Cornered

by Rhoda Belleza

  “So we’ll find another way out,” I said. She finally opened her eyes.

  “There is no other way.”

  “Please don’t do it,” I begged.

  “I understand why you don’t want to, Chloe. It’s okay. Really. But I’m going to.”

  I felt tears rush down my cheeks. I wished I had a cell phone so I could call the police or my mom or someone, anyone who could help me change Jenna’s mind. “I don’t want you to die,” I said. “I’ll miss you.” And as simple as that sounded, it was the truth.

  “Then do it with me.” Tears were streaming down her plump cheeks.

  I shook my head. I reached out and held her hand. “I can’t,” I said.

  She squeezed my hand, hard. “I have to,” she said.

  “Don’t,” I choked out, but she dropped my hand and picked up the gun, held it in her lap. And right then I knew that no matter what I said or did, she was going to do this. And I knew that no matter what she said or did, I wasn’t going to.

  “You should probably go,” she finally said, and for a split second, I considered grabbing the gun and running. But I knew that it would do no good. Even if I got it away from her, she’d still find another way to do it. She’d made up her mind.

  “I’m going to call the police,” I said, a last-ditch effort.

  She nodded. “It’ll be over before you can get to a phone. But I understand.”

  I shoveled my things back into my backpack and stood up on noodly legs, unsure of how I was ever going to get home. My belly hurt from all the crying, but I couldn’t stop as I ran back toward my house, the whole time listening for a gunshot I never heard.

  But I knew it had happened just the same.

  I knew, before my mom ever woke me up with the news: Jenna was gone.

  • • •

  With my nose all cleaned up, I left the locker room more sure than I had been in forever.

  Jenna was gone and nobody seemed to care, but that didn’t mean that I was gone, too. People would notice; all I had to do was make them notice.

  I would set things right.

  Class was still in session, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to go back out to let Holly and Sydney have another shot at humiliating me today. I scrubbed my face, changed back into my street clothes, and walked straight out of the gym toward Mr. Kinney’s office.

  Mr. Kinney was our guidance counselor. He was the one who was always talking about respect and tolerance, saying we could come to him with anything. For once, I was going to take him up on the offer. Because this was what Jenna and I should have done from the very beginning.

  I stepped into the guidance office, and the secretary looked up in surprise.

  “Yes?”

  “I need to talk to Mr. Kinney. Like, right away.”

  She glanced at the clock. “Honey, final bell’s going to ring in fifteen minutes.”

  “This is important,” I said, and I dug my fingernails into my palms to give myself strength.

  She leaned back and looked into his office, then slowly sat forward, frowned, and said, “Okay. He’s in there.”

  I took a deep breath and walked toward his office, telling myself the whole way that I was making things right I was making things right I was making things right. . . .

  “Hi,” Mr. Kinney said when I stepped through his doorway. “Is it Chloe?”

  I nodded, sat down in the chair facing his desk. My nails dug deeper into my palms. I felt like I was going to float away, out the window, over the parking lot, and into space. I wondered if this was how Jenna felt when she died.

  “What can I help you with?” he said. The way he leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him and a concerned grin on his face, I knew everything was about to change.

  “I’m being bullied,” I blurted out. “By Holly Abrams and some other girls. Also Holly’s mom. She said some really mean things about me and . . . my friend. It’s been going on for two years, and I don’t know what else to do about it. I need you to help me make it stop.”

  Mr. Kinney got up and walked around me to close the door. He made his way back to his chair behind his desk and leaned back, his palms on the desk in front of him. “Tell me what’s going on,” he said.

  So I did. I told Mr. Kinney the rest of the story, all the way up until the basketball incident in Team Sports. He nodded, wrote some things down, and made disgusted faces. The bell rang, but neither of us moved as I told him about Jenna, and how I was supposed to kill myself too but chickened out. I told him everything. Then he called my mom, and she came to the office and I repeated the story. And while I talked, I felt myself growing heavy again, sinking, sinking, sinking from the stratosphere down to the parking lot, to the inside of the school, to the chair in Mr. Kinney’s office. I could feel my nails still digging into my palms, the ripped chair vinyl against the backs of my legs, and a fan as it rotated every few seconds to blow air into my face.

  I could feel it all.

