Paranoid Park (5 page)

There was just one problem: There were actual people on the Hawthorne Bridge. And cars. And lights. I was not prepared for this somehow, and I almost retreated back down. But no, I had to keep going, I had to cross, I had to look like I belonged there.

I stepped onto the walkway and almost collided with some old guy on a bike. He had to swerve to not hit me. I jumped back, mumbled an apology, avoided meeting his eye.

More carefully now, I started walking. There were lights everywhere, and for the first time I could really see myself. It was shocking how dirty I was. My hands and arms were black with soot. My T-shirt was streaked with thick slashes of grime. It was from the train. The grain car had been covered in a black, oily dust.

I inspected myself further. I found blood on my elbow where I had fallen in the parking lot. Black dust and dirt and possibly more blood covered my shoes and the bottom of my jeans.

I tried to ignore this and act natural and keep moving. Another bike passed me on the left. To my right I could see the river and the whole of downtown Portland sparkling in the night. The beauty of it made my chest hurt.

I walked. Waves of panic kept hitting me. I wanted to run. I wanted to run more than anything. But I couldn’t. I had to stay cool. I had to act normal.

Two women came toward me on foot. I took a long breath and tried to stay calm. I was walking too fast, which was suspicious. I tried to slow down. For some reason, I was afraid to use my skateboard. I would normally have skated across the Hawthorne Bridge. Now I thought people would notice me more if I did.

The two women got closer. They wore short skirts, sexy tops. They had probably come from one of the dance clubs on the West Side. It was Saturday night; of course they had. People were out on Saturday night. Downtown would be full of people. Maybe that was a good thing.

But as they approached, I felt utterly conspicuous. I thought my head was going to explode. Just keep
walking
, I told myself. I forced myself to look at the water, to look down at the city. I held my breath ... and walked ... and walked....

They passed me. I let out my breath. I heard their voices trail off behind me. ”...
so his friend comes over and wants to buy me a drink....”

I thought about women like that. Women in their twenties. What if I missed that? What if I got blamed for the security guard and went to prison and never got to hang out with women like that? What if I missed my whole twenties? What if I went to jail for ten years? Or twenty? Or thirty?!

But it was an accident. It was. It wasn’t my fault.

Or was it? Had I killed him? Was it me who actually killed him?

And who decided things like that? And how did they decide? Cops and lawyers, they sat around in back rooms and cut deals like on TV. They figured out how long you’d “go away for,” and then they went to lunch.

Another bicycle approached me. I tried to take a deep breath. But nothing felt stable in my chest; everything was broken and loose. If the cops found me ... if someone asked me a question ... I would crumble. I would disintegrate. I wouldn’t be able to lie; I wouldn’t be able to do anything. I had to get to my mother’s car.

Later, I could talk to someone. Later, I could call people and figure this out. But that was just it. Who would I call? My mother couldn’t deal with this. She would totally lose it. So would my dad. Especially now. It would destroy them. It would destroy everything.

And what about college? I had all my college stuff to deal with. I had to take my SATS. And do my college essays. My father wanted me to go to Gonzaga, where he went. And I had done well on my PSATs, and my mom even thought I should try for Berkeley or someplace like that, somewhere in California....

I had blown it. That was the truth of the matter. I had blown my whole life. With one wrong move, I had destroyed any chance I had for a normal existence. All the time and effort people had put into me. My teachers, my parents, the lady who taught me how to swim. Whatever I was, whatever I could have been, I had lost it. In one moment, in one instant, I had lost everything I had ever worked for, everything I ever could have been.

“I’m just a frickin’ kid for chrissakes! I was scared! What would you do? How am I supposed to know what his problem was? He had a lead bat. He was trying to kill
us
! Why can’t you understand that?”

Another bicycle passed me. I tried to keep my head down. I must have looked guilty as hell. Cars drove by on my left. Some had their stereos cranked. Saturday night. Party time. Where was I going to go? What was I going to do?

I looked at my hands again, quickly, secretly. They were dirty, scraped; one of my fingers was bleeding. I looked at my blackened shirt. There was blood on it, a couple spots down by my belt.
Whose was that?

Then I looked at my skateboard. It was dirty, too. I looked at the front of it. It was slightly cracked at the very front. Wasn’t that old, though? Hadn’t I cracked it earlier that summer?

