“What about you?” I try to squeeze him back. “The whole rim burned.”
“Not my survival tent. At least one of us actually uses that stuff.”
I nod, peek over his shoulder. “Anything new here?”
“All tubes are out.” He releases me and turns toward the bed. “She’s breathing on her own.”
I push by him and lay my hand on Dad. He rouses, blinks, looks from Scottie to me. “Hey!”
He says more and hugs more, and the three of us feel like a three, but soon his words garble and the room fades, because there’s somebody I haven’t greeted yet.
I take Scottie’s seat beside her.
Her face is perfect. Still. I know she knows. I know she hears.
“We took care of it. It’s all done. Everything.” I dig in my pocket and yank out a stone, blue and fiery. “I brought a bluey back from the hill for you. This is from our night, our almost night.” I reach it onto the bedside table. “Wake up and we’ll find more. I promise.”
I glance over charred gear and close moist eyelids. Wake up, Salome. The nightmare’s over.
There’s no rush without you.
Behind me, a beep quickens, steadies, and my eyes open. Scottie walks to the bed, sits down at her feet. I lean back and exhale. It was just a beep. Just a strange—
Salome’s eyes flutter open, and my body turns to lead. I can’t stand. I watch her gaze flit around the room, skim the ceiling. It lowers, bounces off my brother three feet in front of her face, and makes for the window. Her gaze shifts and settles on me, and her little finger stretches toward mine.
“Jake.”
Read an excerpt from
JONATHAN FRIESEN’s moving novel
JERK, california
a Schneider Family Book Award winner
chapter one
“SAM HAS IT. QUESTION IS, HOW BAD?”
The pediatrician smiled. Like he got off on destroying a kid’s life. Like children frequently went to sleep normal and woke up monsters who couldn’t keep their damn bodies still.
He stared at me, waiting. My right hand twitched. He pointed and continued. “The disease has seasons. One day he’ll flail like a windmill in spring. Then the wind’ll die and you won’t see anything for months.” He turned to my mom. “There are some experimental drugs—”
“Who the hell is supposed to pay for those?” my stepdad said.
The doctor rose. “I can see you need some time, Bill.” He shook my six-year-old hand, gave my stepdad a pat on the back, and slipped out of the examining room, leaving the three of us to stare at my jerking hands and shoulders.
“What’d he say, Mom? Bill? When’s it gonna go away?”
Bill stood and paced the room. “Go away? Your twitches won’t ever stop.” He cursed and kicked the doctor’s swivel chair.
I stared at Mom. “Never? Not even when I’m older?”
Mom scooted her chair in front of mine. “He says you have Tourette’s.”
I mouthed the word, and she leaned forward and stroked my arms. Gentle at first, then harder and harder and mixed with tears. I knew she was trying to rub that bad word out of me.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It means,” Bill said, “you can forget about ever running my machines.”
My hands squeezed the jacket Bill gave me, the green one with Tar-Boy on the front and a cement mixer on the back. I pulled free of Mom and grabbed Bill’s pant leg.
“I can stop it. Please, Bill.” I started to cry. “I’ll be still. Promise!”
Old Bill turned his back, Mom closed her eyes, and even at six years old I knew I was alone.
chapter two
“YOU’RE QUIET IN GROUP TODAY.”
Leslie, the social worker, stares at me. I look around at the others. Eight guys rest their heads on the table.
“Everyone’s quiet,” I say.
She places her young elbows on the table and rests her young head in her young hands. “But you’re somewhere else, aren’t you, Sam?”
Bryan snores from across the circle, and I point at him, but this woman’s eyes won’t go away. I glance at the clock—ten more minutes.
“I wish I were somewhere else. How many more weeks do I have to come?”
Dumb question. I know exactly.Ten. In Old Bill’s barn hang fourteen sheets of paper covered with smiley-face suns. Ten of those sheets aren’t yet blasted through with BB-gun pellets.
Leslie smiles the smile people use at funerals. “One of the ways we build friendships is by answering questions. A good way to do this is through small talk. You respond with something cheery about your day or your family.”
Room 14 is a morgue. Powder-blue walls and no window. Only the tick of the clock and the buzz and flicker of the fluorescent light remind me I’m still alive.
I slump down in my seat and cross my arms.
Socially maladaptive. According to the special-ed teacher, that’s what I am. Sentenced to a semester in Leslie’s“Sunshine Club,” I’m one of the lucky ones up for parole at Christmas break.
I glance at the lifers. Ken and Kerry, autistic twins; Larry, who slugged a cook. Not sure how cramming in a tiny room for an hour after school will turn any of us into charmers.
The word maladaptive scrawled in invisible ink across my forehead just stole another hour of my life. Today,I don’t have the time.
“I can see you’re defensive, but look around you, Sam.” Leslie’s eyes plead. “These boys are here to be your friends.”
Another snore from Bryan.
