Leverage (35 page)

Shit!

Traffic is definitely slowing to take all this in, so I dip my chin and let my hair fall in front of my face. He pulls open the back door of his squad car.

“Get in,” he says. My heart's racing as I enter. He grabs the top of my head and tries stuffing me into the car faster than I can dip inside. The door slams and I watch through the cage divider and the windshield as he goes back to Patti's car and starts searching it. I have to sit forward because the cuffs dig into my wrists otherwise. I have rights, don't I? I try remembering what they taught us in civics class but don't know if I can ask for a lawyer yet. The officer scares me. It scares me being locked up, stuffed in a cage. Reminds me of Crud Bucket sealing me and Lamar up, telling us he could do whatever he wanted. I'm starting to have trouble breathing and I think maybe I'll have a heart attack, the way my chest is beating in my ears. There's no legroom in the back, and with the windows shut, I can't get any air. There's no air. The officer's coming back and I want to offer him anything, tell him I'll cooperate but just let me out of the back of the car,
please
.

His door opens and I inhale deeply before he gets in and slams it shut. There's a shotgun racked in the front seat next to a computer screen. The police radio's squelching. I can't breathe. The officer's writing something.

“Puh-puh-please, suh-suh-sir. I'm suh-suh-sorry.”

“You know who I am?” he asks, but he's staring straight out his windshield, not bothering to turn around.

Who is he? I don't know. I just know I can't really breathe and I think my arms are going numb and I really can't breathe.

“No, suh-suh-sir.”

“Officer Jankowski, to you. Not ‘sir'. I'm Tom's dad and I got a problem with
boys
”—he hisses this last word—“like you coming into our community.”

Tom's dad.

“Offi-suh-suh-sir—”

“Officer Jankowski!” he huffs, and swings his arm up, banging the cage divider with his fist. I flinch from the rattle, feel as weak and small as when Crud Bucket used to come into our room at night.

“You and me, we got a problem,” he says, still staring straight out his windshield. “First, you're trash. Pure white trash that's headed for jail one way or another and I'd be happy as hell to send you back there myself. You understand? I'm going to protect this community from a common thug goes and kills some kid at a group home. Yeah, I don't give a rat's ass what your excuse is, so don't waste your breath.”

I press my cheek against the side window, hoping maybe I can get some air through the crack. My panting fogs the glass.

“Second, Tommy tells me his locker was vandalized. Tells me you were in on it, trying to spread some sick rumors about him and Scott and Mike? I don't know what kind of crap is churning in that thug mind of yours but I won't tolerate it. Not for one minute.”

“Wasn't muh-muh-me.”

He bangs the cage divider again. “Don't give me no sorry-ass excuses! This is your warning. Right here. Right now. Not you, not anyone, is going to derail my boy's career. You so much as whisper another thing about him and I will be happy to pull you over and discover enough meth in that shitty car of yours to put you away for a long time, you understand me?
For life
.”

“Yesssir,” I say, closing my eyes, still pressing my cheek against the window, still trying to breathe. I'll tell him whatever he wants to hear as long as I can get out of this cage.

“You know why I stopped you? Huh? Know why I put the cuffs on you and threw you in the back of my squad car?”

I sit, shaking, panting, unable to come up with an answer. He bangs the cage again and I flinch, then I refocus on trying to push my nose through the cold glass for more air.

“Well, do you?” he asks.

“Nuh-nuh-no, suh-suh-sir.”

“Because I can.” He chuckles. “Because I goddamn can. That's what you need to remember. If anything happens to my boy, I will take you down in ways that will make you wish you stayed over at Lincoln.”

It's a long time after Officer Jankowski releases me and pulls away in his squad car that my hands are steady enough to drive. So I sit in Patti's car on the side of the road, gripping the steering wheel, wondering if maybe it wouldn't be better to keep driving as far across the country as her old clunker will take me.

