Rush

by Jonathan Friesen

  “So you’re talking to me again, huh?” I position the tank and slowly release my hands. It balances.

  “Can you blame me for a little silence? Kyle almost died.”

  I stare back at his controlled face. There’s no way to see inside him. He has no tell. Years ago, he used that control at the poker table to take my allowance; now he uses it to piss me off.

  I jump down and brush the rust from my gloves onto my jeans. “I know. And I don’t know how to apologize any bigger. If I knew a way, I would. Because I hurt everybody, again.” I exhale and straighten. “Thing is, he wasn’t the only one who almost died that night.”

  “But you—”

  I straighten and stare. “Deserve it?”

  Scottie rolls his eyes, and his gaze travels over the crushed cars. The water tank shifts, and I turn, reach up, and balance it.

  “Do you need a hand?” he asks.

  I nod, and he takes my place. We lug the heater higher in silence, finally roll it onto the top of the pile. I know he can’t stay quiet for long.

  “What are we doing?” He wipes his forehead with his shirtsleeve.

  “I want this tank sticking up on top. I want to jump from there to there.” I point at my landing ramp. “And go right over the top of this.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Beautiful. There’s the difference between us. You wouldn’t see beauty if you were leaping over it.”

  He shakes his head. “And you don’t see it when she—it—stands right in front of you.”

  I frown. There’s no tennis match between us. No spoken volley back and forth. All is serve and smash and game over.

  “You didn’t come up for the conversation. You didn’t come up to help or to watch my leap.” I gesture around the dump. “Let’s see, that leaves—”

  Scottie puffs out air. “I’m here for Dad.”

  “No surprise there. The man couldn’t wait for tonight? Tell me, favored firstborn, what’s our father want now?”

  “You have extra time now. He wants you to—”

  “Work afternoons at the mill. Dad’s told me.”

  Scottie stares, waits, throws up his arms. “You could do something responsible. Wake up, Jake! Do you want everyone thinking you’re crazy? Do you like it that everyone hates you?”

  I bend an antenna with my foot. “You hate me?”

  He starts to speak, but I interrupt.

  “And that’s not why you’re here. Just say—”

  “Put your name in with the Forest Service. I bet Dad will make some calls. Some crew will pull your cert, and you’ll get picked up.” He scowls at the oil on his hands and his polo. “You could be stationed somewhere else and get out of this town. This is me talking, not Dad.”

  I shake my head. “I didn’t think you’d try to sell me the Brockton dream.”

  “Well, start thinking, because fighting fire could save your butt.” Scottie leans over the water heater. “All your wild crap. Those stunts have a place.” He exhales. “There’s nothing like it when you’re out there, heat scorching your—”

  I hold up my hand and stare away from my brother. Scottie exhales hard.

  “It’s great that you found your thing.” I catch my breath and lower my voice. “But I need it faster than a hand crew. I need it faster and higher . . . Ever felt a rush like twenty roller coasters blow away every ugly thing inside your head?”

  “I don’t want to be in your head.”

  “You think I wake up dreaming of ways to kill myself. I don’t. I don’t dream at all. I live trying to come up with one clear thought.” I jump off the pile and land soft. “You think you offer choices. Those aren’t choices. Here’s what I got. Find a rush. Push it to the edge. And for a minute, maybe an instant, I’ll feel what you feel every moment of every day.” I stare at the dirt. “Besides, you know Dad thinks I’m a lunatic. He’d never let a crew see my app.”

  “I’d put in a word.”

  I say nothing.

  Scottie tightens his lips and nods. “It was an idea, is all.” He eases off my pile and kicks a car. “A junk pile. Great place to live a life.”

  Scottie mutters something about a rip in his shirt and disappears into the woods.

  Minutes pass, and the sun’s shadow darkens my face.

  “Scottie?” I dart after him. “Scottie!” I reach my mountain bike. His truck is gone.

  Suddenly, I hate it here. I need to talk to Salome. I strap on my helmet, then bend and check my tires.

  I whip the bike around, face toward Brockton. Between us, there’s a ten-foot drop off the side of the road and thousands of trees. If I hit it just right, if I weave and cut and hurdle blind like a bat straight down the mountain, I’ll be home in twenty minutes. Or I can spend an hour on the road.

