Falling Back to One

by Randy Mason

  “That’s not an answer.”

  She looked at him dressed in his nice clothes, all ready for his date with Cynthia. “What d’ya want me t’say?”

  “Attacking a teacher—”

  “I didn’t attack him. I didn’t touch him. I was just—just—” But she couldn’t finish the sentence because she really had no idea what she’d been doing. “I wasn’t hurtin’ anybody. I just scared him is all.”

  “I guess you thought that was fun.”

  His voice sounded so … relaxed. Cordial, even. Micki’s heart pounded harder. “Yeah, I thought it was fun, okay?”

  “Turn around.”

  She noticed the heavy gold bar clipped to his tie. Done in a soft, matte finish, there were shiny stripes cut out in—

  “I said,” he repeated, “ ‘TURN—AROUND.’ ”

  When she looked up, she saw only cold, empty eyes staring back. She slowly lowered her gaze and turned to face the railing.

  Handcuffs closed, cool and rigid, around her skin, the ratcheting sound magnified a thousand times as it reverberated off the tiles. But then her heart was in her throat, for she was dangling over the banister, his hand gripping the waistband of her jeans, his wrist wedged between her cuffed ones. With the handrail pressing just below her hip bones, her whole body was tilting down, and only his strength was keeping her from diving through the center—an unobstructed, rectangular drop ending four stories below in the basement. The tension in his hold—purposely, it seemed—was wavering, and she imagined him letting go to watch her plummet through the alternating patches of darkness and light.

  “Are you having fun?” Baker asked. “’Cause I’m having fun.” And for just an instant, he partially released his grasp. In that nanosecond of time, she slid forward a little more and felt the heart-dropping sensation of freefall. A small cry escaped her, then a grunt as he jerked her to a stop. Leaning forward and using his free hand, he grabbed her hair near the scalp and gave it a sharp tug.

  She winced.

  “Yup,” he said, “I’m having a real good time.”

  When he finally yanked her back to safety, her legs felt like they had no bones. And the cold. She felt so cold. He took the handcuffs off, and she grabbed for the banister. But the metal felt frozen in her palms.

  Casually leaning against the railing, he said, “You’re going to go back and apologize to your teacher and classmates.”

  “I hate you,” she hissed.

  “Aw, you’re breaking my heart, Reilly.”

  She was about to say something back when the passing bell rang.

  Baker straightened up. “Let’s go before they’ve all left.”

  But Mr. Ingram didn’t teach ninth period, so he was extending the exam by an extra fifteen minutes to make up for the time lost during the disruption. When Baker and Micki returned to the classroom, he asked them to step back into the hallway so as not to disturb the others. The corridor, full of students hurrying to their next class—talking and shouting, bodies pushing and jostling—was a turbulent rush of energy. Baker appeared irritated. Mr. Ingram, however—one of the young, hip teachers, his long black hair always tied in a ponytail—was simply studying Micki, his face filled more with compassion than anything else.

  She looked down at the floor.

  The late bell rang, and the passageway was once again empty and quiet—as if there hadn’t been utter chaos just moments before.

  “She has something to say to you,” Baker said.

  Micki looked at her history teacher. “I want to apologize for what I did.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “I dunno. I just—I dunno, but I’m really sorry.”

  Baker turned to Ingram. “I’m sure she’ll get at least two days of suspension for this.”

  “Actually—if it’s okay—I’d like to talk to her alone for a minute.”

  Baker gave her a sharp look of warning before heading toward the other end of the corridor.

  When Mr. Ingram was confident Baker was out of earshot, he asked for an explanation again, adding, “You must’ve had a reason.”

  “I wasn’t trying to—it had nothing to do with you. I’m—I’m just sorry.”

  “Is it because you’re going through a tough time now?” Eyebrows arched like question marks, he cast a quick glance in Baker’s direction.

  “I dunno. I guess so.”

