of getting there as Mom leaves too early in the morning to drive me, and I can’t walk that far with crutches. I’m overdosing on talk-show
TV
, with all the freaks and idiots, and it’s scaring me. I could be one of those loser guests in a few years.

“And you say it all started when you sprained your ankle?”

“Yes. That’s when it started.”

“And after that you had no friends and you started flunking out in school?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what happened.”

“You claim you were a popular, straight-A student before you tripped on your schoolbag.”

“I’m not ‘claiming’ I was! I totally was!”

“And you say you were ganged up on in a grad activity, in a game called Gotcha.”

“Yes, that’s what happened. And it was awful! They wanted me to walk on my sprained ankle...”

“Hmm. It seems strange that a sprained ankle could keep you from graduating and going on to college...”

“Well it did! And it was because of the beads! And those people who came to my door. And then everyone went crazy...”

“Well, Katie, we have a surprise guest here today. She was your best friend before you sprained your ankle, and we’re now going to hear her side of the story. She says that your flunking out had nothing to do with your sprained ankle, but was because you were spreading untrue rumors about her.”

The
TV
audience shrieks its approval. I cover my ears
...

I find myself checking my e-mail constantly, hoping to hear from Dad. Finally I give in and write to him.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Subject: Re: sprained ankle

hi dad,

im sorry bout my last email. i was havin a really bad night. the gotcha game is gettin crazy. ppl r goin insane. my ankle is really sore so i cant get 2 school which is bad b/c i need 2 keep my marks up 2 get those scholarships + i cant work so im not making N E $ 2 put towards school tuition or even a grad dress. i guess thats my excuse 4 being so angry. im also havin friendship problems. i feel like ive been pushed in2 1 of those waterslide chutes, i’m sliding down, away from everything good & theres no turning back til i drop out the bottom. w/ my luck, there will only b a pile of jagged rocks there & no pool of water.
or there will b a talk-show host wanting 2 make a fool of me.

i hope things r going better for u.

katie

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Subject: Re: sprained ankle

Dear Katie,

I’m sorry you’re having a tough time. But remember, it’s up to you to decide to be happy. No one else can do that for you. Enjoy that slide! Envision a fragrant bubble bath at the bottom, and it will be yours. (And what’s this about a talk-show host?)

About the money woes, have you given any more thought to me investing your money for you? I’m still confident that I can make you some cash, fast.

Take care, sweetheart.

Dad

It’s Thursday and I’m at the kitchen table, staring out the window. The snowcapped mountain peaks in the distance
shimmer in the morning sun, and the daffodil shoots in the window box are on the verge of bursting into bloom. The sun has warmed the room until it’s toasty. In my past life, the one where I had a future and friends and an intact family, a dew-sparkling morning like this always energized me and made me feel like anything could happen. But today the morning feels as drab as any other. The angle of the sun shows how grimy the windows are. I can’t make myself a decent breakfast because, with my crutches, I can’t carry anything from the fridge to the counter, and if I make toast or warm something in the microwave, I have to stand at the counter to eat it. I’m now missing my fourth day of school, and it’s going to be hell to catch up. I’ve read every book in the house, no one has brought me any assignments or notes from school, and I can only look forward to twelve more hours of daytime soaps or talk shows.

And Joel hasn’t called.

I switch on the computer and read the online horoscope that pops up on our home page.
Step out of your comfort zone and take a chance today. You never know until you try.
Oh yeah, that’s helpful. I can’t
step
anywhere.

I reread my dad’s last e-mail. I wonder about this money-making tip he’s talking about. Mom used to accuse him of losing all their money. Would he take any chances with mine? I don’t think so. He knows how much I need it. I do have about $900 in my savings account, mostly from the tips I’ve earned at the restaurant and which I busted my butt for. But this is nothing compared to what I’ll need for tuition
and books and living-out expenses. I decide to check my bank account online to see exactly how much there is.