  “Join the Forest Service,” I mutter, and shake my head hard and feel a flutter in my stomach.

  I push off the road’s shoulder, and for a second I free-fall. The moment is perfect; I’m perfect. Suspended, I have no decisions, feel no pain. In this instant, I can do nothing wrong.

  I land hard in brush; my back wheel kicks right, and I carom left, off my normal track.

  Faster, faster. I whip by pines, nerves on heavenly fire. I fly down the mountain and start to pedal. Life. It’s mine again.

  A shadowy trunk reaches out and catches my shoulder. My shirt rips; the bark sandpapers flesh. Tires chatter, lose their line, and I recover at a diagonal. I race too fast to change course. If I pop out of this forest alive, it won’t be on the grassy slope gliding into Brockton.

  Leg muscles sear. Hair flaps. I hear nothing but the wind tunneling in my ears, and every sense works at maximum. There is this or working at the mill. This deathly life, or a life of death.

  “Yah!”

  My arm throbs, and I squint back sweat. A hundred microcorrections later, I fly off the mountain’s steep top half and rocket across I-10.

  Lights flash, and a deep horn blares. A fire truck narrowly misses me and speeds into town. But I’ll beat it.

  Two more minutes. Trees break, and I veer right. I catch my bearings, pedal perpendicular to the slope, and sweep gently down toward town. My heartbeat slows.

  I reach Lydell Street and brake. I imagine the street in front of me up in flames. I feel the heat, see myself on a crew racing hell-bent to kick the burning monster in the teeth. Inside, a flutter.

  Maybe Scottie’s not so dumb after all.

  CHAPTER 6

  TWO WEEKS LATER, OUR doorbell rings. Once, twice. Scottie’s not getting it, and I answer.

  Kyle.

  He’s whiter than usual, his face a pasty sheet crisscrossed with scars and dotted with scabs. He stands stiff, like there’s a lot of casting holding him together.

  “Is Scottie here?” he asks.

  “Upstairs. Hey, what I did to you was really—”

  Kyle waves his hand and pushes by me. He walks slowly, as if his legs weigh a ton.

  “—stupid.”

  He pauses at the bottom of the stairs. My gaze is glued to his back, to the gold I across the shoulders of his brown leather flight jacket.

  “Say, Kyle, is that your jacket? Or is it Carter’s old one? Your brother belonged to the Immortals, right? I mean, before his crash—”

  Kyle whips around, his face furious. “None of your business, freak. No questions.” He slumps into the banister. “In the spin, is all. I’m in the spin.”

  That jacket plods up our steps. I’ve seen the jackets walk around town before, but they’re different now that I’ve held one. Usually they swagger. But not the one in the gorge, not Drew’s when we found it, and not Kyle’s now.

  I wait an hour for him to come down. To finish my pathetic apology. To tell him I never meant to hurt him. And to grab him. I want to squeeze his shoulders until he tells me how to join and how to get my brown leather. I need to know what “in the spin” means, because rumor says they’re just like me. Crazy. Without fear and without a future in this world.


  But Kyle doesn’t leave and I’m late for my first day back at the YMCA and I can’t wait to see little Maddie. I’ve missed all the kids from climbing class, especially her, and wonder how high she’s climbed.

  I STROLL THROUGH THE Y’S glass doors and into the lobby. I pause and blink. A wave of black floats across my thoughts. Not now. I shake my head hard, but the clouds don’t break, and my feet shuffle on autopilot. They carry me into the empty gym.

  I slap blue mats onto the floor beneath the climbing wall and rub my hands across the rough rock face. It’s fake, just like Ms. Jameson’s enthusiasm when she agreed to let me teach again, but that’s fine. I’m here, and soon Mads will be, too.

  My feet test the wall, and I throw myself against it, scamper to the top. I climb up and across, hang and flop onto my back. I am Spider-Man, and when my feet hit the mats and I check the time, I wish I had a mask.

  Not one of seven kids shows up. Not even Mads.

  I plunk onto the blue, make a mat angel, and stare at buzzing gym lights high overhead.

