Under the Bridge (12 page)

“And?”

“Yeah, it felt good. And yes, I wanted to hit him.”

“Do you think that’s good to feel that way?”

“I think he deserved it.”

“That’s not what I asked. Is it good for you to feel rewarded by causing pain to another person?”

I shook my head, frustrated. “No, and I know what you’re getting at. I’m not some psycho who gets off on hurting people. It’s just …,” I said, looking away. I’d never really thought about it like this, and it was disturbing. “It’s just that it makes it stop, you know?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

I shrugged. “It makes it stop. All the shit in this world. All the people who should do the right thing but don’t. You can’t talk them into it. It’s easier to just make them.”

“So forcing them through violence makes them do the right thing?”

I looked at her. “The kid got a new board, didn’t he? Tell me that isn’t right.”

“That may be true, but do you think there could have
been a peaceful way to solve the problem? Maybe through proper channels?”

“Don’t give me the no-violence bullshit, okay? It might work in your little world, but it doesn’t work in mine.”

She leaned forward on her desk, her palm under her chin. She fiddled with a pen. “If the police had been contacted, they would have contacted his parents and the school. It would have been moderated, and a solution could have been reached, including punishment.”

I smiled. “I solved the problem in three minutes.”

She sat back, frustrated. “So we should all just go around beating up people we disagree with? Come on, Tate, you’re smarter than that. You’re not a brute. I know it.”

For the first time, the real person seemed to come through, and for some stupid reason, it meant something to me. “I talked to him.”

“Who?”

“Corey. Told him I shouldn’t have jumped him so quick.”

She blinked, then smiled. “Wonderful.”

I shook my head. “Not really. Just makes it easier for douche bags like him to keep pulling stuff.”

“Then why did you talk to him?”

I looked away. “Because I know you’re right, but sometimes things just can’t be that way.”

On the way home, I noticed flashing lights down the alley adjacent to the skate park. Yellow police tape cordoned off
the entrances, and several police cars, an ambulance, and two unmarked cars surrounded the area. A news crew filmed off to the side of the scene, and I stopped where a group of skaters were watching.

I stood next to Billy Oliver, a sophomore I’d seen around the park. “What’s up?” I asked.

“Found a dead guy behind a Dumpster.”

“Bum?”

He shook his head. “Nope,” he said, pointing to two detectives questioning a kid. “Alex Larson found him.”

Trepidation filled me. “Who was it?”

“Lucius. Deal went bad, I guess. Beat to death.”

I furrowed my brow. “Any word on who did it?”

He shook his head. “None, but it was pretty brutal.”

I nodded. “Looks like things will change around here, then,” I said, my mind swimming.

I skated the sidewalk in front of the field house after talking with Ms. Potter and watched as a busload of girls from another high school piled off and streamed inside, blocking my way. They wore volleyball uniforms. I thought of Kimberly Lawson
.

As the last girl filed off the bus and the coach followed them in, I kicked my board up, strapped it to my pack, and went inside. Up a twenty set, to the left, and down a carpeted hall found me at the doors to the gym. I peeked inside, and the stands were filling with students and parents while the Lewis and Clark varsity team warmed up, bumping and setting and spiking as their opponents put their bags down and got ready. This was a different world than mine, that was for sure.

I stood at the doors as people hustled by, and found Kimberly on the court, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail as usual. She looked like every other long-legged chick on the
court hitting balls over the net. Black shorts, knee pads, tennis shoes, orange and black jersey, hair pulled tight. Just as I was about to walk back out, she looked up and saw me. She stared for a moment, then smiled before the coach yelled at her for missing her turn.

I walked in and found a seat on our team’s side. I’d never watched a volleyball game in my life, and it took me a while to figure out that you couldn’t score a point unless your team served the ball, but it was cool.

Kimberly was an awesome player, and after a few good saves where she dove in and bumped the ball up for another player to get, I found myself caught up in the game, cheering the team on. They were playing Mead, which had a good team. I heard the fans around me talking about a championship if they could take them out, and the tension was high enough that I thought I might have a feeling of school spirit.

By the end of the game, Kimberly had made a bunch of aces when she served the ball, which meant that nobody on the other side was able to return it. I felt like a complete goofball not knowing anything. I didn’t even know how long they would play, if there were quarters or halves or periods. But I had a good time. A strange good time. I almost felt like an alien in my own school; schools don’t have much use for skaters, and because of that, skaters don’t have much use for school.

LC won, and with the last serve capping the game, the crowd stood and cheered, going apeshit. I watched as the girls celebrated on the court, then gave the other team a cheer,
and the coach huddled with them for a talk. People were filing out of the gym, and I stood, looking for Kimberly on the sidelines. When I found her, she was hugging her dad. He was totally beaming. Our eyes locked for just a moment before she focused back on the celebration, and a smooth river of electricity ran through me. I smiled, shaking my head at why I felt the way I did, and then I left.

I skated through the park on the way home, looking for Indy, wanting to talk to him about Gregory in “Stealing Home.” He wasn’t around, so I split, and I wasn’t really in the mood to skate anyway. By the time I got home, Mitchell the grom was sitting on our front porch. “Hey, Mitch. How’s the deck?”

He smiled. “Great.”

“So, what’s going on?”

He sniffed, scrunching his nose up, then picking it. He flung a booger. “Awww, just around, you know?”