I log into the secure area of the bank web page and type in my password. A screen appears with my personal information. Whoa! Something’s wrong. The computer shows that there’s $3,105.38 in my account. That’s not right. I close the screen and log on again. It still shows $3,105.38. Where did it come from? An anonymous donor?

And then I remember. I put the Gotcha money in my account. For a second there I thought I really did have a fairy godmother. I’m so pathetic. I should withdraw it and turn it over to someone else to keep. I don’t want any part of that game. It’s blood money.

An idea comes to me, slowly worming its way into my consciousness while I stare at the computer screen. What if I lend Dad the Gotcha money? He could invest it and then... what was it he said? It would triple overnight? I do the math in my head. I’d give the Gotcha winner their $2,120 and keep the rest. That would be over $4,000! My heart pitter-patters at the thought of it. No one would have to know. I’d be able to buy the most beautiful dress for grad—if I decide to go. And that’s a big if. But at least I wouldn’t have to wear something secondhand, and there’d still be lots left over.

Do I dare? I feel a shiver of excitement. That would be such poetic justice. A way to get even with all those crazy people from the party.

Step out of your comfort zone and take a chance today. You never know until you try.

I smile. I have the astrologer’s blessing. And Dad says you have to choose to be happy. I thought he was being corny, but now I’ve decided he’s right. And not only can I choose to be happy, I can choose to make some easy money. The thought of it energizes me and I laugh out loud. There, I’m already way happier, and I haven’t even done anything yet.

I e-mail my dad.

He shows up an hour later.

“Hey, Kittiekat,” he says after letting himself in the front door with his key. He leans over and kisses my forehead.

I’m stunned. I haven’t seen the guy for nearly two weeks, and suddenly he’s here. And he looks like hell. He’s unshaven, his eyes are red-rimmed, and his clothes look like he’s been sleeping in them for the past two weeks. For the first time ever, I see him as a man, almost a stranger, and not my sweet and gentle daddy who once gave me piggyback rides to bed and then stayed with me, stroking my hair, until I grew drowsy.

“How’s your ankle?” he asks, touching it lightly. I’m on the couch and my foot is elevated and bare. The bruising has become increasingly colorful as the week has progressed.

“It’s not as bad as it was, though it’s looking worse all the time,” I tell him as calmly as I can, yet it’s taking a huge effort to swallow the hurt I’m feeling and act normal, like it’s not weird that he’s suddenly here. Does he think I won’t
notice that he never bothered to drop by until I found some money for him to invest, and then he’s here almost immediately? I’ve missed him desperately, ached for him, but this is not the way I thought our reunion would happen. I wanted him to come and see me just because he wants to, because he misses me, not for any other reason.

“I’ve missed you so much, Katie,” he says. He’s studying me, probably reading my thoughts. I have to look away. “And I wanted to come and see you,” he says. “But it was so hard to leave, and I was afraid that if I came back I wouldn’t be able to go again.”

I have nothing to say to that.

“So, where did you get this money from, the money you want to invest?” he asks, wisely changing the subject.

“It’s the prize money for the Gotcha game. All the grads who are playing put in ten dollars, and the winner takes all.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“It’s not.”

“No?”

“It’s crazy. People will actually hurt other people to get their bead.”

“That’s not good.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Maybe there should be some more rules instigated, like no hurting each other.” He laughs at the absurdity of his own comment.

“So where are you living, Dad?”

“I don’t want to talk about that, Kittiekat.”

“Why not?”

He looks at me sadly. “Just because,” he says.

I had convinced myself that he was living with another woman, and that’s why he wouldn’t let me come for a visit, but now that I can see the shape he’s in, I know that’s not the case. He looks more like he’s been living on the streets.

“How’s your mom?” he asks sadly.

“The same.”

“She’s a good lady,” he tells me. “I miss her too.”

“Then why don’t you come home?”

“Not yet, Kittiekat. I have to prove to both of you that I can make something more of myself.”