“Thanks a lot,” I say. I don’t mean it and I don’t even try to make it sound polite. What does it matter?
“I have a lot of respect for you, Gabe,” he says. “Not too many boys your age would find themselves in a predicament like this.”
“I’m not a boy.”
“And mostly,” he says, “it’s because they don’t have the spines to do what you’re doing.”
“Trust me,” I say. “Laying around in here all day isn’t much of a challenge.”
“I think you know what I mean. And I think, maybe right about this moment, you’re thinking ‘I’m ready to get out of this dungeon. I’m ready to tell the nice officer who was really driving that car.’”
He goes silent and I can feel his eyes, like freaking laser beams, scorching the back of my neck. I hear the hinges squeak on a cell door somewhere on my block. Then the metal clangs on metal, and the tinny reverberations bounce from one hollow wall of the cavern to another. It makes me jump a little, but I’ll never admit to being scared. Even Patterson doesn’t scare me, though he could probably slice me through the prison bars like a hard boiled egg if he wanted. And so I go back to tracing. How much—how little—how much—how little.
When I hear him turn and start to walk away I say, “I’m ready to tell.”
He stops, shuffles back to front and center.
“Go on,” he says. “I’m listening,”
“I did it.”
I turn and look him square in the eyes, no blinking. He shakes his head—the same way he did when he slapped the cuffs on me.
“Someone’s here to see you,” he says.
He turns and disappears around the corner of the cell next to mine. A moment or two later I hear another set of footsteps. Slow ones. Lumbering ones. I sit up in my cot, hoping this looming beast is not my new cellmate. Please don’t let him be my new cellmate.
The steps grow heavier, closer. They’re rounding the cell next door and closing in. A droplet of sweat oozes from my back and rolls down into my underwear. I’m about to scream and make this whole prison experience a heck of a lot worse for myself when:
“Gabey-boy!”
It’s Nick. Freaking Nick. Oh, thank God it’s just Nick. He knew I was here, of course. He was my “one call.” I phoned him at work on his first day to tell him I was locked up and his father was passed out on a beach chair in the garage. Somehow, Nick got his friend to cover for him so he could supervise Grandpa, but we agreed that he’d keep Gramps away from the police station at all costs. And speaking of cost, neither of us had two pennies to rub together, let alone the five grand it would take to make bail—so coming by for a visit was kind of pointless. Besides, it’s not like I need anyone to protect me in here—not like I’m scared or anything.
“Nick, what the—”
“Before you say anything, Grandpa is at home. He’s fine. John and his mother are looking after him until we get home.”
“We?”
“Yeah, I posted bail. You’re free to go.”
The officer who escorted Nick to my cell pulls a key ring off his belt with no less than forty-six thousand keys on it. He pulls one out of the mix and unlocks the cell door on the first try. Lucky bastard.
Or maybe that’s me. I don’t know. And I sure as hell don’t know where Nick pulled five grand from. I mean, the dude never wears hats and rarely wears sleeves—it’s not like he’s a freaking magician or a wizard or anything. So, what the hell? I decide to wait until we’re in the car to ask him about it.
“Cab’s waiting outside for us,” he says as we pick up my belongings at the front of the precinct and head for the door.
“Cab? Why didn’t you take my car? There’s an extra set—”
“The Trans-Am’s been impounded, Gabe. It’s evidence now.”
Crap. How much—how little—how much—how little.
You keep one promise to Dad and another one somehow ends up in an impound lot.
“Let’s just go home,” I say. And we exit the precinct and head out to the street where our chariot awaits.
The interior reeked of old lady perfume mixed with anchovies, and the driver had this hideous wart on the back of his neck that I thought would sing to me at any moment.
I slide the Plexiglas shield to its closed position—for a little privacy—and say, “How did you manage this, Nick? You holding out on me? Are you a rich oil baron or something?”
“Archie. My buddy down at work.”
“Yeah?”
“We negotiated a payroll loan. I’ll work it off in a few months.”
