Runner (11 page)

I suppose I should have been happy, or at least less unhappy, but it didn't work that way. From the first day the fat man talked to me, I knew I was being used by people who didn't care what happened to me. In the beginning, it had all been
exciting too, exciting like riding a roller coaster is exciting. Only when you're on a roller coaster, you know that in a minute you're going to get off and the world will return to normal. I hadn't gotten off; nothing was ever normal for me. Every time I saw a cop car in the marina parking lot or heard a siren in the distance, I thought the police were coming after me.

Twice I ran into Jeff Creager. Both times he made a point of asking about my job. "It's great," I said both times. "A lot better than washing dishes. A lot better." He laughed and wished me luck, but once he was gone a sick feeling would come over me, because I knew it wasn't better. It wasn't better at all.

We might have been able to make it, my dad and me, if I'd stayed at Ray's. When he lost his job, I thought the only money we'd have would be the money I earned. But it hadn't turned out that way. People on the marina know one another. Once the word got out that my dad needed work, men had hired him to help scrape or paint or clean their boats. It wasn't steady work, but it was work. By pooling the money he made doing those odd jobs with my paycheck from Ray's, we might have had enough—especially if we had hit up the food bank more often.

Sometimes when I was running, I'd think about how things might have turned out if I'd kept washing dishes. Instead of chasing Melissa away, I'd have been able to hang out with her. I could have eaten lunch with her at school, talked with her at the Blue Note on Friday nights, maybe even done other stuff with her. Then I'd give myself a shake. Who was I kidding? If I were still working at Ray's, I'd have no extra money in my pocket to do anything with anybody. Besides, Melissa lived in a different world; there was no way I was ever getting in.

The first Monday in April was cold and rainy. The boat rocked so much on Sunday night I hardly slept. There aren't many Mondays when I'm eager to go to school, but that was one. I wanted off that boat.

On Mondays the hallways at Lincoln are always loud. Kids are talking about their weekends—the sports they played, the dates they had, the beer they drank. But when I stepped inside Lincoln that morning, I knew something was wrong. It was too quiet, and too many kids were clumped together, their faces glum.

Melissa was in a corner with Annie and Natasha. We hadn't talked much since that night at the Blue Note, but as soon as she saw me, she came over. "Have you heard?" she asked, her voice shaky as if she were about to cry.

"Heard what?"

"About Brent Miller."

"What about Brent Miller?"

"He's dead."

I stared at her. "He's dead. How?"

"He was on patrol in Iraq. There was some sort of bomb on a bridge and two soldiers died. He was one of them."

"Are you sure?"

She nodded. "It was on the radio this morning."

"The news gets stuff wrong all the time. You know that."

"Chance, he's dead."

The first bell sounded. "I've got to go," Melissa said. "I've got a calculus test, though I don't know how I'm going to do any calculus today."

All day I kept hoping to see Melissa so I could talk to her some more, but I didn't see her again until Arnold's class. Even then she came late, so I had no chance to speak with her before class.

Arnold looked old as he stood in front of us. The room was totally quiet as he pulled down the map of the world. "I know you've all heard the news about Brent Miller," he said, his voice weary. "I don't know much, but I'll tell you the little I do know. It happened outside of Baghdad. Brent was assigned to..."

As Arnold talked I tried to listen, but my mind kept drifting back to September. I saw Miller standing in front of the class again. I remembered the way he'd acted, both that day and before. I hadn't liked him, and I didn't feel bad about not liking him. But I didn't want him to be dead. I didn't want anybody to be dead.

I looked to Arnold. "You hear that one soldier was killed here, or two there," he was saying, "and it doesn't make much
of an impact. But each one of those soldiers has a family, has friends, has a story, just like Brent did. Each one of them had a life they never got to lead."

When class ended, we all filed out silently. But as soon as we were in the hall, Brian Mitchell confronted Melissa. "I bet you're happy," he hissed.
'"The dumb soldier got what he deserved.'
That's what you're thinking. You should join al-Qaida if you hate America so much. Go bow down to Allah. You make me sick."