  Ingram tilted his head. “Look, I know you’re in a difficult situation. I think maybe you just made a mistake here. If you can give me your word this’ll never happen again, we’ll leave it at that.”

  “Y’mean it? Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “I swear,” Micki said. “I swear I won’t ever do anything like that again.”

  Placing his hands on her shoulders, Ingram smiled. But then he shot an anxious look at Baker. He and a couple of other teachers had talked about the bruises they’d seen on Micki’s face. Given all the publicity about the new mandatory-reporting acts, they were feeling very pressured to contact child-protective services. And they had finally agreed to make the call. Until they considered that Baker was a cop. “What’s the point?” one of them had argued. “Once the police get involved, nothing will ever come of it. Everyone knows cops protect their own. If anything, it might make things worse.” But Ingram felt guilty. He said to Micki, “And I want you to know you can always talk to me, okay?”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Except she couldn’t stand the weight of his palms on her shoulders, wanted to squirm out from under them—but was afraid he’d change his mind.

  He gave her a friendly wink, then caught Baker’s eye. And with a raise of his hand, he let him know they were done.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  BAKER WASN’T PLEASED WITH Mr. Ingram’s decision. Mr. Hillerman, the assistant principal, would still get a report about the incident, but with Ingram’s request for leniency, it wouldn’t have the same impact. As he pushed Micki through the door to the security office, he said, “Don’t think you got away with this, Reilly.”

  She put her books down on his desk.

  Warner, who was hanging up the phone, looked at Baker with surprise. “Aren’t you supposed to be—”

  “Shit!” Baker glanced at his watch. “Cynthia’s going to—” He wheeled around to Micki. “You little bastard!”

  Warner got between them, hands up in a placating gesture. “Just take it easy, Jim, or you’re going to be even later.”

  Trying to fake his way around Warner, Baker pointed at her. “You’re going to pay for this, you little son of a bitch.”

  Micki noticed that Baker always cursed at her with words usually reserved for guys—not that she minded, though. She hated being called a bitch—or worse. She stared past him.

  “Just wait,” he said. “You’re going to be sorry—real sorry.” Then he addressed Warner: “Make sure she stays till at least a quarter after three. Have her clean the coffee machine and—and whatever else you can think of.” Cursing under his breath, he ran out.

  Marino, who’d been hanging around the office, snickered. “Man, you’re gonna get yours but good. You’re fucking history.”

  “That’s enough, Denny,” Warner said. “Shouldn’t you be on two-north right now?”

  “Tom’s up there for me ’cause I needed to check on something.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  Marino grinned. “Like how bad she got her ass kicked.”

  “Get back there now.”

  “C’mon …” But as Warner started toward him, Marino gave a nervous little laugh and backed out the door. “Okay, man, okay. Y’gotta loosen up a little, y’know?”

  Warner slammed the door in his face, then turned to Micki. “Come Monday, I sure hope you still think this was worth it.”

  S
he shrugged. It was her best universal response.

  He grabbed her arm. “What is wrong with you? Are you trying to get yourself thrown back in that reform school?”

  “ ‘Reform school’? What a joke! It’s more like—”

  He shook her. “Listen to me. You can’t afford to play these kinds of games.”

  “He’s not gonna send me back,” she said flatly.

  Warner pulled himself up. “And why is that?”

  “I dunno, but it’s true.”

  He searched her face, then sighed. “You never know when that might change. Right now you might be in some kind of grace period. If I were you, I wouldn’t push my luck.”

  She hadn’t considered that. But then she eyed him with suspicion. “What’s it to you?”

  “I think you’ve got a shot at making it here. I’d hate to see you blow it.”

  “Why? What do you care?”

  “Micki, some people—”

  But just then his walkie-talkie crackled with static, and Micki recognized Angela’s voice: “Warner? You there? Over.”

  “Yeah, Angie, what’s up? Over.”