  Because Jenna was gone.

  But I was not.

  • • •

  Because I’d bailed on her, Jenna never actually left a note, but I knew she had so much she wanted to say. So I wrote her suicide note for my column. It was everything we were going to say when we had planned to kill ourselves together.

  Stuart refused to run it, and Ms. Stepton agreed with him, but I didn’t really care because I just needed to write it out—and I’d already said everything it said to Mr. Kinney and my mom anyway.

  Of course, this left a huge news hole on page three of our paper, and it was up to me to fill it.

  So I filled it with this:

  This edition dedicated to

  Jenna Roundtree

  Former Editor

  Best Friend

  1995–2011

  Gone, but definitely not forgotten

  It seemed like enough.

  The Truest Story There Is

  BY JAIME ADOFF

  IT COMES AT me like a wave. Ready to wash me away into the depths of myself. Yeah, that’s a deep thought, but it’s true. This feeling that I’m skating on thin ice, no wait, thinner than that. It’s cracked and broken, just barely frozen. I’ve got one foot soaked in cold water and the other one out—safe, on dry land—safe, at least for now.

  “Shelly Stewart, you need to be gettin’ your tired butt outta the house and to the store like I told you twenty times already. Are you deaf and lazy, boy?”

  You should know. Ain’t no one as lazy as you, Mumma. I said that in my head, ’cause in my head I won’t get my ass beat. Or worse, get me put out of the house like she does sometimes when she says I’m unruly. I ain’t unruly I just don’t respect you, Mumma, ’cause you fake. And you’re a hypocrite. And you’re a fool for marryin’ Randy. I try to block Mumma out with my thoughts, but it never works.

  Mumma’s about as ghetto as you can get. See, ghetto don’t have nothin’ to do with skin color. It has to do with how you act. Mumma’s a big, white, tattooed, biker-lookin’ woman who wouldn’t know good sense if it knocked her in the head. And that’s a true story right there.

  “Shelly, you hear me, boy?” I cringe automatically. I think I’ll cringe until the end of time. Maybe three days after that. I mean—Shelly? Really, Mumma? Did you have to name me that? Why didn’t you just tattoo a sign on my forehead when I was born that said, Hey, everyone, kick this kid’s butt when he gets older. Hate that name. Mumma says it’s from Daddy’s side, but Daddy always said it was from Mumma’s. Can’t find out now, unless I want to go over to Hawthorne Cemetery and ask Daddy. But as far as I know he still ain’t talkin’. The thought of Daddy in that cold cemetery underneath that cheap, chipped, stone makes me cringe even worse than hearin’ my stupid name. Daddy was cool, at least what I remember of him. But that’s been a long time gone now, a long time.

  Nine years. The number appears in my head like a popup ad on one of those websites I’m not supposed to be on. I was six when he died. Natural causes. Cancer. Took him quic
k. Faster than that, even. I remember bits and pieces, but it’s hazy and gray and full of whispering. Sometimes moans. Sometimes cries. But always foggy, never clear. Maybe it’s better that way, maybe it’s best. . . .

  “I’m goin’, Mumma,” I answer out loud. The sound of my own voice lifting the fog off Daddy’s death and busting me full force into this life, into this right now.

  I always wait for her to catch it. But she never does. She never can tell that I don’t call her mom, or momma. No, Mumma is as close as I come. It’s as close as I ever want to come. It’s my way of saying, you may have birthed me, but you don’t act anywhere near like a real mom. So you don’t deserve to be called one.

  “Well, you best be gettin’ on your way. I need what I need and I need it now.” Mumma’s famous line, no matter what it is she needs. Eggs, milk, cigarettes, and even beer. Don’t matter a bit how old I am. It’s all urgent. It’s like the very spinning of this crazy planet depends on me gettin’ what she needs. What evs, Mumma, I’ll get it when I get it. I said that in my head too.

  “Oh, great.” It hits me like a brick to my head. It’s Sunday, and that means I gotta go to Foodtown, or GhettoTown as I call it. It’s only three blocks away, but it might as well be three hundred. I know I don’t live in a good neighborhood, but where Foodtown is makes my neighborhood look like Park Avenue.