  “Lying down on the job?” Ms. Jameson’s heels click across the gym floor. Brooke is at her side.

  I hop up. “Yeah, well, no. Nobody showed up today.”

  “And they won’t show up next week either. I just got off the phone with Maddie’s mother. She pulled her daughter along with the rest. You no longer have a class.”

  “Why?” I kick at the mat. “I’m good at this.”

  “Which is why I agreed to let Brooke take a private lesson from you today. I know she’ll be in good hands.” Ms. Jameson turns to Brooke. “I’ll leave you with your instructor.”

  Heeled shoes clop toward the door, which closes with a slam.

  Brooke slips out of her warm-up pants, tosses them against the far wall. “I’m ready.”

  I don’t move.

  “Hey, I paid plenty for this.” She runs her fingers over one shoulder and gently stretches her legs. Standing in that halter top and those shorts, she knows what she’s doing.

  She walks to the wall and strokes its surface. “What do you hold on to?”

  I sigh, knowing she won’t give up. “If you’re gonna climb, you wear the harness.” I size her, adjust it to her body, clip the clasp in front, and tie the rope. “I’ll spot you from below. You can’t fall. Reach with your hands, thrust upward with your legs.”

  “Reach. Thrust. Got it.” She winks, and I chuckle.

  Brooke steps up, slips. She re-places her foot, but falls awkwardly onto her rear.

  “Can’t fall, huh? I see why you like doing this.” She stands and winces and stares at me like it’s my fault her coordination is crap. “Maybe you could help me a little?”

  I reach my hands around her waist, feel her stomach tense and relax, and lift her onto the face. I press into her, pin her body while I stretch her hand to a solid grip. “You should be able to hold yourself up, now.”

  I pull away, and watch her arms shake. She’s going down.

  Brooke tumbles off the wall, makes like a housecat, and paws for my neck. She rings it, steadies herself. “This part isn’t so bad.” She bends forward, whispers, “I knew private lessons had benefits. There’s a party at my house tonight.” She runs her hand through my hair. “We could make that private, too.”

  I pry her loose, unhook her clasp, and turn. Salome stands on the far side of the gym.

  “Salome!” I glance at Brooke. “No one showed up today.”

  Salome stares at Brooke and approaches.

  “Hi, Salome.” Brooke smiles, runs her hand across the back of my neck.

  I squirm away and flatten my hair. “You stopped by.” It’s a dumb thing to say, but I’ll do anything to wipe the devastated look off Salome’s face.

  Salome holds up her notebook. “I was studying in the library and thought I’d stop in. I wanted to see how your first day back went. Seems like it went fine.”

  “It did.” Brooke tosses back her hair and smiles at me. “Jake taught me how to get started.” She turns toward the wall. “It’s harder than it looks.”

  Salome studies the pegs and the holes on the rock wall top to bottom. I know her. I know what she’s thinking, the research she’s doing. She’s taking it apart, putting it together, like she does a story for the school paper. She’s fighting that wall right now, and if she wins—Oh, no.

  “Don’t, Salome,” I walk toward her, lower my voice. “You hate heights.”

  She stares at me; her mind’s made up. “Is this what it takes?”

  “What?”

  She steps toward the wall, tosses her notebook next to Brooke’s pants, and stretches her neck.

  “You need the harness, Sal.”

  Salome reaches for a hold.

  “The harness.” I gesture to Brooke. “Take it off, now!”

  Brooke fumbles with a strap and grins. “I’m having some problems here. Would you give me a hand?”

  “Sal!”

  She’s up. Unwavering. She climbs straight up. No veering for the easy reach.

  Brooke stares like I stare. “Did you teach her how to climb?”

  “Nope.” I shake my head. “That’s all want-to.”

  Salome. If she were anyone else, I’d let my mind go where dreams have already been. I’d follow her up and meet her at the top. I’d gently touch her lips and her skin with trembling fingers. But I can’t go there. It’s a brutal type of can’t. I can’t lose her. The cracks she fills, the sense she makes, the hope she gives—all gone with one stupid touch.

  Two minutes later she rings the victory bell, climbs over the top, and walks down. Salome is white, Brooke’s red, and I feel a pukey yellow.