Then I remembered. “The trucks. That’s right. They’re in the garage. Just a second and we’ll stick ’em on.” I opened the door and dropped my pack in the entry, calling out to Mom. No answer. She must have been in the salon with a late client. I went back out, waving for Mitch to follow me around to the driveway.

As I slid the garage door open, Will’s beat-up old station wagon pulled up and Indy got out. I straightened as my bro came down the driveway. “Hey, Indy.”

He looked tired. Dark bags under his eyes made him look strung out, and his hair was greasy. He wore a new gold necklace.
Real gold. He smiled. “Hey, bro.” He looked at Mom’s car. “Mom inside?”

I shook my head. “Late client. In back.” Dad had built a small, one-room building for Mom to do hair in, and she’d been developing a clientele for a while now, working more.

“Cool.”

“You look like hell.”

He grinned. “Thanks.”

I smiled. “You coming home?”

He shook his head. “Getting some stuff. Clothes and crap.”

“Oh.”

He stood there for a moment looking at me, then smiled at Mitch. “Hey, shrimp.”

“Hey. You going to the Pro Skater Invitational?”

Indy furrowed his brow, like he’d forgotten. “Here?”

Mitch smiled. “Yeah. End of next week at the arena. They’re setting up the whole floor. Huge pipe, man, bigger than the Monster. It’s gonna be on national TV.” He burped. “They’re also letting local guys skate after the pros, but only sponsored. Top guy wins, top crew wins.”

Indy rolled his eyes. “Sorry. Not for me.”

Mitch looked at me. “You going?”

I thought about Piper wanting to go sponsored. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Mitch smiled again. “My dad said he’d buy a ticket for me if I worked every day after school. I’m going.” He looked at us. “We could go together, huh? The whole crew or something, right? That would be bangin’.”

Indy shrugged, sliding me a glance. “Not interested, man. Sponsored guys blow. Listen, I’m grabbing my stuff and jetting. Take it easy.” Then he left, walking around the corner of the house to the front door.

I grabbed the trucks out of a drawer and set them on the driveway, then began unscrewing Mitch’s old ones from his deck. I glanced at Will in the station wagon. He took a drag from a smoke, then flicked the butt on our driveway. I stood. “I’ll be back in a minute, Mitch. Hang on.”

He grabbed the screwdriver and the wrench. “Sure. I can get the others off.”

“Good deal.” I walked down the driveway toward Will, then thought better of it, turning and going to our front door.

I found Indy in our room, stuffing clothes in a bag. “Hey.”

He continued stuffing. “Hey.”

“I read some of your stuff.”

He kept his head down. “Stay out of it. It’s not yours.”

I looked at him. “I read ‘Stealing Home.’ ”

He paused, said nothing, then went back to packing.

“It’s you, isn’t it? Gregory is you.”

He concentrated on his bag. “It’s none of your business, Tate.”

“Yeah, it is my business.”

He straightened. “What, then? What do you have to say?”

“Gregory killed himself.”

“It’s a story. That’s all.”

“It might be a story, but you feel like him, don’t you?”

He zipped his bag. “No, I don’t. I’m not Gregory. Gregory wasn’t smart enough to get out. I’m getting out.”

“So this is how you get out? By living with a drug dealer and muling his dope like street trash?”

He clenched his jaw. “Back off, Tate.”

“No.”

He looked at me, his eyes hard and cold. “Take it easy.” He picked up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder and looking at me. “I’m done with this shit, and I’m done with you telling me what to do.” He tried to shoulder past me, but I blocked his way. His eyes flashed. “Get out of my way, Tate.”

I knew we were about to go over the line together. The last time we’d mixed it up physically had been in fifth grade. I backed off, Ms. Potter heavy in my mind. “Indy, just think about it. Come home. This is killing Mom, Dad is messed up, and Cutter …”

His eyes met mine. “You can take your guilt trip and shove it up your ass, okay? I’m leaving.” Then he pushed me out of the way, heading for the door.

I called to him, “If you weren’t Gregory, you’d face your problems, Indy.”

Indy stopped, turning. “Then tell me this, Tate. Has he asked about me? One single word since I’ve been gone?”

I had nothing to say.

He smirked, then gave me the finger. “Give that to him for me.” Then he was out the door.

When I came out, he was just getting in the station wagon. Will grinned at me as he drove away.

I walked around the house, preoccupied and pissed off. Mitch was putting his trucks on. He smiled. “These are awesome. You want money for them?”

“Don’t worry about it.” I sat cross-legged on the driveway, my mind on Indy. “So you’re going to the Invitational?”

He picked his nose, flicking another booger on the pavement. “It costs twenty-five bucks. Dad said he’d pay for it, though.”

“Cool.”

Mitch tightened the last nuts. “Too bad you and Indy aren’t sponsored. You’d win.” He stared at his board. “Just imagine skating with the pros. Killer. I’d do it.”

I blew it off, even if it did sound cool. I studied his board. “Looks good. Those trucks set right?”

He tested them. “Yeah. You in a fight with Indy?”

“Sort of.”

He put the finishing touches on the wheels, tightening them just enough to give some play. “Man, I wish I had a bro. We’d never fight. We’d be buds, man. Skate all day.”

“No brothers or sisters?”

“Two half sisters. They come for a couple of weeks in the summer. They’re weird, though. From Louisiana.”

I smiled. “People from Louisiana are weird, huh?”

“Yep. Not as weird as Sid, though. They got alligators there, you know? And they talk funny and eat weird things.” He did an ollie. “Perfect.”