by Mila Gray
“He’s lying!” I shout.
She shrugs. “It’s his word against yours.”
“Well, I’m telling the truth.”
“Jake, I’m not interested in he said, she said.”
“But Em was there,” I say through gritted teeth. “She’ll tell you what happened. She can back me up. They started it. And Reid tripped. I didn’t lay a finger on him!”
Shay’s mom sits down heavily in her seat. “That’s not what they’re saying. I’ve got your statement, Jake, and Emerson’s, and I’ll work with it as best I can, but, frankly, you chose the wrong people to pick a fight with.”
I bite my lips shut and take a deep breath in, trying to get control over my spiking pulse rate. It doesn’t work. The panic builds, becomes blinding. I didn’t pick a fight with them. They picked it with me! “What am I looking at?” I ask after a pause. “Worst-case scenario.”
Her mouth tightens into a line, and she shakes her head. “Worst case? They charge you for first-degree aggravated assault, which is punishable by up to life in prison.”
I start laughing, but then stop once I see her face remains stony blank. “You’re joking, right?” I hear myself ask.
She shakes her head at me. “You asked for worst case. It’s highly unlikely the judge will accept a first-degree charge, though. Most likely what will happen is that if you plead guilty, they’ll accept a third-degree assault charge.”
It’s as if I’m being slowly lowered into a vat of cold, wet concrete. I can feel it climbing up my body, binding me rib by rib, paralyzing me. “What’s the punishment for that?” I whisper as my throat starts to freeze up too.
“Worst case again: five years in prison and a fine of up to five thousand dollars.”
My heart beats hollowly in my chest. Her words echo around my head. “Five years?” Prison?
“I’m going to try to get the charge dropped to a simple assault charge. If you plead guilty to that, if you act remorseful in court and pray you get a judge who doesn’t play golf with Chief Walsh, you’ll walk out with a suspended sentence. Maybe a fine. That’s best-case scenario if you plead guilty. If you plead not guilty—”
“Not guilty?” I interrupt.
She nods at me.
“But I hit Rob,” I say. “I am guilty.”
Shay’s mom tips her head to one side. “We can argue self-defense. I think it’s your best shot. But obviously if Reid and Tanya testify for the prosecution and say you started it and it was an unprovoked attack, then that’s going to complicate things. And their faces make quite a pretty picture for the jury too.”
“Shit,” I say. Tears burn my eyes and I blink them rapidly away. How could I have been so stupid? What was I thinking? I just saw red when I heard them say those things about Em.
“They called Em a slut,” I say, looking up at Shay’s mom. “Rob said she made up the accusation against my uncle.”
Shay’s mom reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “Off the record, Jake, and while I don’t condone violence in any form, I think I would probably have punched him for saying that too.” She lets go of my hand. “But the fact is, you’re now screwed.”
Like Shay, her mother doesn’t hold her punches. Given the situation I’m in now, I wish I had held mine.
“I’ll fight for you to get bail,” she tells me, “but if they refuse to drop the charges and we opt for a not-guilty plea, you need to prepare yourself for a trial. Once we know the exact charge, we can figure out the right defense move.”
I rest my head in my hands and stare at the tabletop. How is this happening? I can’t even bring myself to ask about what this means for my college place and my ice hockey career. They’re both dead in the water whatever the outcome. Shit. I rest my head on the stained tabletop to try to stop the room from spinning. And what about Em? What must she be thinking?
“I’m sorry, Jake,” Shay’s mom says quietly. “Do you want me to call your parents and let them know?”
I shake my head and glance up. “They’re overseas, on vacation.”
She chews her lip.
“Can you tell Em?” I ask.
She nods. “Of course.” She stands up and walks to the door.
“Tell her I’m sorry.”
Em
Shay’s words ring in my head. Don’t do it.
I stare at the front door and feel my pulse leap into the stratosphere. A solid, sickly lump is wedged at the back of my throat and I can’t seem to swallow it away. I need to do this. What other option is there? Jake’s in jail. His bail hearing is later today. He might end up with a life sentence, which doesn’t even bear thinking about.
