The Outlaw: No Heroes

by Alan Janney

  “Katie and I are just friends,” I said. “Right?”

  “Whatever you say, man,” Lee said. “Did Katie show you that video she found on her phone?” I asked.

  Cory nodded and Lee said, “Heck yes. Unbelievable. It is without a doubt the Outlaw.”

  “Maybe not. Could be someone else,” I suggested.

  “No way, dude,” Lee said. “I’ve watched that video like twenty times. The Outlaw was wearing the same headgear, the same style shirt, and his hair was the same. Plus, think about this: Katie’s phone was returned the same night that the Outlaw whipped those two ATM dudes’ asses.”

  “So?”

  “So! That can’t be a coincidence. The Outlaw must have found the phone on one of them, and then returned it. And that would mean the Outlaw totally smashed the guys that jumped you and Katie! Payback!”

  Cory nodded sagely, reaching for my apple. I snatched it out of his reach.

  I looked at both of them. No. That’s not correct. The Outlaw didn’t find Katie’s phone on those two hoodlums. How do I know? Because there is no Outlaw. I found her phone at a house over five blocks away from that ATM. And I just happened to accidentally run across Natalie North’s attack. And I forgot to take off my ski mask before making Katie’s video. And now I’m too stupid to figure out how to tell everyone.

  “Maybe so,” I said. “Where is Katie, anyway?”

  “Sitting with the new guy,” Cory said, and Lee pointed glumly. Katie sat at a different table with a boy I’d never met. They were both laughing.

  “What new guy?” I asked and I squeezed my apple so hard it busted in half.

  Hannah and I agreed to try studying English during lunch the next day. When I came into the cafeteria on Wednesday, she sat at a table by herself wearing a short plaid skirt, a vest over a white button-up shirt, her hair was pulled up into a ponytail, and she wore stylish glasses.

  “Do you like my outfit?” she asked. “I wear it to help me study.”

  “You make studying look good,” I said.

  “Thanks!” she said brightly.

  “Does it actually help?”

  “It got you over here, didn’t it?”

  And then for the rest of the lunch, bizarrely enough, we studied. I don’t know what I had been expecting, but we opened our books and she asked genuine questions, made new notes in her notebook, reminded me of things that I needed to copy, and when bell rang to end lunch my brain was exhausted.

  She sat back and searched the cafeteria before frowning in disappointment. “He isn’t here.”

  “Who isn’t here?”

  “Andy,” she replied, packing up her books.

  “Babington? So?”

  “So? Why do you think we’re studying in the middle of the cafeteria?”

  “Because…” I began, confused.

  “Chase, you’re so clueless I could almost fall in love with you. This was fun. Let’s do it again. At least until he sees us.” She walked away.

  I hope someone took a video of that. Maybe they could explain it to me.

  “What’s up, Ballerina,” Andy Babington greeted me in the locker room.

  “How’s the ankle?”

  “Ankle’s fine, buddy. I’m going to ice it again today so I’ll be ready for Friday. We can’t afford to take another chance with you at quarterback, right? Our luck might run out.”

  “Yeah. Right,” I said, but inside I bristled at his words. I’d done a good job in his stead. Hadn’t we won? Hadn’t I thrown several touchdown passes?

  “Come on,” he ordered, after we finished changing into practice gear. I obediently followed him as he limped to the trainer, who wrapped an ice cast around his ankle. Soon we were surrounded by other seniors, all demanding various treatments from our team’s two trainers. The seniors were all tight with Andy and laughed at his jokes. They were the richest kids in school, drove the nicest cars, and already had Ivy League colleges waiting on them.

  Jon Mayweather, a wide receiver, was with the group. He and I seemed to connect well on the football field. He indicated me with a lift of his chin and said, “Saw you at lunch with Walker, Jackson.” Hannah’s last name was Walker. The group grew a little quieter.

  “You gotta be kidding,” Andy laughed from the core of the group. He was the gravity the other players revolved around. “Not again. You sucker, Jackson.”