W
eird. I find the note crammed up into the vent of my locker after last class Wednesday, the beginning of a four-day weekend. Bruce doesn't write notes. He texts, like everyone else. So I text him asking him what's up with the note, but I get nothing back. The note means he's still scheming and he thinks I'll help, but he's wrong. I'm done provoking the monsters. Now I've got to stop him before he gets us targeted by the whole football team.

Wednesday's our last day of school because of teacher conferences the rest of the week. Teacher union rules forbid sports practices or extracurricular activities of any kind that need to be coached or supervised for the rest of the week—with the one exception being the varsity football game Friday. That means no gymnastics practice, no football practice, no theater rehearsal, no cross-country running. Nothing.

At the promise of four days off, students go nuts. Five minutes after last bell the halls transform into a sea of crumpled notebooks, old tests, torn folders, wadded-up paper towels, and anything else that can be dumped out of a locker like it's Oregrove's very own ticker-tape parade. Girls cluster in groups and squeal for no reason whatsoever. Cigarette smoke drifts out from a bathroom. Guys lay traps for littler guys, pushing us around in a fit of jailbreak fever. I keep to the side of the hallway, surfing the walls, preparing for random shoves with one arm extended as a bumper. Rondo Holmes, the football team's blimpy ballsnapper, sideswipes me. A locker dial bites into my hip bone and Rondo chuckles but otherwise lets me pass without incident. I make it to Bruce's locker, hoping to catch him there and avoid going down to the gym. I don't like going there alone anymore, can barely stand it during regular practice with the whole team there. I text Bruce again while waiting at his locker, trying to blend into the background as much as possible to avoid extra smacks, shoves, and squishes. After ten minutes I still get no reply and he's not showing.

Crap! I've got to go down there, keep him from doing something really stupid.

“Watch it, fat ass!”

I recognize the voice before I even look up from my phone. It's that supertough goth girl, Tina, who saved me from Jankowski in the hallways. She's at it again. This time she's turning hellcat on Rondo Holmes. Unlike Jankowski, Rondo just looks cowed by the girl.

“You know who runs that Jumbotron, Blubber Boy?” she spits. “Me! I can put your plumber's crack up on the big screen next game, freeze-frame it for the entire halftime show. That will really win over the ladies.”

Rondo drops his head and one of his teammates, Pullman, starts laughing. Rondo shoves Pullman and moves off down the hall, trying to get away from Tina.

“Keep waddling!” she shouts after him. In the crowded hallway, the ones paying attention are laughing. I can't help myself. As she passes I speak.

“That was great!” I tell her. Tina's head flicks at me, eyes narrowed, mouth pouty as if readying to fend off another attack. She sees it's only me and her face softens.

“He deserved it,” she says. “Blubber Boy shoved my friend into the wall.” Then she smiles. She's got a nice smile.

“You're good at that,” I say. “Sticking up for people. I . . . uh . . . never thanked you for that time in the hall with Jankowski.”

“Yeah.” She nods at me. “I remember thinking you were a total jellyfish after that.”

Seeing my reaction, Tina puts her hand up to her mouth. “But then I saw you that night at the gymnastics meet,” she races on. “You were flying through the air, doing totally crazy tricks. Better than any martial artist I've ever seen on TV. So if you can do all that stuff, how come you can't stick up for yourself?”

“I . . . uh . . . I don't know. It's not the same.”

“Of course it is,” she says, then totally switches gears. “I'm sorry about your teammate. I saw you at the funeral, but didn't get a chance to talk.”

“Um, it's fine,” I say. “I mean, it's not fine. I mean it's okay that we didn't talk.”

“I saw you there with Kurt,” she says. “He was at your meet, too. You guys pretty good friends?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say, unsure if Kurt would say the same. “He hangs out with me and Bruce and—”

“Bruce is waiting for me downstairs,” I say. “Gotta go.”

“Okay, see ya, Danny.”

“Bye.”

Downstairs, the main locker room is empty. So is our team room. No sign of Bruce, so he must already be in the gym, drawing up revenge plans or pacing the vaulting runway, impatiently waiting for me, his plucky sidekick, to begin our next adventure.