I shake my head and watch the meter on the cab increase with each quarter-mile. What have I done? Here I am complaining about Nick every day, telling John and anyone who’d listen how horrible the guy is, and I put him in this position—starting day two of a job already in the hole for more than I’ve ever made in my life. What the hell is wrong with me?
“Uncle Nick,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I—” and I have to pause because my throat’s getting all tight and I have to strain to get the words out.
“Hey, Gabe. It’s not your fault, man.”
He pats my leg like he used to do when I was about three years old. “And you’re not alone. He’s my father, not yours. What happened is a tragedy—for all involved, including what’s-his-name?”
“Timmy.” The adorable bastard. I can feel my punting foot start to twitch.
“Yeah, Timmy. And all of us. We’re gonna make the best of this and we’re gonna get through it.”
I appreciate all the optimism from my Uncle Nick, but come on. Does he listen to himself speak? We have no money. Scratch that. We have less than no money. Significantly less. We have no one to take care of Gramps on a consistent basis. I’ll probably spend the rest of my life in prison and the Trans-Am is being stripped for parts as we speak. And Nick says ‘we’ll get through this?’ How exactly will we get through this? Things are looking pretty bleak.
“I can’t afford a lawyer,” I say, “They’ll probably appoint me with one of those guys who studied law at the Collegiate University of the Grand Bahamas or something.”
“You do have a lawyer,” Nick says calmly.
“I do?”
“Yeah. It’s me!”
Suddenly I’m thinking about settling for the Grand Bahamian. I laugh—actually just start cracking up because the idea of my oafish uncle strapping on a monkey suit and organ-grinding his way around a courtroom is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my life.
“You?” I ask, incredulous. “Did you say you?”
“Yes. Me, Gabe. I did go to law school. You were pretty young, so I doubt you remember but—”
“Wait. What? Law school? You?”
“I never passed the Bar,” he says. “I ran off with some girl. Your dad warned me.”
“Skye,” I whisper, and I’m not even trying to say it out loud. But I can’t help it—that day on the tire swing. The argument. The memories keep flashing before me. Only this time they make sense.
“What’s that?” Nick asks.
“Oh, nothing,” I say. “Never mind.”
The cab pulls up in front of our house and Nick fumbles through his wallet. He gathers his final few bills and folds them over in his hand. Studies them. “Sometimes your life can take a detour without you seeing it.”
“I know,” I say. “And I’m proud to have you defend me.”
Nick smiles and hands the money to the driver.
“Thanks for believing in me,” he says. Then he reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a thin, waffle-shaped disk. The smell of anise overpowers the stench of the cab for a moment. “I tried to keep your mother’s tradition alive,” he says. “It’s the only one that didn’t crumble into a million pieces. Merry Christmas.”
He offers the pizzelle to me and I take it in my hands.
“Doesn’t look too freaking bad,” I say. Then I take a bite. It’s rock hard and tastes like a burnt Twizzler. I cough a few crumbs out on
the back of the driver’s seat.
“Merry Christmas, Nick,” I say. And then I choke down the rest of that disgusting pizzelle right in front of him. I figure it’s the least I can do for my new attorney.
15
BREAKING FREE
We’re pinned down behind enemy lines. A commando unit of starstruck, freshman girls holds the front along corridor A, brandishing giggle rifles and firing them off with reckless abandon. A bunch of nosy bastards—the world’s supply of future journalists—form a rag-tag group of mercenaries that have corridor B sealed off with muckraking mortar fire. And the doorway to the outside world is blockaded by the most evil and destructive force known to man—the local media.
John and I swing our packs over our shoulders and strap them on tight. Our steely eyes meet and lock in a hollow glaze. It’s “the 1000-yard stare” a soldier gets after being under siege too long.
A slight nod is all John needs to set our strategy in motion. We’re lifelong platoon mates, the two of us. We share the same brain, so we both know there’s only one way to negotiate the field of battle.