  Micki went to the coffee machine, dumped the coffee grinds, and pulled out the glass carafe. She jumped as Warner’s hand closed over hers, guiding the pot back to the warming pad. “Just leave it, Micki, and go home.”

  “But Sergeant Baker’ll—”

  “Don’t worry about it. If he finds out, I’ll take the heat. Just go home.” And he ran out, leaving her alone in the office.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  IT FELT ODD BEING there by herself—as if she were trespassing. But it felt peaceful, too. Quiet and peaceful. Micki went to pick up her books, but found herself looking at the things on Baker’s desk. There were the usual, standard-issue items: stapler; Scotch-tape dispenser; pencil holder stuffed full of pens, pencils, and Magic Markers … But then there were the more personal objects, the things distinctly his. She ran her finger around the thick glass ashtray he’d brought in just yesterday. Already crusted on the bottom with patches of ashes, the afternoon’s butts were twisted and crumpled on top.

  She took a quick glance around, then slipped her hand beneath the desk. Under the center section of wood, her fingers found an indentation. She started to pull the drawer open—then paused. And pushed it back. Instead, she picked up the picture of his girlfriend. If anyone was drop-dead gorgeous, Cynthia certainly was. In the photo she was wearing a cherry-red ski outfit with big white ski boots and fluffy white earmuffs. Thick blonde hair cascaded around her shoulders. Smiling brightly for the camera, her cheeks were a rosy pink, a pair of skis and ski poles cradled upright in the crook of her arm.

  Micki felt a painful stitch in her heart: she could never be even one-tenth as pretty. She wanted to hate this perfect woman with a perfect body, who probably lived a perfect life and never did anything wrong. But she couldn’t. Cynthia’s smile was too warm, too genuine. Very gently, she placed the picture back where it belonged, an uncomfortable sensation growing inside her: this woman, who’d never done anything to her, was now standing on some street corner. Waiting for Baker. And scared.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  AFTER HE DEFUSED THE situation in the third-floor hallway, where a minor collision outside the boys’ bathroom had threatened to turn into a major incident, Warner returned to the security office to finish up. Almost out the door, he spied the nearly empty glass coffee pot and sighed. He didn’t need anyone from the late shift making some offhand comment on Monday about burnt coffee. Baker would have Micki’s head on a platter. And then his. He threw out the bitter dregs, cleaned the carafe, and set up the machine for a fresh pot.

  Within a minute the liquid started dripping down—the rich, dark aroma making him want to hang around and have a cup. But he had a session scheduled at the university’s clinic, an elderly woman coming in for an assessment. As a fourth-year student, he’d been seeing patients—under supervision—for quite a while now, but no one nearly as complex as Micki. He often wondered, though, what it would be like to treat someone like her. As it was, he knew precious little. He was cognizant of her amnesia, her stay in Heyden, and her legal status as Baker’s ward, but that was all. Baker had said he was “not at liberty to discuss the kid’s record” since she was being processed as a juvenile, which meant Warner had to glean what he could from overhearing their conversations. If you could call them that.

  Of course, Baker was a puzzle of his own. Warner didn’t buy the cop-needs-a-break-after-traumatic-shooting story that was supposed to explain the man’s presence at the school. When he as much as told him so, he’d gotten nothing in response but a cold, derisive stare. Always on edge, Baker seemed like a constantly brewing storm of unprocessed rage. And he was taking it out on Micki. But other than stating his opinions privately to Baker, Warner was still hesitant to interfere. It always came back to the same two things: 1) too many people had officially signed off on this, and 2) he had no idea what was really going on. Plus Baker had a completely different way of handling the rest of the student population. On several occasions, Warner had witnessed him in action, breaking up fights or removing disorderly kids from classes. With a minimum of physical force and without ever using handcuffs—a preferable approach for school security—Baker had brought each of the situations under control quickly and effectively. He’d also managed to uncover why the cafeteria register kept coming up short after seventh-period lunch.