  “Yeah, man. They was sitting pretty close, what I saw,” Mayweather confirmed. I was turning red, but I didn’t know why.

  I tried to grin. “Just studying.”

  “Ballerina, buddy, she’s playing you,” Andy said, his voice full of pity. “She’s just a hot piece of ass that wants to start drama, kid.”

  Mayweather agreed, “She’s hot, alright. She’s like the queen of the school, man.”

  “She’s not the queen,” Andy frowned. “I dumped her. Queens don’t get dumped.”

  Jesse Salt said, “She’s the queen, Babington. And I heard that’s not how it went down.”

  “Don’t care what you heard, idiot. Jackson, if you hadn’t gotten so lucky last game, if you’d thrown an interception, she’d have left you for dead. Take my advice. Stay away. If Hannah Walker is hanging out with a broke second-stringer then she’s up to no good. Watch out, bud.”

  “Babington, you’re a jerk, man,” Jesse said.

  “What? I’m just trying to help the ballerina out. After I come back, she’ll be chasing me again and I don’t want him to get hurt. That’s all.”

  “Total jerk.”

  “Hey, watch your mouth if you ever want to catch another pass again,” he shouted at Jon Mayweather. “I’ll send some of these other guys to college instead of you. Hannah’s not into him. She couldn’t be. It’s the truth. So shut it.”

  I left in the middle of their argument, walking out onto the practice field and feeling lower than the dirt I walked on. What was Hannah up to?

  That night I climbed wearily into bed after a long hour helping Dad stretch and exercise. His back and shoulders were still tight. Today should have been his appointment at the doctor. If we had any money. I knew of nothing else to do than try to mimic what I thought his doctors would do if we could afford to see them. His spirits and body still seemed buoyed by the football victory, but that couldn’t last.

  I threw back the covers and a phone bounced onto the floor. A pink phone.

  It was Natalie North’s.

  I’d forgotten all about it.

  She no doubt had a new phone by now, but I should probably still return it. I debated turning it on. The phone didn’t belong to me. I have scruples. And she deserved her privacy.

  But my curiosity got the better of me and I pressed the power key. I wouldn’t browse through her files. Just glance at the home screen. It’s a movie star’s phone after all!

  The phone powered on but the battery was almost dead. It would only stay on for a few minutes. Plus, the phone was locked with a key code. I couldn’t get in, even if I wanted. Oh well.

  As I examined it, the phone started vibrating and receiving text messages that’d been waiting for delivery. Over the previous six days, Natalie’s friends and associates must have been texting this phone because forty-six new messages were delivered. Even though the phone was locked, the messages were displayed on the screen and I could scroll through them. I couldn’t reply, but I could see who they were from and what they said.

  My eyes widened as I read the names attached to the notifications, some of which included photographs. Unreal…

  Natalie had received well-wishes and consolatory notes from some of the most popular and recognizable people on the planet. These were movies stars, rock stars, politicians, athletes, and other celebrities, and they had texted her within the last week. The list kept going and growing more outrageous the longer I read. I didn’t know everyone, but the names I did know blew my mind.

  Then, yesterday, the texts had stopped suddenly. She must have sent out an email or a mass text to her contacts, informing
them of her new number.

  I frowned at the most recent message. This message was from an unassigned contact. Unknown sender, just a phone number. The message had been sent this morning.

  >>I know you took my phone by accident.

  That’s all it said. I stared at it, frowning. What could that mean? Was that message intended for Natalie?

  Or…

  Was I supposed to be the recipient? Could that be possible? If so, the message had almost certainly been sent from Natalie herself. Was Natalie North messaging me on her own phone?

  As I stared at the message, the phone vibrated and another new message was delivered. This text had just been sent, and it was from the same unknown number. Natalie North was messaging me right now!

  >>The phone’s security code is 1359.

  The battery died.