We take brisk strides, pretend nothing is different even as enemy hands clutch at our packs and breathe on the backs of our necks. When we reach the concourse leading to corridor A, John takes a quick left and I bounce off to the right so we can flank the enemy on both sides. All attention diverts from John, and the rebel fighters mount their efforts on me alone. Perfect. Our plan is in action. Between heads and passing shoulders, I catch a glimpse of John moving undetected toward our rendezvous.
I push forward through the swarm. Questions and phrases drone together in a constant buzz so only a stray word or syllable here or there can find a clear path to my eardrums. My pace quickens, and the cinderblock walls swell around me. The bite of the cold linoleum collides with the soles of my sneakers. First the left. Then the right. Then the left again—each individual step a power plant full of friction that slows me down, keeps me from our checkpoint. And the words and phrases zing past me like stray artillery fire:
“Wanted for …”
“… serious?”
“Gabe is so …”
“… to the police.”
“… his life.”
“such an outlaw …”
I can’t avoid them all. A catch phrase or two pelt my skin like tiny polysyllabic bullets. Up ahead I see John reach the end of the hallway and cut down a dark set of stairs beside the entrance to the theater—our rendezvous. I know it’s now or never.
I hook the straps of my pack with my thumbs, fake like I’m about to turn around and head the opposite direction. Then I burst through an opening and sprint half way down the hallway. But I’m not much of a stolen base threat, so the swarm gains on me. The tips of John’s fingers swing wildly on his arms down below the stairs. I’m almost to the safe zone. I’m picking up ground.
But then something crashes against the side of my foot. A stray book. And I’m teetering. Rumbling. I’m stumbling and fighting with every last ounce of strength to keep my balance. A hand clutches the canvas of my backpack as my palm squeals against the waxy linoleum. And that’s all I need. Momentum.
Suddenly, I’m back upright and gaining speed. I hit the top of the stairs and watch John’s eyes expand to the size of grapefruits. He sees the horde closing in on me from behind. He spins and punches a tiny code into the Sentry lock on the door handle—one that every senior knows by the end of four years at Schuylkill. I take two steps at a time and watch as a sliver of sunlight seeps through the open door. John swings it open and we’re smothered in light. I hit the bottom stair and dive through the opening. John slams the door shut behind us and we hear the horde on the other side crashing and banging against it. But it’s too late. We made it to the student parking lot, therefore, we are free. Or so we think.
“What are you two doing?” I hear as I push myself up off the asphalt and brush off my pants. It’s Coach Foley. He looks puzzled, but something’s missing—the red face and the bulging veins, I suppose. For once, the guy doesn’t look totally pissed.
“It’s a mad house in there,” I say. “We had to make a grand escape.” Foley looks at me. He stares down at my shoes and works his way up to my face. He’s sizing me up. Seeing if I’m full of shit. This is usually about the time he reminds me how bad I am at baseball and makes me wonder if maybe I should take up bowling instead. But he doesn’t say anything. Just keeps looking at me, and there’s something weird. Something soft in his eyes like, I don’t know, maybe the guy feels sorry for me.
“Sir?” John asks when the whole situation starts to get a little creepy.
“Oh,” Foley says. “I, uh, was just thinking.” He pauses when a few more of the horde pound loudly on the other side of the door. “Just thinking, LoScuda. Are you coming out for the team this year?” I start to say something but he cuts me off. “You know, assuming everything works out.”
“Yes, sir,” I tell him. “I’m planning on it. Second base.”
“Well, I’ll see you out there,” he says. Then he walks past us, punches in the same code John used on the door just moments prior, and bursts through to cover us—and sacrifice himself to the horde on our behalf.
“What the hell was that?” I ask John. He starts to shrug, but there’s no time to continue his thoughts because, suddenly, we’re right back in the line of fire. I look over my shoulder and see a battalion of reporters with legal notepads tucked under tweed jackets and cameramen wielding cameras on their shoulders like bazookas. We’ve been spotted and the enemy is in hot pursuit.