I get off my bike and start walking toward the house. I don’t head to the front door but veer to the left, to the basement door, instead. Taking a deep breath in and trying to calm myself, I knock.
Tanya answers, wearing one of Rob’s football shirts and nothing else. I stare at her bare legs and her severe case of bedhead. She leans casually against the door and smiles at me through lids so heavy she looks drugged.
“Hi,” I say, licking my lips, which are suddenly drier than sand. “Is Rob here? I need to talk to him.” I figure talking to him is my best bet.
“Rob!” Tanya yells over her shoulder, not taking her eyes off me.
In the background I can hear the sports channel playing on the TV. After a few awkward seconds with Tanya standing with her nose wrinkling like I’m a bad smell, Rob appears. He’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and a yellow college T-shirt that doesn’t do much to flatter the purple shiny bruise around his eye. Tanya presses up against him. His hand rests on her ass as though she’s his property, and she preens like a cat who’s got the cream. I repress a giant eyeball roll.
“What do you want?” Rob grunts.
“I . . .” I stop, all the words I had prepared, erasing on my tongue before I can speak them.
Tanya laughs. “She’s come here to get you guys to drop the charges.”
My eyes flash from Rob to her, then back to Rob. He frowns at Tanya and then jerks his head at her, dismissing her. She glares at him but then follows his order and stalks off.
“That right?” Rob asks me, once she’s gone. “You want me to drop the charges?”
“Jake never threatened to kill anyone. You provoked him. And Reid tripped.”
Rob crosses his arms over his chest and glowers at me.
“I didn’t two-time you, Rob. I got together with Jake after we split up.”
His nostrils flare and two red spots appear on his cheeks. I know his pride has been dented, and that he probably hates Jake for a number of reasons, more to do with Jake’s successful sports career than the fact he’s dating me, but I have to believe that the person I dated for three years isn’t a complete asshole, that he has some redeeming qualities . . . somewhere.
“Please, Rob. I’m begging. Speak to Reid. Please drop the charges.” I almost choke on the words. Having to plead with him is making me feel like hurling all over him, but right now it’s all I’ve got.
Rob considers me and hope bursts from a spark to a flame. “Shame how it’s going to affect his career, isn’t it?” he says. “Guess the Red Wings will be dropping him faster than you can say ‘game over.’ ”
My stomach clenches. “Rob . . . come on,” I whisper. “If anyone knows what it’s like to lose their shot at their dream, it’s you.”
Something flickers across his face. I think it might be empathy, but I’m wrong. It’s spite. “He should have thought about that before he punched me.” He moves to shut the door on me.
“I know,” I say, quick to be conciliatory before he slams the door in my face. “It’s just this could really screw things up for him. He’ll lose his scholarship and get thrown out of college. He’ll have a criminal record. If you ever cared about me, even the slightest bit, I’m begging you, please help. Talk to your dad. Tell him it was a stupid fight. Tell him that you guys started it.” Rob’s face turns thunder-dark. I backtra
ck fast. “I mean, tell him whatever you need to tell him to get the charges dropped. Please.”
Rob weighs me for a moment, and then he nods. Hope fills me like helium.
“Break up with him.”
I deflate immediately. “Excuse me?”
“Break up with him,” Rob says, glaring at me defiantly. “Then I’ll drop the charges.”
I laugh. I actually laugh. Because he has to be joking. “What?”
“You heard me. Break up with Jake.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head.
He shrugs at me, then moves to shut the door on me.
“Why?” I finally manage to whisper.
Rob turns around. “Because.”
Now I’m mad. All the rage contained within me all these years comes spewing out of me.
“Because why, Rob?” I yell. “Because it makes you feel like you’re getting one over on him? Because you want to punish me? Or him? Are you jealous because he still has the chance to make it as an athlete? Are you pissed at me for breaking up with you? I didn’t cheat on you, Rob.” His face twists into a scowl and I know I’ve hit a sore spot. That is what he thinks. “You admitted yourself that you never loved me and you didn’t care about me, so why does it matter if I’m dating him? You just can’t stand him winning, can you?”