  Chapter Eight

  Thursday, September 13. 2017

  Before school the next day, I plugged in Natalie’s phone so it could charge. Experimentally I typed in her security code and the phone unlocked. I almost dropped it. The only thing I did was determine if the location service of the phone was active, but it had been switched off. Natalie couldn’t track her phone to my house.

  Meanwhile, the video on Katie’s phone had gained notoriety, and now most of the school buzzed with Outlaw chatter. Everyone assumed the Outlaw had recorded the video on her phone. Our school’s morning news show even reported it.

  At lunch I sat with Hannah again but this time some of her friends joined us. I didn’t know them, nor recognize them, but they seemed excited to talk with me. Most of their chatter bored me out of my mind, but one conversation caught my ear.

  “Erica, any luck with your locket?” Hannah asked.

  “No,” a curly-headed brunette sighed. “I check every day.”

  “Erica’s house was broken into,” Hannah explained to me. “She and her mother have since had to evacuate their townhouse in the city because of the rioting. Now they live here in their Glendale house all week. One of the things stolen was her locket.”

  “They mostly stole my mom and step-dad’s things,” Erica sighed. “But they took a ruby locket that belonged to my grandmother.”

  A ruby locket? That caught my attention.

  “The police said burglars usually wait a few weeks or months before listing stolen items on Craigslist,” Erica said. “So I keep looking.”

  “I hope it turns up,” I said.

  “Me too. I even put out a five hundred dollar reward.”

  “A five hundred dollar…” I repeated in shock. That was chump change to her. To me, it would mean everything.

  “It was my grandmother’s!” she squeaked. “I want it back!”

  Later, during football practice, I remembered why the ruby locket rang a bell. I had seen it. Or at least I had seen a ruby locket on the couch where I’d discovered my wallet and Katie’s phone, in that old house.

  Could that be a coincidence? If thieves usually waited weeks or months to sell, might it still be there? And if it was, would I risk going to get it for five hundred dollars? For five hundred dollars Dad could get more therapy.

  A tightly wadded ball of paper smacked me in the back of the head, bringing me quickly to reality. The football team sat in our film room, analyzing video of last week’s performance. Andy Babington sat behind me, so I had no doubt who’d thrown the paper.

  Coach Garrett used his laser pointer to illustrate incorrect routes run by receivers, linemen who’d missed their blocks, linebackers who’d forgotten their lane assignments, and safeties missing tackles. I closely examined my performance, scanning for weaknesses, and I spotted one immediately. I took too long to throw the ball. My wind up and release looked slow, too exaggerated. Professionals got rid of the ball in a half second. Soon I’d need to work with the quarterback coach to correct this.

  As the video alternated between offenses, I noticed something else too. I appeared natural throwing the ball; I could grip it easily and my passes streaked across the field with raw velocity. The Panther quarterback didn’t look as comfortable. The ball seemed larger in his hand and almost comically cumbersome as he hefted and chucked slow, wobbly passes that stayed in the air too long. Plus…I looked really big.

  “Jackson,” Coach Garrett called. “Tell me what’s wrong with this play.” On screen, the video rewound and played again.

  “My release is too slow,” I said.

  “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe. But I see a bigger problem. You threw the ball to Jesse.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” Jesse said and the room laughed.

  “But you failed to notice the safety cheating up to stop the run. Up here,” he said, pointing his laser. “Adam Mendoza is running free. Easy touch down. You forgot to look at your second option. You looked at your first option and then dumped the ball.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Hey, don’t be too hard on him, Coach,” Andy roared. “Probably the only game Ballerina will ever get to play!”

  Coach Garrett ignored him and told me, “Don’t get scared in that pocket. Have an extra second of courage. We missed an opportunity there, because you weren’t looking.”

  “Won’t happen again,” I said. No more missed opportunities.

  That night I sat with Natalie’s phone in my hands for a long time. I didn’t rifle through her apps or her contacts or her files; I respected her privacy. I only looked at the two messages she’d sent me.