  Warner had reached his car. He got inside and switched on the ignition. And though he struggled getting out of the tight parking spot, swore at the engine light that was flickering again, and finally drove away—running late if he planned to hit the supermarket before his evening session—he couldn’t shake that last look on Baker’s face.

  He feared for Micki.

  And for Baker.

  chapter 5

  BAKER PULLED OUT A lighter and—still filtered, at least—a pack of Camels. With a flick of his thumb, he fired one up. Then he took off his old baseball-style jacket—the black leather showing the years of wear—and slung it over the back of an ugly dinette chair. While it was obvious Micki had cleaned her apartment since he’d been there Wednesday, the permanent look of decay was overpowering. Overhead, only one of the two bare bulbs glowed, its yellowed light reflecting harshly in the windows that were devoid of any blinds, shades, or curtains. And the room itself—painted in a dulled, cracking white—was small and sparsely furnished with cheap, hard-used furniture and antiquated appliances. Barring some disaster in the closet, tossing the place wouldn’t take long. But what a waste of a Saturday night. If Cynthia weren’t still angry because he’d kept her waiting yesterday, he’d be out on a date instead of spending his evening in this dump.

  Between leaving the school when he had and then hitting more traffic than he’d counted on, he’d arrived at the photography studio over half an hour late. He’d pulled up in front of the building—an old, converted warehouse in Brooklyn—and had known by the expression on Cynthia’s face to just forget about a kiss hello. The large black man standing beside her, however, got a huge hug goodbye before she got into the car. Baker closed her door, then went back around and got in himself. Across the street, a group of boys was sitting on a stoop. Watching them.

  Cynthia, who hadn’t eaten all day, still wanted to go to the new restaurant that was nearby—some trendy place that had recently opened in the rapidly changing neighborhood of Park Slope. And though she was quick to tell Baker how nice that other man had been—a perfect stranger, simply walking down the street, stopping and offering to wait with her—she was not willing to hear anything Baker had to say in his defense. It had been, to put it nicely, a less than stellar dining experience that had ended with a cold and passionless peck on the cheek.

  And then tonight, after he’d finally had a chance to explain what had happened, she’d asked, “Did Micki
get suspended?”

  “No, but—”

  “So what was the big deal? She was looking for some attention, that’s all.”

  “She was looking to make me late.”

  “And you gave her exactly what she wanted. The truth is, you didn’t have to be the one to respond.”

  “But I did; she’s my responsibility, Cyn.”

  “But apparently only when she’s doing something wrong. I have to say, it’s like you want her to get into trouble. Why can’t you at least be a little understanding?”

  “The kid’s got a rap sheet a mile long—”

  “And? She was released early; they’re letting her live by herself. So what could she possibly have done that’s so terrible?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “Oh, right. Of course not. God forbid you should confide in me.”

  Baker had stopped arguing. And when Cynthia had said she didn’t feel like going out anymore, he’d left.

  He glanced around for something to use as an ashtray, then went and flicked his ashes into the sink before getting started—the sooner he was out of there, the better. Most of the kitchen cabinets were bare. But there were assorted plates, coffee mugs, and glasses in one; some food in another, including two jars of marshmallow Fluff and a jar of chunky peanut butter to keep it company—the ingredients of those gooey sandwiches she brought to school every day. He found boxes of Twinkies and Yodels, bags of snack-sized Milky Way and Kit Kat bars, instant oatmeal and farina, a jar of instant coffee, a box of Rice-A-Roni, a tin of sardines, and two cans of tuna. Half a loaf of Wonder Bread sat on the counter next to a box of aluminum foil and another of plastic wrap.

  Beside the sink, in a dusty glass, was a purple-handled toothbrush. Beneath it were cleaning supplies and a box of garbage bags. And the drawers—lined with ancient, peeling contact paper—contained an odd assortment of items: deodorant, toothpaste, a few utensils, a small hammer, and a screwdriver.