Melissa's face went white and she burst into tears. I stepped between Brian and her. "Shut up, Mitchell," I said.

He wheeled around. "Don't tell me to shut up. I'll say whatever I want to say. You're as bad as she is, anyway."

A crowd had formed around us. "You're being a moron, Brian," I said.

That's when he started throwing punches. I should have been expecting it, but I didn't get my hands up until he'd smacked me once right in the face. I grabbed him around the waist and wrestled him to the ground. We thrashed around trying to punch each other for a minute or so. Then somebody grabbed me from behind, and I guess somebody must have grabbed him too. A minute later I heard Arnold's voice. "What's going on here?"

"Nothing," I said, twisting free from whoever was holding me.

"What do you mean, nothing?"

"I mean nothing."

"So why's your nose bleeding?"

I put my hand to my face and felt the hot blood. "It's nothing," I repeated.

"It's not nothing," Arnold said. He looked to Brian Mitchell. "Both of you come with me."

Once we reached the main office, Arnold went to find the nurse, Ms. Tolbert. She handed me a small towel and had me lean forward and pinch my nose. "Don't lean your head back or you'll swallow your own blood."

I was still pinching my nose when Ms. Dugan appeared in the doorway. "Come with me," she said.

I followed her to her office. Brian Mitchell was slouched in a chair by the window, his arms folded across his chest. Dugan motioned for me to sit in the chair next to him.

"You fight, you get suspended. It's that simple. We have a zero-tolerance policy, and you both know it." She picked up the telephone. "I'm calling your folks, Chance. What's your phone number?"

I looked at the floor.

"Come on. What's your number? I can get it from the secretary, you know."

"I don't have a phone number," I said.

"What do you mean, you don't have a phone number?"

"Just what I said."

"How about a cell phone?"

I shook my head.

"Your mom or dad got a work number?"

Again I shook my head.

"So how does a person get in touch with them?"

"Ms. Dugan, I'm pretty much on my own. So if there's something you want to say, just say it to me."

Brian cleared his throat. "How about if Chance and me just shake hands and go home." Brian turned to look at me. "You'll shake my hand, won't you?"

"Sure," I said. "I'll shake your hand." He stuck his hand out and I shook it.

"OK?" Mitchell said, looking to Dugan.

Dugan stared at me, and then at Mitchell. "All right. I'll ignore what happened. But this ends here. You understand? You two don't even bump shoulders in the hall or I will suspend you."

I nodded. So did Brian.

Dugan motioned with her right hand. "Go on, get out of here. Brent Miller has us all frazzled."

Mitchell and I walked down the long empty hall side by side. I tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to me. When he reached the main doors, he pushed them open and took the stairs two at a time. I watched him until he had crossed the street. Then I started down the stairs myself.

Melissa was sitting on the bottom stair waiting for me. When she saw me, she stood and faced me. "Did you get suspended?" she asked.

I shook my head.

"That's good." She paused. "Thanks for coming to my defense. Again."

I shrugged. "He was out of line."

She looked down; her voice was quiet. "Do you think other kids think the way he does? That I'm glad Brent Miller died?"

"Nobody thinks that, Melissa. Mitchell doesn't even think that. He was just being an idiot."

She raised her head. "I didn't like him, but I didn't want him to die."

"Everybody knows that, Melissa." Her green eyes were all watery; looking at her made my throat tighten. "Nobody wanted anything bad to happen to him."

I looked at my watch. I needed to get back to the marina to run. "I've got to get going," I said.

She nodded. "I do too. But come to the Blue Note on Friday. OK? I have to talk to you about something."

I shook my head. "No, Melissa. There's no point."

"I told the others that there wasn't going to be a meeting. I have to talk to you, Chance. I have to."

"Whatever it is, just say it now, Melissa."

She shook her head. "There's something I have to show you." She paused. "The Blue Note, Friday. Is that so hard?"

"All right," I said. "Friday."

A person dies, a person you know, and you should think about them. All week I tried to think about Brent Miller. But my mind kept going back to Melissa—what did she want to say to me? What did she want to show me?