  This was ridiculous. I couldn’t text Natalie North. She thought I was the Outlaw, some masked vigilante. I couldn’t tell her I was actually a seventeen year old junior wearing a ski mask. Why had she sent me her security code? Why would she want me to unlock her phone? None of the answers I could produce made any sense.

  The phone vibrated and a new text message was delivered.

  >>Did you know smart phones track text message delivery?

  I frowned in confusion. Then another message came through.

  >>In other words, I received confirmation that you read my messages last night around 11pm.

  >>Can we chat?

  My thumbs hovered over the keys for a long time. Can we chat? What do I tell Natalie North? She’s only one of the prettiest people on the planet. She wants to chat with the Outlaw, not me.

  >>Pretty please?

  I sighed and typed, I’m sorry I grabbed your phone, and hit Send.

  “This is stupid,” I told myself. “I’m an idiot. That’s the best I could do? I’m sorry I grabbed your phone?”

  My father started shouting.

  He was having a seizure. It appeared no worse than usual, but he couldn’t move. His back and shoulders were tensing and jerking, so I cleared the surrounding floor and waited with him. It lasted a little longer than five minutes and when it concluded we still sat on the carpet talking about football. He panted and stretched for a few minutes and finally struggled into his chair. The whole time I was blinking away tears.

  He needed help. I could tell the pain had grown worse, even if he didn’t complain.

  I stared down at the man who needed help I couldn’t buy. He could barely function recently. And I missed my mother, and I thought about Katie who didn’t want to see me, and the new kid Katie ate lunch with, and Andy Babington, and the football Coach that didn’t trust me yet, and our upcoming opponent that wanted to kill me, and my exhaustion, and my sore chest, and the homework I couldn’t keep up with, and my D in Trig, and Hannah giving me mixed signals, and Natalie’s disappointment when she found out who I was, and my empty bank account, and the riots getting closer, and I felt like a balloon that had been expanded too far, straining at the circumference, threatening to burst.

  “Dad, we-”

  “I’m fine,” he said from his chair. The lights were off and the television emitted a ghostly light. He was sweating, his expression crestfallen.

  “I don’t believe you,” I said.

  “I’m fine,” he repeated. He cracked a beer, but I could tell he’d b
e asleep soon.

  “Dad…you need to go back to the doctor,” I said.

  “You think I don’t know that?” he asked. “Think I don’t know about…that?”

  “I don’t know.” I was taking big breaths, gulping air.

  “As soon as I get some money I’ll go.” “But when will-” “Knock it off,” he growled. “You know I can’t talk about this. Can’t do nothing about it.” We were silent as the clock ticked, phantoms in a flickering tomb. A tear leaked down his granite face. “When your mother was alive,” he grunted, “she was good at this stuff.”

  I left, unable to bear Dad talking about Mom. I’d lose my mind.

  I found myself standing outside of Katie’s apartment. She had correctly diagnosed me; I couldn’t communicate. Inside I could detect her lamp light glowing. But she didn’t want to see me. She’d told me to leave the other night.

  Instead my feet carried me up the steps of the Catholic church two blocks deeper into our neighborhood. My mother’s funeral service had been held here, Holy Angels Catholic Church, three years ago but I hadn’t returned since.

  The sanctuary never shut its doors, allowing access to all visitors at any moment throughout the year. I tugged open the heavy, ornate wooden doors and stepped onto the plush crimson carpet. Two other patrons knelt at the front near the altar, and we were serenaded by a lofty organ breathing reverent notes into the rafters above, shadowed by candle light. Beyond the pillars, I could hear the hushed murmuring of a priest, but I preferred not to talk. I sat in the back row and let my head rest on the wooden curve of the pew before me. Though faint, I could detect incense in the still air.

  A counselor had once shown me a mental technique to help me with stress. I pictured the stressors in my life as luggage I was carrying, using my imagination to place myself as solidly in that moment as possible, and then I slowly unloaded the baggage. I had so many worries that I didn’t know where to begin. I started with Dad and moved on to Katie. And on. And on. And on…