  • • •

  The walk to Foodtown is hot and slow. Hot, ’cause we’re in a freak heat wave in the middle of September, and slow ’cause I ain’t in no particular hurry to get Mumma what she needs. My mind fast-forwards to tomorrow and my walk gets even slower. Thinkin’ about what I got to do to just get through one day at school. Just one day without ending up on the news ’cause some fools wanted to start some stuff with me. Just one day? Is that too much to ask?

  I keep my head down as I pass two wannabes hangin’ on the corner. You can tell they’re not the real thing by how they act. Tryin’ to look all hard. Starin’ down old ladies on walkers. See, a real gangbanger don’t need to try, they just are—period. These kids look like they couldn’t be more than thirteen, but that doesn’t mean they ain’t dangerous. I take a quick glance at them, and it’s just like I figured. I don’t know them. And I hope they don’t know me either.

  As I get closer to Foodtown, I make myself even smaller than I already am. Walkin’ through the war zone. Ground zero for all kinds of “gang activity” or whatever they’re callin’ it these days on the news. This is not a good place to walk through if you’re small and undeclared like me. Undeclared, not like in major, ’cause I ain’t even close to college yet, but undeclared as in not gang affiliated. As in, I’m tryin’ real hard not to get got by any number of folks who think I should be runnin’ with their set. Since I’m not, they think I’m a danger and can’t be trusted ’cause I might be an informant or somethin’ ridiculous like that. But one thing you learn when you live where I live is that ridiculous happens every day. And ridiculous can get you hurt. Sometimes, like in the permanently stopped breathing kind of way, too.

  What evs, they don’t really want to mess with me. Don’t they know I could be the biracial Bruce Lee? Hi-YA.

  The Foodtown sign comes up quick, startling me for a second ’cause I wasn’t paying attention. The store is between two boarded up houses that used to have families livin’ in them. Back when there were families and lots of kids livin’ in this neighborhood. Back when I was a kid. Back when Daddy was alive.

  Oh no. If I could have screamed it, I would have.

  “Hey, wuz up? What you doin’ over here? Did ya get lost?” I don’t even turn around. I just keep walkin’, pretendin’ I didn’t hear. I should have been payin’ better attention when I was walkin’ because them wannabes were followin’ me. I should have known they would.

  “Hold up, what’s your hurry?” Another voice, this time connected to a body that’s now right in front of me. A body belonging to the other wannabe. He’s got a half smile pasted on his face, but the other half has me wantin’ to pee my pants.

  “Just goin’ to the store for my mom.” It sounds dumb as soon as I say it. It sounds like I just made it up on the spot, even though it’s the truth. I hope all that church stuff is true. I really hope the truth will set me free, ’cause if it don’t . . .

  “Yeah? The store? You think he’s tellin’ us the truth?” The first kid says, turning to his friend. Both of them are young, younger than me, just like I thought. But both of them have some size to them too. Eighth grade muscles busting out of too-tight T-shirts don’t do much for my confidence. I feel myself start to panic. I want to run, but I know I can’t.

  They’ve got me boxed in. Somehow in the last few seconds, they corralled me like a piece of cattle, backing me up into an alley. So if the worse happens, ain’t nobody ever gonna know.

  Both of them are losing patience—fast. I take a quick look behind me, and what I see makes me wince. Just a brick wall, a dead end. There’s nowhere to run.

  “I don’t know if I believe him, T, I think he might be lyin’ to us.” I hear the words and shut my eyes tight, trying to push out of my mind all the bad ways this little encounter could end up.

  “Hey, what are you doin’? Why you got your eyes closed?”

  “We ain’t got time to mess with you, so just give us what you got, if you don’t want to get got. Got it?” I open my eyes and see the outline of a small handgun tucked into the first kid’s waistband. I throw Mumma’s money on the ground, and I can hear them move close, scooping up the bills and change. I don’t want to see that gun again. If you’re gonna kill me, just get it over with quick, that’s all I ask.

  “Come on, let’s bounce.” The sour smell of sweat lingers after they run away. I stand there, silent, and shut my eyes tight again. I want to open them, but I can’t. Even though they’re gone, I’m still their hostage. I am small. Smaller than small. I am frozen. Stuck in this spot. Stuck in this life.