John and I take off at a full sprint into the open canyon of the Schuylkill parking lot. With the Trans-Am in the impound lot, our escape vehicle is Lily Chen’s Honda Prism—not exactly a road warrior, but better than boots on the ground. Mrs. Chen, in a moment that should be recorded in the annals of history, felt sorry for me—and maybe for herself at the thought of having to transport her driver’s-licenseless son all over town each day. She entrusted the car to me. I’m serious.
“For school purposes only,” she said sternly as she handed me the keys. “No joy riding or craziness. Drive slow, Gabriel.”
Something told me “driving slow” was not something she’d expect me to abide by when a legion of hell raisers was hot on our tails. With reporters firing off questions, John and I race for the Prism. I pull out the keys as we hit the doors and immediately start fumbling them around in my hands. Typical, Gabe. So much for second base. The battalion of reporters is nearly upon us when I find the right match and slide it in the keyhole. John swings himself inside the car like he’s in an episode of Dukes of Hazard. He slams the door and punches the lock down. I’m about to follow suit when I hear my name.
“Gabe?”
I look up and see Marlie approaching from the next row of cars. Her hair shines in little ripples. I’m glued to the spot. The reporters are now within firing range.
“Mr. LoScuda!” I hear one yell. “Are you the one responsible—”
I look at Marlie. She’s smiling and her blue eyes twinkle at me, like they’re saying, “Come here Gabe. Come here and see what I need from you. Gabe—”
“Gabe!” It’s John and his voice jars me from my trance. I still can’t move.
“Just a couple of questions, Mr. LoScuda!”
“Mr. LoScuda, please—” then I feel a tight grip on my backpack, as if freaking Hulk Hogan himself is yanking me like a yo-yo, and I’m in the car. John snatches the keys out of my hand and cranks the ignition.
“Mr. LoScuda!”
But it’s too late. The car is in gear and we’re off. I take a speed bump at about twenty miles per hour and feel the shocks wince under us. But John’s not even phased. He keeps shouting, “Go! Go! Go!” over and over again like he’s stuck in a loop. The reporters and Marlie and the rest of the cars in the Schuylkill High lot shrink in the rearview and we both ease back in our seats. We’re safe. For now.
Even though I promised Mrs. Chen that her car would b
e used for school purposes only, there’s one more thing to do before I take John home.
“Where the hell are you going?” John asks when we pass the turn for his street and head toward downtown.
“One quick stop,” I tell him.
“But my mom said—”
“My mom said blah. My mom said wah.” I say it like we’re in kindergarten and John had just stolen my modeling clay or something.
“Look,” I tell him. “It’ll only take a minute. I promised Sofia.”
“Oh, I see,” he says.
“You see what?”
“Nothing.”
I keep driving, not interested in where this conversation is headed.
“Just that it’s getting pretty obvious.”
“What’s getting obvious? What the hell are you talking about, John?”
“You like her.”
“Who?”
“Oh come on, Gabe. Sofia. Are you gonna sit there and—”
“Yes, John. I am. She’s a friend. We’re both going through some shit right now in case you haven’t noticed.”
John doesn’t say anything. I look at him out of the corner of my eye. He shrugs. “Besides,” I continue, “did you see Marlie today?”
“Yeah, I saw her. She almost got us ambushed.”
I shake my head.
“She’s the one, John. She’s the one.”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
I pull the Prism into a parallel spot next to Liberty Park, which is nothing more than a glorified traffic circle with a bench and a couple of potted plants. I guess that’s the extent of city beautification projects these days. The park is right outside the main entrance of the veteran’s hospital, so we meet Sofia there between visitation hours.
She’s sitting on the bench when we step out of the car. She seems oblivious to everything around her, headphones blaring as usual a few decibels above the passing traffic and her eyes focused down on the surface of a steaming cup of coffee. She pulls on the filter of a cigarette and blows the smoke out through her nostrils in a single, industrial puff. She brushes a stray ash off her black skirt and then runs a black fingernail the length of her black fishnets down to the laces of her black, Converse All-Stars. She fiddles with the laces as we sit down. She’s not startled. Big surprise.
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