Nothing to Lose (11 page)

Angela sits back down. “There will be a trial. You know that. Your mother’s confession means the state doesn’t have to prove she did it. At first she tried to claim self-defense, but with a blow from behind … so her attorneys are defending her based on battered-spouse syndrome instead. That’s saving that his abuse of her was so severe, that she felt so trapped, like the only way out was to kill him before he killed her.”

“Exactly,” I say.

“Exactly. But people—and juries—are suspicious of battered-spouse syndrome. We don’t want to believe a man can trap a woman like that. We all believe
we
would be able to leave if we were in that situation.”

“Do you believe that?”

Angela doesn’t answer, and I say, “People don’t know what it’s like. I could tell them what he did to her. I’m not the one on trial, so I could tell them.”

Angela nods. “But there are risks, Michael. You talk about escaping—that possibility would be gone. They
would
put you in a foster home.”

“I know it.”

“The other thing is, after you told your side of the story, they’d get to ask you questions. And sometimes they can make the story look very different, even if you’re telling the truth.”

“What would they ask me?”

Angela doesn’t say anything for a minute. Then she stands and walks toward me.

“You didn’t like Walker Monroe, did you?”

“I already told you I—”

“Did you?”

She says it sharply, and I realize she’s showing me what they’d do. Cross-examining me. I say, “No. I hated him.”

“Hated him. Did you discourage your mother from going out with him?”

“Yes. I knew from the beginning that—”

“But she didn’t listen to you, did she?”

“No.”

“She married him anyway?”

“Yes, she did.”

“And after they married, you said, they fought a lot, right?”

“I said he hit her,” I say.

“You were home when this happened? You saw it? You saw him hit her?”

“Yes.”

“Over and over?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t do anything about that, did you?”

“No. I couldn’t.”

“You couldn’t.” She steps closer. “You never called the police, did you?”

“No.”

“Your mother and Walker Monroe were married for about two years?”

“Right.”

“And during that time, you’re saying they fought, what, once a week?”

“More than that. It might have been that at the beginning.”

“Twice a week?”

“Probably.”

“And you called the police how many times?”

The room is silent, and I stare at her. “I could never have—”

“I’m sorry. How many times did you say?”

I give up. “I never called the police.”

“You expect a jury to believe that you, a devoted son—and a football player—watched your mother get beaten up maybe a hundred times, and you never called the police once? You just sat and watched?”

“I didn’t watch. I tried, but I couldn’t … do anything.” I feel like I might cry, but I swallow it.

She steps away. “You love your mother, right Michael?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“You’d say or do anything to keep her from going to jail, wouldn’t you?”

I nod.

“No further questions.”

She walks back and sits behind her desk.

“That’s what attorneys do, Michael.”

“So you’re saying it’s hopeless?”

“I didn’t say that at all. I’m saying you need to be ready for it. You have to get rid of this idea that you’re going to go in there and say, ‘He was a bad guy. He deserved it,’ and everyone’s going to say, ‘Oh, okay.’ Unfortunately, the world is full of scumbags, and there are still laws against killing them. The state attorney will fight hard. If you get into it, you have to be ready to fight harder.”

I think about that. Finally, I say, “Can you get me ready for it?”

“Maybe. It won’t be a sure thing, but I can help prepare you.”

The intercom on Angela’s desk buzzes.

“Angela, Mr. Pereira’s here to sign the documents you prepared. Can you see him a moment?”

She rolls her eyes. “Sure.” To me she says, “Sorry. I have to take this—very rich, very codependent client. Just think about it a minute, okay?”

I nod. “I never stop thinking about it, actually.”

The breaking point.

Five thirty. I woke with Kirstie’s words in my head:
At the breaking point.
Then my mother’s from last week:
He says he’ll kill us both if I leave.
The words circled like turkey buzzards as I dressed soundlessly and brushed my teeth in darkness.

They circled:

…at the breaking point

He’ll kill us if I leave

…at the breaking point

He’ll kill us if I leave

Chasing each other until they merged together, becoming one sentence:

He’s at the breaking point and he’ll kill us if I leave.

I walked to the bus stop, trying not to think of Kirstie. I’d told her I’d be back that night, but I wouldn’t. It had been okay last night. No one had gotten hurt. But I couldn’t chance it again, couldn’t let my dick—or even
destiny
—make my decisions for me. I couldn’t go.

Yet I felt Walker’s ten in my pocket, nudging me, saying I could.

The money screwed everything up. Before the money, I’d had no choice. Now I had a choice, a bad one: Go back to the fair, see Kirstie, and leave Mom home with Walker. Or stay home and hear him gripe—or worse—about my being there.

I couldn’t go.