Rob scowls. I’m right. He knows it. That’s exactly what it’s about. Because Rob always wants what isn’t his and he’ll bully to get it. It’s like the tree house wars all over again.
“You don’t get to tell me who I can and can’t date, Rob.”
“Actually, I can.” He smirks at me. “If you want to see your boyfriend ever again. And not in an orange jumpsuit with Plexiglas between you.”
Shit. He’s right. I have to stuff all the anger and rage back inside me. And from the gloating, smug expression on Rob’s face, he knows he’s got me over a barrel.
“How can you do this?” I whisper, fists clenched at my side.
“No. How can you do this?” he answers. “You want to be the one who’s responsible for Jake going to prison? Because it’s on you now.”
Jake
I walk out into blinding sunlight, squinting and holding a hand up to shield my eyes.
“Do you need a ride?”
I turn to Shay’s mom and shake my head. “Um.” I glance around again, looking for Em on the off chance she’s heard about my release and has come to meet me. The car parking lot is empty, though, apart from a white van.
“Okay,” I say, trying to mask my disappointment.
Just then the door of the van swings open and a woman hops out. She’s wearing a short black skirt and a white blouse and holding something in her hand. When she gets closer, I see it’s a microphone. Tailing her is an overweight guy, panting to catch up, lugging a camera on his shoulder.
“Get in the car,” Shay’s mom orders me.
“What?” I start to say but am interrupted by the woman, who parks herself between me and the car.
“Jake McCallister, Jo Furness from ESPN. Would you care to comment on your arrest? Is it true you put someone in the hospital? What are they charging you with?” The questions come thick and fast as machine-gun fire.
“I—”
Shay’s mom steps in front of me, holding up her hand to cover the camera lens. “My client has no comment to make at this time,” she says in a clipped tone. She turns to me next. “Get in the car, Jake,” she orders.
I reach for the door handle with a shaking hand. The reporter pushes Shay’s mom aside and thrusts the microphone toward me.
“Witnesses claim it was an unprovoked attack. Can you confirm whether that was the case?”
I jump in the car and Shay’s mom slams the door shut before walking around to the driver’s side. The reporter keeps banging on the window, shouting questions at me through the glass. I stare straight ahead as Shay’s mom starts the engine and tears out of the lot, leaving the reporter standing in our wake. I watch her in the mirror giving a report to camera. What is she saying?
“You okay?” Shay’s mom asks me when we’re a few blocks from the police station.
I don’t answer. Instead, I wind down the window, my heart still beating hard from the run-in with that reporter. I take a few deep breaths. Freedom. It does have a taste. It tastes and smells of sea air and pinecones and the sweeter scent of huckleberries.
I close my eyes. It feels as if I haven’t slept in fifty hours, which is pretty close to the truth. Just three hours ago, I thought my life was over. I was resigning myself to spending at least the next month in jail awaiting trial—for a goddamn punch, one punch—was going over and over in my head what it all meant, wondering what Em was thinking—but now I’m out. At least temporarily. My parents paid the bail money—are flying back from Europe early. I’m out, free at least until the trial, which could be up to three months away.
I feel relieved but also like I’m holding a ticking clock strapped to a bomb that may or may not go off in three months’ time. That invisible noose around my neck has slipped even tighter.
When we pull into my driveway, I scan the parking area for Em’s bike. I’m not really expecting her to be here as she doesn’t yet know I’m out. I only just got my phone back—the cops had taken it off me when they put me in the cell—and the battery’s now dead, but I’m desperate to see her. I almost asked Mrs. Donovan to drop me at her place instead of here, but I need to take a shower and change my clothes.
“Bye, Jake,” she says as I get out the car.
“Thank you,” I say again, shaking her hand. “I mean it. I’m really sorry for everything. I don’t know how to repay you.”