“Let’s try a role-play. I’ll pretend I like you.” She perks up and clears her throat. “Remember, small talk. Answer with something general and light.” Her smile widens, so do her eyes. “I’d love to hear something about your family.”
I check the clock, look back at her, and nod. “My dad is dead. Don’t worry about it, because he was a loser drunk who dug holes for a living. But he was generous. Kind enough to leave me this damn disease as my inheritance.”
Leslie’s smile is gone, her face frozen.
I push back from the table.“He left my mom for some other gal and then got himself killed.” I stand. “And his replacement, Old Bill, is almost as bad. Any other questions?” I pick up my backpack and walk to the door.“Do appreciate the small-talk lesson.”
Bryan’s snore catches on something ugly, and he wakes with a “Huh!”
Before the door closes, a quieter Leslie goes to work on another victim. “You’re quiet in group today, Bryan.”
I jog to my locker, drop to the ground, and change into running shoes. I push through the front doors of Mitrista High. Outside, air hangs heavy, full of October mist. My lungs suck in the soup.
I stand and stretch and jog out of town. It’s quiet. Birds, frogs, crickets—thick air smothers them all. The paved road ends and shoes hit gravel. My pace evens. My brain clears.
Shouldn’t have come down on Leslie. Ain’t her fault.
I jog through Bland—population sixteen—past three houses and Crusty’s Coop, and reach tiny Pierce. It’s only a minute’s run from our farm on the near side of town to the Shell station here.
Twocars filling up? Today’s 10K must be a bigger race than I thought.
Behind me, gravel pops and crackles, and I glance over my shoulder. Three school buses approach. I drift to the road’s edge as they rumble by. A minute later, a string of twenty more overtakes me. I reluctantly fall in line behind them, and we all turn left into the Northwoods Wildlife Refuge.
The race won’t start for an hour, but already a crowd gathers. I dash through the parking lot and join the onlookers beneath a string of colored pennants. I weave through the people until I reach the rope cordoning off the runners’ starting area. The grassy field is littered with athletes from all over Minnesota, and above them stretches a large banner.
NORTHWOODS 10K OFF-ROAD CLASSIC
Kids wearing numbers small-talk easily. They laugh and stretch and check the sky.
&n
bsp; I lean against the rope that separates me from them. I glance up, too. It will rain. It will rain hard and fast and their running shoes will stick in the mud. The sloppy path through the woods will make for a slow race. But it will be a race, and I don’t have a number, and I’m on the wrong side of the rope.
A woman hands me a program with the list of runners. I scan the schools, the names. Over two hundred numbers today. I trace the list with my finger and locate the Cs. Sam Carrier would have been number thirty.
“Carrier?”
I look up. Coach Lovett approaches. Mitrista’s new running coach weighs in at over three hundred pounds. But for an extra thousand a year, I guess a shop teacher will do most anything.
“From what I hear, you’d win this race. What’s holdin’ you back, son?” I look over his shoulder at Mitrista’s four entrants. Two shove each other; darn near a fistfight. Coach follows my gaze. “Lord knows we need ya.” He turns back toward me. “Mailed you off a sports waiver. You get that signed?”
I exhale slow and kick at the dirt.
“Just need one of your folks’ signatures,” he says, and taps my shin with his shoe. Coach steps nearer and whispers.“Your stepdad never has to see it.”
I blink hard, and my mouth gapes. Coach smiles.
“When I took this job from Coach Johnson, I asked him for the name of Mitrista’s best runner. Don’t you think that runner should be on the running team?”
“He told you about Old Bill?” I ask.
“Told me a lot of things about you. Didn’t understand the half of them.”
I stare down at the rope, feel the first drops of rain on the back of my neck, and nod. “Farm needs work, and he don’t want me doin’ extras. Besides, keepin’ a secret from him ain’t that easy.”
Coach steps back. “Reckon not. But it’s a shame to see all that speed go to waste. Think on it.” He turns, takes one step back toward the team, and stops. “When it rains, that trail will be either grease or quicksand. Bad footing takes a runner down. Sure’d like to know where the slick spots are.” He faces me, smiles, and leans forward. I lean in, too.
“How’d you like to give the trail a quick run? We could use a scouting report.” He pats my back. “Don’t need a waiver signed for that.”
I straighten.
I’d be running for the team.
My hand clenches, crushes the program, and my shoulder leaps three times.
Coach takes off his cap, runs his hand through thinning hair.“What in the world is that?”
He saw. He asked. Coach Johnson must not have told him. Probably seconds until he takes back his offer. I lift the rope, duck under, and dart past him toward the trailhead.
The sky dims. Moments later, rain falls straight and hard. It lands with giant, soaking glops.
Runners dash for cover beneath the race tent. Spectators race to their cars. I stand and let water bounce off my jerking shoulder, stream off my sniffing nose. I’m in nearly constant motion. Today, like every day, seven seconds of still is all I get.