I walked along the seawall that separated our street from the bay. Kids around here climbed in to dip their feet, so the rocks were littered with soda cans and cigarette butts. Usually I liked walking around it anyway, first thing. It was peaceful.

But today, even before I reached the water, I heard the commotion, like fireworks below the surface. The water was leaping, churning, white and silver with something flying out of it. I stepped closer. The motion stopped, then started again a few feet away.

It was fish, dozens, hundreds, leaping to escape an unseen predator. They came out of the water an instant, then dropped back in.

I couldn’t see what was chasing them, but I knew they were fighting to survive. They swam in schools all day, but dammit, when a predator hit, it was every fish for himself.

Then it stopped. The water was silent again, so still and blue I could see my face.

“Michael Daye!”

Miss Hamasaki’s voice was sharp, so I knew it wasn’t the first time she’d called on me.

“Sorry.” A few snickers around me.

“What was the main theme of
The Great Gatsby
?”

Which, apparently, we were still reading in English class.

A few more snickers. Then some AWOL part of my brain made my mouth say:

“Destiny.”

Miss H. looked surprised, and no one was even trying to hide their laughter anymore.

“Destiny?” Miss H’s voice was far too gentle. “Why, Michael?”

Walker was right. I should have reread the book. I had no idea what it had to do with destiny—or why I’d said it. But now I was stuck.

Behind me, some joker started a low
Duuuuuuhhhhhhh.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, flunking out of school. I stared at the book cover.

Then the answer came. I said, “Daisy was Gatsby’s destiny. He bought the house across from hers because he had to. He didn’t have a choice, even if he was just going to stare at her green light across the water. It was what he was meant to do.”

Miss H. was nodding. So, like nut jobs always are, I was encouraged.

“Gatsby was a pawn. He ends up taking the rap for something she did and dying for it. But it was okay. It was what he wanted, what he was meant for.”

You were meant for me
,

And I was meant for you.

“Destiny is worth dying for,” I said.

No one laughed now. They stared, silent, like I’d said something scary. Maybe I had.

Miss Hamasaki was still nodding.

After class, she approached me.

“Are you all right, Michael? Is everything okay at home?”

No!
I wanted to scream it.
No!

But I remembered what happened when I told Mr. Zucker. I said, “I’m fine.”

“Because if you ever need to talk, I’m here, Michael.”

“I’m fine. Look, I’m late for history class—it’s all the way across the building.”

The rest of the morning I stared ahead, ignoring everyone like I did. That was until after fourth period, on the way to lunch, I ran into the one person who wouldn’t be ignored.

“Michael-Michael Bo-Bichael!” a voice sang behind me.

“Yeah?” I stopped him before he could go into the
Banana-fana
part.

“Going back tonight?”

“Where?” I walked faster, not wanting to talk about it.

“Where?” Karpe imitated. “The fair, the scene of the crime.” Karpe leaned toward me. “You’ll get lucky tonight. I can feel it.”

I could feel it too. Or feel something anyway. And I could hear Kirstie’s words,
I never felt that way before.
I could almost see them, as if they were burned on the air by a skywriter.

But I kept walking toward the cafeteria. Problem with Karpe was he didn’t take a hint. Most people—most normal people—if you ignored them, answered their questions with single words, sped up when they tried to walk with you, they bought a clue. Not Karpe. He just sped up his own Frankenstein walk. Only thing that worked with guys like that was brutal honesty.

“Why don’t you go?” I said.
As in, leave.

But Karpe didn’t get it. “Wish I could. That girl was finer than frog hair—but you’re the one she’s hot for.”

Sometimes even that didn’t work. We reached the cafeteria door. Though I’d hoped not to walk in with Karpe, that was obviously wishful thinking. So I held the door for him, let him get a head start. I lagged behind.

“Where we sitting, Mikey-boy?”

I took a single empty seat, away from where we’d sat before.
“I’m
sitting here.”

“Great.” Karpe leaned toward the freshmen sitting in the seats across. “I’m sure these guys won’t mind shoving over so we can brainstorm your next move.” The freshmen, perceptively realizing the danger of arguing with a madman, shoved over. Karpe said, “I’ll go buy my lunch.” Then he was gone.

It was raining out, so the caf was more crowded than usual. My sandwiches were peanut butter and banana. I never used to bring that because they grossed people out. Now I didn’t care. I
wanted
to repulse people.

A tray slid onto the table across from me.

“Back already?” I was almost looking forward to abusing Karpe some more.

But it wasn’t Karpe. It was Tristan.

He wrinkled his nose. “Whatcha eating, Mike?”

I put down the sandwich. “Someone’s sitting there.”

“Since when is Julian Karpe someone?”

Since he didn’t sit there with Tedder making Loser
L
s at me.