Then I saw the blood. Or something. There was a tiny black spot right where the point had hit the security guard—

I threw it off the bridge. I threw my skateboard over the side of the bridge. I didn’t decide to do it; it just happened. I threw my skateboard off the bridge like it was a hot potato, burning my hands. I didn’t see it hit the water. I didn’t look. I jammed my dirty hands in my pockets and pretended like I had never had a skateboard.

I instantly regretted it. Did anyone see me throw it? Someone on the River Walk? Someone in a car? Would someone think it was something else? A falling person? A baby? A murder weapon?

Why did you do that?
I snarled at myself through gritted teeth.

But it was too late now. And losing the board did one positive thing. It changed who I was. I was no longer a skater. Now I was just some dirty kid walking over a bridge.

I reached my mom’s car. It was parked on the street, outside a PJ Schmidt’s Seafood Restaurant. People in coats and ties stood outside on the sidewalk. A digital clock on a bank down the street said 11:37.

I unlocked the car with the remote. I got inside and started the engine. But no. I had to stop. This was my chance to take a moment, to think for a second, to figure out the best thing to do. Call the police. Call home. Call someone. I thought about my skateboard. How would I explain to the police why I’d thrown it in the river?

But never mind that. I had to tell someone. I should call 911. If I didn’t, I would be in worse trouble. That’s what they always told you: Tell the truth or things will only get worse. But was that really true? What if it wasn’t even your fault? Or what if it was something that couldn’t be undone? In that case, it didn’t matter if I told or not. Telling someone wasn’t going to help the security guard. And think of what it would do to me and my family. Think of what it would do to my brother Henry.

Then, for one second, I saw the security guard in my head. I saw him running sideways like a crab.

I pushed the image out of my mind. I had to think clearly. What would my dad do? What would a normal family do? We could get a lawyer. My parents already had lawyers for their separation. Maybe that was the thing: Get a lawyer first, then call the police. That’s what sports people did. And celebrities. And it usually worked. Didn’t it?

But none of these issues mattered to my body. My brain could have debates all night long. My body didn’t care. My body wanted only one thing: to get the hell out of there.

I shifted the car into drive. I pulled into the street and almost rammed an SUV that had stopped to let some people out. I missed it by inches. A woman, dressed in a low-cut dress, glared at me like,
What’s your problem?
I didn’t respond. I slowly backed up and tried it again and this time cleared the SUV. Would that woman remember seeing me? Would the people on the bridge remember me? Would the police be asking people?

I pulled up to the light. I could see the poster, a police sketch of my face:

 

They would totally have me. People would remember. Or would they? When the light changed, I eased down on the gas. I turned up the heat in my mother’s car. I was freezing; my whole body was shaking. I turned the heat up full blast.

I clicked on the radio. I tuned in KEX 1190 “News Radio All the Time.” When they found the body it would be on the news. It would be everywhere. But I couldn’t listen to news now. I turned it off. Then I turned it back on and tuned in KRCK FM. The DJ blabbered something about “Party Town Saturday Night!” I turned it off and looked for a CD. I wanted something quiet and gentle, something to calm me down. I found one of my mom’s Dave Matthews CDs. I stuck it in, but before it even started I punched it back out.

On the freeway, I seriously began to lose it. My brain, my thoughts—they spun wildly in every direction. For the first time in my life, I understood how extreme stress could drive your brain to impossible places. It could warp your thinking, pointing you in dangerous directions, which seemed to make perfect sense at the time.

That’s how people kill themselves,
I thought.
They get twisted around in their brain.

I had to calm down. I tried the radio again and tuned in KKNR, the indie-rock station. A commercial was playing:
“I just saved a bunch of money on my car insur—.”
I turned it off. I looked at my fists where they gripped the steering wheel. I thought I saw blood on my hands.

That was too much. That was the last straw. I simply could not be doing this: driving like a maniac, losing my mind, swerving through traffic with blood on my hands.

But I was. That was the thing. I
was.

I pulled into Jared’s driveway. There was no one home, as I had hoped for and counted on. I turned off the car lights and killed the engine, praying the neighbors wouldn’t wonder what the strange car was doing at the Fitches’ house. I got out and hurried to the front door. It was unlocked. I went in and locked it.

The first thing to do was clean up. I clicked on the light and looked down at my shoes. There was blood on the toe of one of them. Or no, it was oil ... or something.... It didn’t matter. I yanked my shoes off. I took off my white socks, which had dark rings of dirt around the ankle. I stuffed the socks inside my shoes. I tiptoed barefoot into Jared’s kitchen and found a plastic garbage bag under the sink. I put my shoes and socks in the bag.