Painting the Black (19 page)

“You bet we can,” I said. “And we will.”

He nodded. “I think so too.” Then he looked me right in the eye. “And you know what else I think? I think it's going to come down to you.”

That took me aback, because it was a feeling I'd had more than once. “How do you figure?” I asked.

“You're our number one pinch-hitter now,” he said. “No doubt about it. The way you went up there and smacked that home run, it was like you had ice water in your veins.”

“I don't know about that,” I answered. “I was plenty nervous.”

He laughed. “There are ten guys on this team who wouldn't have been able to swing the bat in that situation. I know because I'm one of them. You came up big in a big spot, Ryan. If a game is on the line again, Coach will want you at the plate.”

“You really think so?” I said.

He pushed the door open, then turned and looked back at me. “I don't think it. I
know
it.”

The door swung closed behind him and I was alone. I had to smile at how unbelievable it all seemed. Me, the guy who had been afraid to try out, and now my teammates were hoping that
I'd
be the one to step up to the plate with the state title on the line. Even more amazing, I was hoping for it too. The pressure was like a drug in my veins. I wanted more.

I closed my eyes, and suddenly I wasn't in the locker room anymore. I was at Cheney Stadium, playing on an emerald green cross-cut ball field. I was gunning down baserunners trying to steal, blasting RBI doubles into the power alleys, catching the third strike for the third out in the bottom of the seventh.

Then the door burst open and the night janitor was standing there. I just about jumped out of my skin. “What are you doing in here, kid?” he asked, and I could tell I'd scared him, too. “Get your pants on and go home.”

“Right,” I said, pulling my jeans up. “Sorry.”

When I stepped outside, a gray mist had settled in. The school felt strange, too quiet and too empty.

That's why seeing the two guys startled me. They were maybe a hundred yards ahead of me, and they were moving in fits and starts down the hallway, hugging the wall as they went. Every so often they'd look around to see if anyone was watching them.

When they looked my way, I stepped into a classroom doorway so they couldn't see me. I was a little scared, but it wasn't just fear. They didn't want to be seen, and that made me want to spy on them. The next few minutes were like one of those old detective movies. They'd move forward, and I'd move forward. They'd stop and I'd stop.

Finally they reached the end of the last hallway and started up the path leading past the music portable. That ended my detective work. I usually went home that way, but there were all kinds of bushes and trees up there. Whatever those guys were up to, it was no good, and I didn't want any part of it or them. So I turned right and headed out onto Sixty-fifth. That route was longer, but just seeing cars and other people made me feel better.

I got across the street before I thought of Monica. Then I stopped dead in my tracks, my whole body tense. She was up there, at the top of the path, alone in the music portable.

That's when it hit me. The straight shoulders, the little bounce on the balls of the feet. I hadn't seen the face, but I knew that walk.

I gave myself a little shake and told myself that even if they were planning something, Monica was gone. It was later than usual, and I hadn't heard any music. She was home. She was safe.

I started toward my own home, but I hadn't gone more than ten steps before I turned around. I had to know for sure.

By then it was deep twilight. I bounded up the stairs and re-entered the main campus. I half-walked and half-ran down the hallways. The air was so thick that my own footsteps sounded far away and muffled, like a blanket was over everything. As I came up to the portable, I heard something. I didn't know what. But something. I crouched and peered through the window, the same way I had that first day when I'd discovered Monica playing.

At first I couldn't see anything, but slowly my eyes adjusted to the darkness. When I finally could see, I couldn't make sense of what I was seeing. Two guys wearing Halloween wolf masks were kneeling on the ground, their hands grabbing and tearing at something on the floor. I cupped my hands against the side of my head and looked harder. That's when I saw that that
something
on the floor was Monica.

Her blouse had been torn open. One of the guys had her around the neck while the other guy had his hands on her pants and was yanking and pulling. She was fighting back, kicking and squirming and biting. I could hear choked screams.

I leaned back away from the window. My heart was racing. I couldn't move; I couldn't breathe. I felt like running, running down the hill and back to my house. No one would ever know I'd been there.

I think I even decided that that was what I'd do. That I'd run straight home, climb the stairs to my room, close the door, and turn on my radio. That's what I would have done the year before, and I could feel that other person inside me, pulling me away. But I wasn't that person anymore, and I didn't run.

I took a deep breath and then threw open the door. “Leave her alone!” I shouted.

For one second everything stopped. The two of them looked at me, then let go of her. A second later the closest one was charging at me. I held my hands up in front of my face expecting fists to rain down on me, but all he wanted was to get past me. He grabbed me, and I recognized the grip of the hand, and he pulled me forward, spun me around, and shoved me toward the center of the room. I hit a desk hard and fell. When I looked up the second guy was running out the door behind him.

Monica was maybe ten feet away, weeping softly. I crawled toward her. “You okay?” I whispered, embarrassed by her half-naked body, glad that it was as dark as it was, not knowing what to do or say.

She didn't answer. Instead she pulled her knees up to her chest and started rocking back and forth. I took off my coat and put it over her. I laid my hand on her shoulder, but she shook convulsively at the touch. I took my hand away.

I don't know how long she rocked back and forth. Maybe five minutes, probably less. I do know that the room was almost completely dark when she finally spoke. “Look away,” she whispered hoarsely. I turned my head and I could hear her pull her clothes back on as best she could.

“Do you have a handkerchief?”

I pulled one out of my back pocket and handed it to her. She wiped her face.

“What can I do?” I asked.

“Walk me to Sixty-fifth,” she said softly. “I'll be okay once I get there.”

I would have gladly done more. I would have let her cry on my shoulder. I would have walked her all the way home. I would have bought her something to drink, something to eat.

But that's all she asked for, so that's all I did.