Then on Thursday afternoon, my dad called out to me from down below the moment I stepped on the boat. "That you, Chance?"

"Yeah," I said. "It's me."

He came topside. "Sit down," he said.

"I was going to go running now."

"Sit down, Chance. This won't take long."

I sat down, and he sat across from me. The boat rocked back and forth. I tried to act calm, but inside I was in knots. First Melissa, then my dad. Were things coming apart all around me, and was I the only one who didn't know it?

Finally he spoke. "This morning the port police went up
and down every single pier in the marina. They had their dogs with them."

"Oh yeah," I said, trying to act unconcerned.

"Yeah," he said. "They asked me if they could board."

My heart was pounding so loudly I was afraid he'd hear it. "What did you say?"

"I told them that this was America and that they could go to hell. So did most of the owners on the pier."

"What did they do then?"

"They laughed, but they wrote down the name of our sailboat."

"Do you think they'll come back?"

"No. If they were coming back, they'd have been here hours ago." He tilted his head back and took a long drink of the beer he was holding, finishing it off. "Would it matter?" he asked.

"Would what matter?"

"If they came back."

"Not to me," I said. "I've got nothing to hide."

He stared at me, and I forced myself not to look away.

"Well, neither do I. So we've got nothing to worry about, do we?"

I was ten minutes early when I stepped into the Blue Note that Friday night, but Melissa was already sitting at a table in the back corner. She was reading the newspaper, and her face looked older, more grown-up. I wondered if I looked older too.

I went to the counter and ordered a mocha and coffee cake. When my order was ready, I carried my plate and cup to her table and sat across from her. She didn't greet me with either a word or a smile. I took a sip of my drink and a bite of my cake. "OK," I said, trying to keep my voice light. "I'm here. What's this all about?"

"I figured it out, Chance."

"Figured what out?"

"Don't play dumb. You're involved in a smuggling ring, aren't you?"

I chewed the cake, swallowed, and then took a sip of the mocha.

"Well, aren't you?" she repeated.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said.

"I'm talking about the packages you pick up on the beach. They're filled with drugs, aren't they?"

Beads of sweat broke out on my forehead. "I told you—I don't know what you're talking about."

"Stop lying, Chance."

The net seemed to be closing around me. First the police on the pier, now Melissa. I'd thought I was being so clever, fooling everyone, and it turned out I was fooling no one. I was tired of the lying, tired of the hiding, tired of the constant fear.

"I don't really know what's in the packages, Melissa," I said quietly. "I don't know where they come from or where they end up. I just pick them up, take them to a locker, and leave them there. That's all I do."

"Don't be stupid. It's drugs. What else could it be?" Her tone was contemptuous.

"You're probably right. All I'm saying is that I've never looked inside any of them. I just pick them up, Melissa. I don't even know how they get on the beach."

"Do you want to know? Because I can tell you."

I thought for a moment. Did I want to know? The fat guy had said knowing was dangerous. But not knowing had its risk too.

"Yeah," I said. "I do."

She reached down and pulled out a stack of photographs from her backpack. Then she moved her chair so we were sitting side by side. "Do you know a boat named
Bob's Toy?"
she asked.

Everybody on the marina knew
Bob's Toy.
It was one of those million-dollar yachts wealthy people charter to go on whale-watching trips to the San Juan Islands and other places like that. "Sure, I know it," I said. "It's for rich people who want to see the sights without dealing with the crowds on the big cruise ships."

"They do more than show rich people the sights," she said. She showed me a picture of
Bob's Toy
sailing into Puget Sound. As she talked, she flipped from one photo to the next. "When the yacht gets to within half a mile of Shilshole marina, two kayakers drop into the water. The tourists come up on deck to watch and take photos as the kayakers race to the shore. Maybe they bet on which kayak will get there first. Or maybe they're told it's some sort of Native American tradition. It doesn't really matter. What matters is that the kayakers hit the beach right where your rat's nest with all the cute baby rats is supposed to be." She stopped and looked at me. "Were there ever any baby rats?"