Stick (8 page)

I
n the bathroom, I pulled my shirt up and looked at the bruise. It was already turning a sick shade of purple. It looked like I'd been kicked by a mule. Every time I took a deep breath, shooting pain hit my chest, spreading through my lungs and around my rib cage.

I stood there, staring at myself. The game. All the times he'd made me wash his car or dig weeds out of the garden after I had missed a pass.
Hard work pays off, son. Remember that,
he'd say.
The only reason I'm making you do this is to show you what happens when you waste your talent. You want to wash cars for the rest of your life? Be a loser? I didn't think so. Think about that.

Then he'd walk back into the house and crack a beer. Do as I say, not as I do, I thought. I shook my head, lowering my shirt. The fact was that I had no idea what I wanted to do other than football. I'd never had time to figure out anything other than the playbook.

I walked into the living room, glancing at the clock. Ten-fifteen. Dad was snoring in his recliner, the television news droning on about some vigilante in the city. Crime was rampant in Spokane, and people were getting fed up. I clicked the set off and stood in the middle of the room, looking around.

Screw him.

If I was my dad and I was going to hide a set of keys, where would I hide them? I looked at him sleeping. Then it hit me. He
wouldn't
hide them, because Stick Patterson would never even
think
of doing the unthinkable.

I walked into his bedroom, and there, right on the dresser, were my keys. I stared at them for a moment, then took them. For some reason, they felt lighter than they ever had. As I turned to leave, I glanced at myself in the mirror.
Stealing now, you idiot?
When I looked, I saw me. The same person I'd looked at every day since I could remember. Brownish blond hair cut tight. A decent tan. White teeth. Nothing stunning or Hollywood about me in the least, but not ugly as a stone. A person among billions, I thought. But now I was different. Stick Patterson didn't exist anymore. Brett Patterson did.

And he was stealing his own car.

I drove to drive, hitting the Palouse Highway and winding my way through the midnight wheat fields on the outskirts of town. It felt good to be going, even if I had nowhere to go. An hour later, I drove from the valley and entered the downtown core, aimlessly circling among the one-way streets. I passed the bus station and noticed a few guys standing outside under a streetlight, smoking and talking. They all stared as I passed.

The core was almost a ghost town this late on a weeknight, and I headed west before turning right onto the Monroe Street Bridge. As my lights cut through the river mist that was flowing over the concrete railing, with the water below roiling over the falls, I saw a figure up ahead. I slowed as I neared.

He stood on the ledge, the river rushing a hundred and fifty feet below. A strong breeze would take him over. A jumper. Suicide. He wore a hoodie, had a small backpack on, and held his arms out like wings. As I passed, he turned his head toward me.

Preston.

I hit the brakes, put the car in park, and got out in the middle of the street.

He stared at me, his face shadowed by the hood over his head, reminding me of death. I shut the door. “What are you doing?”

Standing on the six-inch-wide barrier, he pointed. “You should turn your hazards on. People don't expect cars to be stopped in the middle of the lane.”

His mom's boyfriend, who I was almost sure had given him the black eye, flashed through my mind. “Don't jump, Preston. Please.”

“Don't jump where?”

“Off the bridge. Don't. Just get down.”

Mist coiled around his feet in the darkness, and he lowered his arms. “Why would I jump off the bridge?”

“I don't know, but don't do it,” I said, my mind scrambling for the right words. “Nothing can be that bad. Come on, just get down.”

“You think I want to kill myself?”

“Well, you're standing on the railing of a bridge like you want to jump.”

“If I wanted to kill myself, I wouldn't be talking to you. I'd be jumping.”

“Then why are you—” I began.

He cut me off. “You never do anything dangerous, do you?”

“If you mean like standing on the railing of a bridge, no, I don't.”

He looked down at his feet, then started walking, slowly placing one foot in front of the other like a tightrope walker. “Most people never do.”

“You get a thrill from it, then?” I said, walking beside him.

He ignored me. “I'm not talking about standing on the rail, Brett. I'm talking about life. Most people do the same thing every day, but they don't do it because they like it. They do it because they're afraid to do anything else. It's dangerous.”

“Maybe.”

He stopped walking, then hopped down from the ledge. “You hungry?”

“What?”

“Food. Eat. Hungry. Are you?”

Twenty minutes later, we were sitting in the parking lot of a Taco Bell, chowing down on burritos from the all-night drive-through. I took a swig of Mountain Dew. “Why were you up there?” I asked.

He took a bite, chewed slowly, swallowed, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and folded it neatly on his lap. “I always thought fear was a good reason not to do something. It's not, though. Usually it's the opposite.”

“Like being afraid of the dark?”