  Salome grabs her notebook, brushes by me, and marches toward the exit. I lead Brooke off the mats, throw them in the corner, and chase Salome. I catch her outside. She turns the key to the Lees’ Volvo, and I knock on the window. Salome puffs out air, and strands of hair around her face jump.

  The window lowers slowly.

  “Why’d you do that?” I ask. “You didn’t need to do that.”

  She looks up to me. “You tell me what I need to do.”

  “To climb?” I reach in and squeeze her biceps. “I’d say you have that down. You should have seen Brooke fall on her butt.”

  She grabs my hand, pulls my arm in, and unloads on my shoulder.

  I groan and pull out the deadened limb and watch the window raise on a happier face.

  “What’s that about?” I rub my arm and lean over her hood. We face each other through the windshield. I can’t read her, and she’s not talking.

  “Okay, we’ll do this not-answering thing. How about this one? You going to Brooke’s party tonight?” I climb on top of the hood, stick my nose against the glass. “I bet it’ll be big.”

  Wet squirts douse my face, and wiper blades catch me on the lips. Salome revs the car, throws it in reverse. I flop onto pavement, touch my mouth, and jump to my feet. “What’s gotten into you?” I holler at the vanishing car.

  I sweep the hair off my face and feel my shoulders slump.

  Sal, it’s for your own good. It’s killing me, too.

  CHAPTER 7

  I DON’T KNOW ANYONE WHO likes Brooke. She’s drop-dead beautiful—she is that. And she knows it—she’s that, too. That explains why she makes boys crazy and makes girls sick. But everyone, even Ellie, her “best friend,” spends a ton of time ripping her when she’s not around. Except on Friday nights. And especially when Julia, Brooke’s mom, is on a Vegas run. Then we all suck up, because parties at her house are insane.

  Friday at Brooke’s brings together the strangest assortment of kids. Sportos and goths and drama geeks and Immortal wannabes—kids who wouldn’t glance at each other outside the door of her gate drop it all and live and let live inside. There’s no explanation for it. It’s a Brooke house thing.

  I walk to Troy’s place after dinner. He waits on his porch.

  “You set?” I ask.

  He jumps up. Strange seeing Troy aga
in. Marriage and firefighting haven’t changed him one bit. Cheyenne is still a hermit and seems cool with his going out, which is great for me.

  I watch him approach and try to think of something not to like. No go. Troy smiles a lot and has no brain clouds. Life treats him good.

  But maybe not now. He slows, and his gaze drops.

  We walk past the mill. I stare at Dad’s castle, where Troy’s dad sweeps the floor.

  Troy bends over, picks up a stone, and fires it toward the wooden gate. It bounces off the word Hanking’s with a thunk. “My dad’s still there, cleaning up your dad’s mess.”

  I slow and replay his line. Very un-Troy. I speed up and say nothing.

  Troy continues, “Monday after you were expelled, my dad got called in and reamed.” He shoves me again. “Lectured on responsibility. Darn near fired. That should’ve been your lecture.”

  “Listen to you! Who was the one who ran away from high school after one year because of his responsible behavior with Cheyenne? Did her dad want to kill you because of your responsibility?”

  I look up at Brooke’s, a block in the distance, then back at my red-faced friend. I blink hard.

  He glances over his shoulder. His voice softens. “I’m trying to do right by her, but—”

  I get in his face, try to catch his gaze. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s been tough lately.” Troy eases down onto the curb. “Since we’ve been back, she’s even quieter. It’s like living in a morgue. Thought tonight might lighten the weight. At Brooke’s.” He leans back onto the grass. “But it’s different. It’s been too long, and walking to Brooke’s feels different now.” He exhales hard. “Cheyenne doesn’t even want me to hang out with you anymore.”

  I think on that, nod.

  “You aren’t in high school anymore. Go home.” I run my hand through my hair. “Cheyenne’s great. There’s nothing waiting at Brooke’s that you don’t have better at home.”

  He stares up at me, raises his eyebrows.

  “Seriously,” I say. “If I was hooked up with . . . Get out of here.” I step on his foot, wait for his groan, and leave him behind.

  I reach Brooke’s steps, where Salome and Kelli stand.