The door to the gymnasium is closed, but I see light seeping under the crack, so someone's in there and has fired up the halogen lamps. Out of nervous habit, I check my phone for a text. Nothing. Doesn't make sense. I think, just as I push open the door, that it's strange I don't hear any music. Ever since the attack, Bruce habitually turns on the team's portable stereo soon as he enters the gym, especially if he's in there alone. Phone in hand, I walk inside, about to shout out his name while texting him at the same time.

My mouth stops.

Across the gym Tom Jankowski squats on a squirming body while Scott Miller stands above them with his arms crossed. It takes another half second to realize it's Bruce that Tom's sitting on, crushing him with his weight.

This time I don't freeze.

This time they won't get away with it. I'll scream bloody murder at the top of my lungs and race out of the gym to get help, get whatever teacher, janitor, or parent remains in the building—even if that means Mrs. Doyle, the old school secretary. I don't care if they call me crybaby or scaredy-cat. Name-calling can't touch the terror pissing through me. I can scamper faster than either Tom or Scott and they're across the gym with Bruce. I have a good head start. I'll be upstairs and have someone back down here in less than a minute. That's all Bruce has to survive for.

Run!
my brain screams, spinning me around, preparing me to leap in a single bound the three steps I'd walked into the gym before spotting the ambush. I'll pull open the door, fly through the locker room and out toward safety ...

. . . except a body stands just to the side of—and now in front of—the door. A big body. A big, mean body with an ugly face.

Studblatz.

He's there, waiting for me, waiting to spring the trap and cut off my escape. Studblatz reaches for my wrist but I yank my arm away and spin from the exit, head into the gym, buying precious seconds. Phone's open and I'm pressing buttons, initiating a final SOS before I'm overrun. No time now. Press send before Studblatz catches me and wrenches down on my arm, breaking my grip on the phone. As Studblatz yanks me toward him, smushing my face into the sour cotton of his sweatshirt, all I can do is pray the Bat Signal's been sent.

“We've been waiting for you, dickweed,” Studblatz hisses. A thick arm locks around my head, flattening my nose into his side and rubbing fiber into my eyelids. Blinded, I make my free hand into a fist and flail at him. Might as well be swatting at sandbags. Studblatz laughs at the punches. He releases my head long enough to snatch my flailing wrist out of the air then pin both my arms against my body. I yank back frantically but his grip's too strong. My fright amuses him. Plus something more, something I recognize from the attack on Ronnie. Studblatz is excited. The way his eyes gleam should spur me to fight even harder, scream out, start kicking or scratching—anything! But his excitement, with its unspoken promise to enjoy my hurt, get off on my pain, petrifies me. The more I struggle and beg, the more his eyes light up. That's when my limbs start freezing in terror. Just like last time.

B
est thing about walking around wearing the big earphones instead of the tiny earbuds is everyone sees you ain't in the mood for conversation. Let your head dip and bob to the rhythm and that's even better, tells anyone watching that you're really feeling your music, having your moment, and you don't need someone coming up to you, interrupting your day, trying to talk. Ninety-nine percent of the world gets it, sees the big earphones and leaves you alone so you don't have to wrestle out a simple hello. Maybe you throw them a head nod, and keep moving, but that's all. Bet if I'd been wearing these the day Jankowski and Studblatz snuck up behind me in the hall, I'd have kept walking, never even noticed they were there, gone straight to class, and never worried about them telling the world I'm a murderer.

End of school looks different with the music switched on. When all you hear is the wailing guitar and pulsing drumbeats, watching guys punch and hip-check other guys is almost poetic, like a music video. People's mouths open and close, open and close, probably cussing, maybe screaming, maybe making plans, but I'll never really know and that's all right with me. I don't want to know. The music pulls me away, pulls me out of the actual world, turns everyone around me into players stepping in and out of my video. It's like a drug, I guess, though I never much thought about it, unplugging me from the world, altering reality—