He looked at me. “I'm not talking about irrational fear. I'm talking about real fear.”

“What's real fear, then?”

I noticed a deep scratch above his eyebrow. His black eye had turned purple. He took a sip of his soda. “Why didn't you do anything when your friends egged me?”

“Because I'm an idiot.”

He shook his head. “You were afraid. Of what would happen to you and your life and where you fit into it if you did something to stop what was wrong. We're conditioned to be afraid to stand alone.” He smirked. “Contrary to what you might think about me and my pitiful and lonely life, Brett, I believe that most people are good. They're just afraid to do what they know is right.”

“Your dad must have been really cool, huh?”

“Yeah. Why do you say that?”

“Because he must have taught you that.”

Silence followed, almost a full minute as we sat in the dark. His voice came soft and low. “Have you ever hated something so much that you'd do anything to get rid of it? That you'd kill it if you could?”

I bit my lip, furrowing my brow. Tom, the boyfriend, came to mind, and I wondered if Preston was talking about him. “What are you saying, Preston?”

“When my dad and I came out of the museum that night six months ago, a guy walked up to us and pulled a knife. I just stood there. I was so scared. I didn't know what to do. He told us to hand over our wallets, which my dad did, all the while begging the mugger not to hurt us. Then the guy told me to hand mine over. I couldn't move, so the guy moved toward me. My dad stepped between us.”

I saw them there. Saw Preston's dad protect his son. Saw the knife flash, sinking into his chest. I saw a dead father on the sidewalk, his son kneeling over him, and I shuddered. “You hate the guy who killed him that much?”

“No.”

I looked over at him in the dim. “Who, then?”

“I couldn't move, Brett. I wanted to, but I couldn't. Just like always. I could never do anything.”

“It's not your fault, Preston.”

“My dad died because I am what I am, Brett.”

I looked at him. “No.”

He stared at his hands, clenching them. “Most people get a chance to fix what they hate about themselves. Nobody gets killed.” He glanced at me. “They just quit the team or switch schools or find new friends or get grounded, and they try to change. Nobody dies. Nothing is taken away forever.”

Tears welled in my eyes, and I felt like the biggest loser idiot in the world. I thought about that day with Tilly and the eggs. The first time I'd noticed Preston. They didn't know what they were doing. Just a prank. Just some eggs. No harm, no foul, except that the kid they did it to was in more pain than any human being I'd ever known. The world had taken a shit on him, and the clouds just kept gathering, raining and raining in a torrential downpour of crap. I fought back my tears, feeling the warmth of rage course through me. “You can't do that to yourself, Preston. It's not your fault.”

He folded the rest of his burrito up neatly, placed it in the plastic bag our food came in, and held it out to me. “You want the rest? I'd better go.”

I took it, studying his face. He opened the door, got out, and walked away, and as I watched him go, my appetite disappeared with him.

W
hen I got home, my dad was still snoring in the living room. I looked at the keys in my hand, trying to decide what I should do with them. Fear. Fear to do the right thing. I realized then that I was petrified of my father. Then I thought of Preston, and with a twinge of guilt I realized I was jealous of his relationship with his father. Even if he was dead.

I went to bed, and I decided right then I wouldn't steal from myself anymore.

I
left early, before he woke up, and drove to school. Word was finally all the way out that I'd quit. No, I hadn't just quit—I'd ruined the team. I was single-handedly responsible for life on the planet ending. Three guys told me Killinger was going to kick my ass at some point, and I took it for what it was.

Serious.

After school, I walked across the grounds toward the gym. The longest walk of my life. I carried my helmet under one arm, my uniform under the other, and my heart in my throat. I'd waited in my car, thinking about it for a good couple of hours. Turning in the red-and-white uniform, I knew, was the last and final straw. There'd be no going back.

As I got closer to the doors, Lance Killinger and Tilly Peterson came out. My stomach shriveled.

They both stopped when they saw me. There were no smiles. I kept walking, my eyes straight ahead, my chin up. I had quit for a reason, it was a good reason, and I wasn't going to be afraid of it. I also knew what would happen now, which was me getting my face beaten inside out. I kept my eyes straight forward, and as I passed them, Killinger sidestepped, shoulder-checking me into Tilly. When I hit Tilly, he shoved me back in the only way Tilly knew how. Hard.

My ass hit the ground, my helmet skittering away as I braced against the fall. Both guys stood over me in the deserted courtyard. Killinger smiled. “You always thought you were better than everybody else. Now we'll see.”

“You're gonna be my bitch for the rest of the year,” Tilly said.