  • • •

  Foodtown stinks of rotten fruit and bleach. It looks like some third-world grocery store that’s had a bomb dropped a little too close to it. Shelves are half empty, and everything looks all old and run-down. Paint is faded and chipping, and some of the lights are burned out.

  I scan the aisles for what Mumma needs. Milk, OJ, and a loaf of bread. Why I’m here I don’t know. Ain’t got no money, but I have to get what Mumma needs. Gonna steal it, that’s what I’m gonna do. I try to get my nerve up, but I’ve got no real plan on how I’m gonna get a gallon of milk out of the store without anyone seeing me. I grab the milk and see if it will fit under my shirt. Yeah, right. It looks ridiculous. I am ridiculous for even thinking I could do this. I put the milk back and wander the aisles of the store, looking at all the things that I’d like to have at my house. All the things that Mumma never gets for me. I see those wannabe kids’ faces flash in my mind. The ones who just jacked me. I hate those kids. I should’ve fought back. I should have said, “Hell no, you ain’t gettin’ my money, whatcha gonna do about it, punk? You want some of me? Don’t you know, I’m the biracial Bruce Lee?” Yeah, right.

  After Foodtown, I just started wandering, not really know-in’ where I was goin’ or what I was gonna do. I knew I wasn’t gonna go home because, shoot, Mumma didn’t care if you got jacked. If you didn’t come home with what she wanted and you got her money stolen? That was just your ass, plain and simple. I was just gonna have to deal with all that later, and hope by the time later came, Mumma was gone or was too drunk to remember she’d sent me to the store in the first place.

  Dixon’s was usually a safe bet for me to escape all the drama. Yeah, if there was one thing my life had, it was drama, for sure.

  • • •

  “Dude, I tried to call you. I got a ride with one of my mom’s friends, was gonna see if you wanted to go to church.” Yeah, I was probably gettin’ jacked when you called. Sorry I couldn’t answer my phone.

  “I don’t think I had my phone on me, I was, uh out doin’ some stuff.” I
throw out the first lie that pops into my head. Trying to say it as normal as I can. As normal as a person can after thinkin’ they were gonna die. I don’t look Dixon in the eyes; it’s hard to look anyone in the eyes after you’ve just been jacked by a couple of eighth graders.

  “You missed a great service, awesome message and the band was kickin’.”

  “That’s good,” I answer, my normal voice sounding pretty shaky to my own ears.

  “Where you comin’ from?” Dixon asked, reaching into a bag of chips but keeping his eyes glued to the TV. Both of us, plopped down on his couch. The cushions were worn-down so much their new color could just be called, “faded.”

  “I was out runnin’ some errands for Mumma.”

  “Cool,” Dixon says. Luckily he’s paying more attention to what’s on TV than to what I’m saying.

  • • •

  Dixon’s apartment is quiet. Quiet, except for me and him and the low rumble of the TV. I look over at him, and he’s out. Sound asleep on the couch next to me. His Coke bottle glasses half off his face, lookin’ like a special-needs Harry Potter. Dag, that’s messed up. I feel guilty even thinkin’ it, but everyone knows Dixon’s about as smart as they come. Knows the answer before the teacher asks the question. Dixon’s “good people,” as Daddy used to say. That one phrase that stuck to my mind like superglue. Good people. Too bad there’s way more bad people than good ones.

  I grab a pillow and make myself up a place on the floor next to the couch. Even though it’s only around seven, I’m wiped out, and as soon as I stretch my legs out, I start to drift off too. I let my body relax and let go. Slowly, I start to come down from the high-alert stage that I’d been in since my “incident.” I can feel the first twitches of almost-sleep begin to take me over. My left leg kicks out, then my right hand. Then, I’m gone.

  • • •

  We are walkin’ down the hall, and all of a sudden she just starts kissin’ me. I mean she’s goin for it. And the cool thing is, nobody else notices. All the students and teachers just walk by like we’re invisible. It’s like we’re on our own island of love and sloppy French kisses. Then one kiss takes the cake. A slow-motion kiss that seems like it’s gonna last forever. It’s like the longest kiss in the history of kisses. That is until Dixon’s stale breath makes me cough, which then wakes me up so I’m face to face with his face and not Marketta Barrett’s—numero uno—babe of all babes in the Junior class. Dag, that was a good dream.