A megaphoned voice fights through the storm. “Due to weather conditions, the Northwoods 10K Classic is postponed! Race postponed!”
Whoops and groans go up from beneath the tent, and numbered kids streak back into the rain, hurdle the rope, and thunder toward waiting buses. I give my head a violent shake. I’m left alone.
Minutes pass, maybe more. Soaked cotton suctions onto my skin, but I don’t want shelter. I want to feel the chill. I want to feel something. I spin around, watch raindrops dance in the puddles, and think how close I was to running a race.
I slosh into the starting area. The clearing is a small lake, and water licks my shoelaces. A number floats by.I scoop it up and put it on—stretch and smile like a numbered kid should. The downpour eases for a few seconds, and I can faintly make out where the course bottlenecks and disappears into the woods. With the tree cover from there on, it’d be a drier run.
In the first grouping, Sam Carrier. He holds the fastest time of any senior this year—
A splotch of red shifts against the trees. A figure stands near the entrance to the course.
I look around. Shadows mill about the tent, but that’s all.
“Hey,” I holler. “You probably didn’t hear. They called it!”
The kid doesn’t move.
I walk nearer. “You can’t run this course in this rain. It washes out. Ten more minutes and they’ll cancel it for today!” I squint toward the road. “Your team’s probably waiting for you in the bus!”
I turn back. The guy in red is gone.
I blink hard and splash through the clearing.
Late afternoon with skies this dark? Kid’ll get lost for sure.
“Hold up!” I dart in after him.
Can’t be more than a few steps ahead.
I run my hard, angry run, but fifteen minutes pass and I haven’t caught anyone. No way he’s still in front of me. He probably never started in—
A flash of red rounds the next bend.
I push harder but don’t gain.
Use your head, Carrier!
I duck onto a footpath that snakes through dense tree cover. Sticks and brambles crunch beneath my feet, and tree limbs gouge and scratch my arms. I pop out of the woods and rejoin the trail as the kid passes. He screams, startled, and races by me. It’s not a boy scream.
Can’t be.
I grit my teeth and pull alongside her on a straightaway through a field.
“What are you doin’?” I huff.
“I’m running a race.” She speaks easily, her breath barely audible.
I’m quiet except for the squeak of my waterlogged shoes. I pick up my pace, glance to my left. Our arms bump and we reenter the woods.
“You know nobody else is?” I say.
“What?” she asks.
“Running a race.”
She pulls up. I try to stop and turn, but my feet slide on a tree root. Both feet flip up, and I land on my gut in a puddle of mud. I groan, push up to my knees, and look up at her.
I watch raindrops trickle down her cheek; see them kiss her lips before continuing their path down her neck. The drops disappear behind the red shirt and shorts that cling tight against her, before they emerge and trail down her legs, drip off her body. Lucky raindrops.
Her body is beautiful and she runs fast and I can’t remember who spoke last.
“Weren’t you racing, too?” She looks at me, all of me. I wish I were covered with more mud. My opponent cocks her head, gently bites her lip.
I look down. “The sky is dark. I thought you might get lost.”
She moves close. I glance up, but I’m still on my knees and I can’t find an appropriate spot to put my gaze. I drop my eyes to her ankles.
Even her ankles are pretty.
“So you ran through the woods to make sure I’d stay on the trail?”
I nod.
She laughs. It’s cute. “Where do you go to school?”
“Mitrista.”
“Well, Mr. Mitrista, I run for Minnetonka, and I don’t need your help. But I am training, and I do need these miles.” She whispers, “Thanks for the push.”
She reaches out her hand, but when I don’t shake it, she brushes soaked hair off my forehead. My eyes close, and when I open them she’s looking at her smeary brown fingers. She smiles and leans forward. Her breath is warm against my ear.
“You’re muddy.”
She straightens and takes off running.
I turn to watch. She stops and looks back over her shoulder. “Are you going to make it home?”
I nod my mud-caked head and point toward the ground. “I live here.”
Again, she smiles.
I look down where my finger points at the mud puddle. I live here? What kind of stupid line is that? And get up off your knees, Carrier!
I grab a nearby limb and haul myself to my feet. “I meant that I live near here.”
She’s gone.
I glance around. My muscles
don’t jerk, and I close my eyes. I breathe deep, and like the third runner who finally catches up, the disease overtakes me. Slowly at first—a hard eyeblink. But that’s not enough; there’s more that has to work its way out, and my teeth grind. Movement spreads to my shoulder, and soon my whole body springs to twitchy life.
Good thing she ran off when she did.
I run through our imagined conversation start to finish.
“Hi, my name’s Sam. What school do you run for? What’s your name? Do you like muddy guys who talk to you from their knees?” I exhale long and hard. Shouldn’t have bolted out of that small-talk lesson.
I stare one last time down the path where the most beautiful girl in the world had run. Then I take off my number, turn, and trudge back the way I came.
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