I looked around, and through the glass doors of the gym, I saw Coach. He was standing there, watching. He did nothing. I reached for my helmet, and Killinger kicked my hand away. “You don't deserve it, man. You don't deserve those colors.” He ripped the uniform from me and held it up. “Number seven. The great Stick Patterson,” he said, then spit on it. Tilly laughed.

The next thing I knew, a slender arm reached down from over my shoulder. I turned my head, and Preston bent next to me, offering his hand.

Tilly and Killinger stared at the kid like he was insane. They'd been intent on me and hadn't seen him walk around the corner. I shook my head. “No. Go.” One person getting his ass kicked was always better than two, and at least I could fight back.

Killinger laughed. “Look at this. Patterson has a new friend. Little faggot boy. You like eggs, faggot boy?”

Preston ignored them. He stared at me, and I saw complete and absolute fear in his eyes, which surprised me. In an instant, I understood everything he'd said the night before. About being afraid to do the right thing. I took his hand. He helped me up.

Tilly laughed. “Looks like you got some backup, Stick.”

“No. Just you two and me. He stays out of it.”

Preston picked up my helmet.

Killinger held his hand out. “Give it here, kid.”

Preston stood, pale and silent, unmoving, his big eyes on Killinger.

“You want more than eggs this time, you fucking fag?” he said, stepping closer to Preston. They stared each other down for a few seconds, and Killinger grabbed Preston's arm.

Then it happened.

Preston swung the helmet with all his might, nailing Killinger square on the cheek. Blood sprayed. But it didn't stop there. He was like a tornado, arms flailing, the helmet a blur as he went after the falling Killinger.

As Killinger fell, Tilly rushed in and wrapped his arms around Preston, lifting him like a child. Preston was screaming. No, not just screaming, but from the bottom of his soul yelling bloody murder.

Skinny arms swinging, legs kicking, body thrashing in Tilly's huge arms, Preston fought uncontrollably, beating both Tilly and himself with the helmet. The helmet caught Tilly square in the face, and blood gushed from his nose. Preston, with spittle and slobber flying from his mouth like he was possessed by a spastic demon, lowered his chin and sank his teeth into Tilly's forearm, his yells turning to growls as he gnashed his teeth.

Tilly tried to control him, squeezing him tighter, but Preston was an animal, gnawing on his arm, hitting and kicking even harder. Tilly let out a painful grunt, lifted him higher, and body-slammed him to the ground.

It all happened so fast, I couldn't do anything, and I blinked when Preston's body hit the concrete. I heard the hollow thud when his skull hit. This didn't happen. People didn't do this. I'd never seen a situation so out of control.

The screaming stopped with the impact, and Preston lay still. Tilly, in a rage, leaned down, drawing back a giant fist to punch his head. I leaped at him, winding back and landing a massive haymaker against the side of his face.

I thought for sure I'd knock him out, but Tilly only roared in pain, backing off and holding his cheek. “Kid's fucking mental, man! Look at my arm!” He gaped, holding it up and watching the blood stream down.

I stood over Preston, staring at both Killinger and Tilly. Killinger looked like he was in shock, which he should have been. A hundred-and-seventeen-pound fifteen-year-old kid had just beat the shit out of both of them. “Leave, Lance. Get out of here.”

And they did, with Tilly pointing at me and telling me I was finished, and that he'd finish me himself. Then it was over. I glanced through the gym doors just in time to see Coach disappear from sight. No other teacher had seen a thing.

Preston regained consciousness. He lay on his side in a fetal position, his face buried in his arms, his body heaving. He was talking to himself quietly through his sobs and moans, and the only thing I could understand was him mumbling “Sorry” over and over again.

I knelt down next to him, hoping to God he was all right. Tilly had slammed him hard. Too hard. “Hey, you okay?”

He didn't answer me. He was still heaving, still talking to himself, almost as if he was dreaming, still curled up like a wounded animal. I put my hand on his shoulder, and he flinched. “Don't touch me. Never touch me,” he rasped.

I moved back, holding my hands up, palms toward him. “Preston, it's okay. It's fine. It's me. I'm not going to hurt you. I promise.”

His whole body trembled. His face was smeared with blood and snot. He looked at me, those impenetrable eyes so deep and full of mystery and misery and sadness. He sat up, wrapping his arms around his chest. “Don't touch me.”

“I promise I won't. Are you okay?”

His eyes were closed. His chin quivered, and he clenched his teeth, trying to calm the sobs coursing through him. “Leave me alone. I'm supposed to be alone, so leave me alone.”

I didn't budge. For all I knew he'd cracked his skull. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

He blinked his eyes open, then got to his feet. “I'm supposed to be alone, Brett. Don't you understand that?” Then he got up and ran, his legs wobbly, his awkward body somehow not falling.