When I opened my own front door the house smelled like tomatoes and garlic. “Is that you, Ryan?” my mom called from the kitchen. “You're late.”

“Sorry,” I said, “we had a team meeting after practice.”

“I hope you're hungry. I made spaghetti for dinner.”

I went into the kitchen and gave her a kiss. Then my eyes fell on a saucepan filled with thick tomato sauce and bits of sausage and mushroom. A wave of nausea came over me.

I stepped back. “Actually,” I said, “I don't think I can eat anything. I don't feel good.”

She put the lid down on the sauce pan. “Ryan, I've been waiting dinner especially for you.”

“I'm sorry, Mother,” I said. “But my stomach aches and my head hurts.”

My father came downstairs. “Did I hear you come in, Ryan?”

“He doesn't feel good,” my mother said, and she put her hand up toward my forehead to check for a fever.

I pulled away. “I'm just tired. All I want to do is go to my room, maybe read a little, then sleep.”

“Anything go wrong at practice?” my father asked.

“No,” I said. “Nothing went wrong. I'm just tired.”

He nodded. “Well, we'll see you in the morning, then.”

I hadn't lied to them. I was tired, more tired than I've ever been in my life, but as soon as I closed the door to my room, I knew I couldn't sleep. I turned my reading light on, then went to my window to look out.

I don't know how long I stared at Josh's window, trying to make sense of what he had done. I tried to get my mind around it in a dozen different ways, but there was no doing it, no doing it.

I returned to my bed, flicked off the light, and lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling.
What was going to happen next?
That was the question that kept going through my mind.
What was going to happen next?

Josh and I never walked to school together. He was late a lot, and even when he wasn't, he was barely on time, and I liked to get going early. But that next morning I sat on the step at the bottom of his porch, waiting for him to come out of his house.

He smiled when he saw me, a big toothy smile. “Hey, Ryan!” he called out in a too-loud, too-happy voice, “What's happening?”

“Nothing much, Josh,” I answered. “What's happening with you?”

“Nothing at all,” he said, trying so hard to sound natural that he seemed incredibly unnatural.

We walked along for a block. He was going on and on about the baseball team and the state tournament.

“Listen,” I interrupted, “what do you say we skip first period and get something at Larsen's?”

He grinned at me. “I didn't think you ever cut class. I thought you were Mr. Straight A's.”

I was tired of playing games. “I've never gotten straight A's in my life, Josh. And we need to talk right away.”

The smile disappeared. “All right.”

When we reached Larsen's we got some doughnuts and mocha and found a table in the corner.

“I love their stuff,” Josh said, biting into his doughnut, his voice cheerful again.

“Look,” I said, “I know it was you.”

He sipped his mocha. “You know what was me?”

I grimaced. “Cut it out, will you? Don't play games with me.”

But he persisted. “You're the one who's playing games. I don't have a clue what you're talking about.”

“I'm talking about the Halloween masks your father never threw away. I'm talking about what you and whoever was with you did to Monica Roby yesterday.”

That got him. He leaned toward me, the smile gone. “Keep your voice down, will you!”

After that we both spoke in whispers.

“What were you going to do to her, anyway?” I asked.

He scowled. “We weren't going to rape her, if that's what you're asking. All we were going to do was pants her, scare her a little. Then you came busting in and ruined everything.”

“How could you be so stupid?” I said, frustrated.

“It was a prank, a joke, that's all. A way to get back at her for the stuff she's done to me. It should have been over in about a minute, and it would have been if she hadn't fought.”

“What did you think she was going to do, Josh? Let you strip her naked and do nothing?”

“I didn't think she'd fight like that,” he snapped. He held his hand out. “She bit me so hard my hand still hurts.”

I looked out the window and saw a long line of cars waiting for the light to change on Eightieth.

“Listen,” I said at last. “It's not going to take her long to figure out it was you. And when she does, she'll go straight to Haskin. She might be there right now.”

“Did she say my name yesterday?”

I shook my head. “No.”

His jaw tightened. “So how come you're so sure she knows it's me?”

“Because it's obvious.” I paused. “You should go to Haskin this morning and explain that it was supposed to be a joke, but that it somehow got way out of hand, and that you're sorry. He might go easy on you.”

Josh laughed mockingly. “He won't go easy on me. He'll suspend me, and Wheatley will kick me off the team. That can't happen, Ryan, not now. Not with the tournament coming up. Those major league scouts have got to see me pitch. They've got to. My future is on the line.”

“I'm telling you: She knows it's you.”

He leaned back. “You don't know for sure she's going to report this. And even if she does, even if she says it was me, what does it matter? Lots of guys don't like her. She can't prove anything. Nobody can prove anything.” He paused. “Unless you talk.”

His words hung there like a kite stuck in a tree.

I took a deep breath. “I'm not going to say anything. But I still think—”

“Don't think,” he snapped. He finished off his mocha, then stood. “You're making a big deal out of nothing. I scared her a little. Paid her back a little. That's all. It's over.”

We walked straight to school then. Neither of us spoke, and when we reached the main hallway we went our separate ways without so much as a nod.

I wanted Josh to be right. I wanted to believe nothing had happened. During the passing periods that morning I searched for Monica. I wanted to see her walking down the center of the hallway the way she always did, a smile on her face, a troupe of followers behind her. I looked and looked, but I couldn't find her.

By the time fourth period rolled around I was certain she wasn't at school. As I headed toward Ms. Hurley's room, I spotted Josh. He was laughing loudly, his arm around Rita Hall. I had a sudden feeling of revulsion for him. I couldn't bear the thought of seeing him grin his way through English, playing the part of the total innocent.

I'd already missed half of one class that day, so I decided to go ahead and skip another one entirely. I headed across Fifteenth and over to Salmon Bay Park.