“We’re not out of the woods yet, Jake. We need to work on your defense before the trial, okay? I’ll be in touch. And you need to stay out of trouble until then. Curb that impulsiveness.”
Nodding, I shut the car door and watch her drive away, then take a minute just to breathe in the fresh air and soak up the feeling of the sun on my face. It’s amazing how special the small things become when you think you might be in danger of losing them. Finally, I move to the door, pulling out my keys as I go.
Before I even step in the shower, I plug in my phone. Ignoring the two dozen messages from my parents and Sarge and several unknown numbers, I try Em, but her phone is switched off. I wonder if she’s with Shay, because I know Shay is leaving for New York this evening, but when I try Shay, she doesn’t answer either. After a shower, I summon the balls to call Sarge.
“What the hell are you thinking, McCallister?” Sarge shouts the minute he picks up. “Have you got shit for brains?” I start to answer, but he cuts me off. “If those charges stick, you’re off the team and out of school. I had to fight to even get them to let you play next season. They said it breaks the rules. I argued you were innocent until proven guilty. They find you guilty, though, in three months’ time, there’s nothing I can do. Say good-bye to your future.”
“I know,” I say, dropping my head into my hands. Does he not realize how much I know this already? Repeating it isn’t helping any.
“Get your ass back here before you get into any more trouble. People in your position cannot take risks like this. What does your lawyer say? Can she get you off or not? You’re not pleading guilty, are you?”
“I don’t know yet. It depends on the charge.”
“Don’t be stupid. Plead guilty and you may as well quit now. You’ll be out on your ear, no career, no future. There’s only one choice here—plead not guilty. Come on, your lawyer must be saying the same.”
“But—” I start to argue with him. I am guilty. I did punch him. It wasn’t exactly self-defense, either.
“Listen,” Sarge interrupts. “Get back here, get your head back in the game, McCallister. It’ll take your mind off the trial and remind the Red Wings that you’re worth holding on to.”
“Okay,” I say, though I think it’s going to take a lot more than hockey to take my mind off the fact I might be in jail this time
next year or out on the street but with a criminal conviction and no contract to play hockey.
“When are you leaving there?” Sarge asks.
“Tomorrow, but I have to be ready to fly back whenever they ask.”
“Good. I want you where I can see you. You are on lockdown, do you understand me? You are not getting into any more trouble.”
“I won’t.”
“That’s what you said last time.”
“I swear,” I say.
He grumbles something indecipherable, and I hang up and try Em again. There’s still no answer. Something starts to niggle at me. Why isn’t she picking up or returning my calls? I leave another message and then decide I can’t just sit around anymore wondering and waiting for her to return my call. Fifteen minutes later, I’m knocking on the door of her house.
Em’s mom answers. “Jake!” she says. “You’re out!” She pulls me into a hug. “Are you okay? We were so worried.”
“Is Em in?” I ask when she releases me.
She shakes her head.
“Do you know where she is?”
“She said she was going to the tree house and if you came by to see her that I should tell you to go there.”
Jake
(Then)
I keep expecting to see my mom marching down the path through the woods, screaming my name, but two hours go by and I gradually accept the fact that she’s probably left with my sister to catch the flight to Toronto. Either that or she’s called the cops and they’re out searching for me. But I can’t think about that. It’s too late for regrets.
Where’s Em, though? My ears are pricked for any sight or sound of her, but she doesn’t appear. It’s getting dark. Is she coming? What if she doesn’t want to see me or she can’t get out the house? What if she doesn’t come?
Darkness falls like a shroud. The woods come alive with noises I never noticed when it was light—rustling and hoots and snuffling. I pull on a spare sweater and unfurl the sleeping bag to sit on, and then, because I’m starving, I take out the noodles, remembering too late I forgot the stove and a saucepan. Smart. Frustrated, and with my stomach growling in protest, I toss the noodles back into the bag and tear into the marshmallows instead, making a vague reminder to self to save some for Em.
