Rogue

by Lyn Miller-Lachmann

  Antonio steps backward. “Chill, Raggy.”

  “Yeah, that’s cold, calling her that,” says the boy who squeezed Chad’s arm. “No way to treat your girlfriend.”

  Tell him, College Park kid. It’s mean to call someone retarded. I want to shout it myself, but I’m afraid of how my voice will sound. And if the others will call me Crybaby Kiara when they hear me.

  “X-Men are sorta cool,” someone says from the now-larger crowd.

  “Not the way she’s into them. And you …” Chad points a shaking finger at Antonio. “That’s messed up, taking her away from what she’s supposed to be doing to talk about comic books.”

  “Ooh, Little Man’s the jealous type,” another kid says.

  “Gonna fight him for your girl?” The kid in the black T-shirt edges Chad forward, as if to get him to punch Antonio.

  The others step back and form a semicircle around us. They want a fight. Or maybe they want Antonio to teach Chad a lesson. Not to call me retarded or act like he’s the boss of me. Antonio was my brother’s friend and now my friend. I have a right to talk to him. And he acted like he wanted me to tell him about the X-Men.

  Instead of going for Antonio, Chad pushes himself up into my face. I recoil from his sour beer breath. His face is flushed and glistening with sweat. “Chad, you’re drunk. How much have you had already?”

  He puffs out his chest. “Not as much as I’m gonna have.”

  The big kid in the black T-shirt, the one they call Josh, laughs. “This little guy can put it away. And still walk a straight line. Show her.”

  Chad turns from me and glares at Antonio, like he still wants to fight a kid six years older and nearly a foot taller. Another boy yells, “Yeah, show her, Raggy,” and the other kids chant, “Raggy, Raggy, Raggy.”

  Chad whirls around and marches in a straight line, back to the pit. Antonio was right: I shouldn’t have brought Chad to the trails in the first place.

  Antonio grips my shoulder. “Take him home now. This isn’t going to turn out well.”

  I frown at the thought of leaving Antonio. “Chad doesn’t listen to me.”

  At the edge of the pit, Veg, Kevin, Brian, and some girls are passing around a thirty-two-ounce Gatorade bottle filled with a pink liquid. Chad slips into the group and snatches the Gatorade out of a girl’s hand. He pinches his nose shut, tips his head back, and drains the bottle.

  Then he shoves his way past the group and heads back to Antonio and me. “I hate you both!” he screams, and hurls the bottle straight at Antonio’s head.

  Antonio ducks, and the bottle flies over his head.

  “Whoa,” Veg says.

  “How much was in the bottle?” Antonio asks.

  “A quarter. Maybe a third.” Veg shrugs. “Almost pure vodka.”

  “Someone should stick a finger down his throat. Before he croaks or something,” Brian says.

  But Chad is already running toward the bike track. All four of us take off after him. My pack with the camera thumps my shoulder blades. I don’t know what Brian’s talking about. Croaking. Like a frog.

  Chad, now weaving and stumbling a bit, grabs the first bike. Not his beater but a shiny silver one. He climbs on, bounces on the seat, and pumps the pedals.

  He has no helmet. He rides faster and faster around the perimeter of the pit. I stop at the grassy border, close enough to feel a musty breeze as he passes below and in front of me.

  Behind me, someone says, “You have to get this one, Camera Girl. He’s going to pull off the world’s sickest stunt or die trying.”

  I drop my pack. None of the College Park kids called me retarded. They took my side. They want me to make their videos, and they want to be my friends.

  Chad was supposed to be my tutor, but he acted mean and now he did something he shouldn’t have done. If I tell him to stop riding—or at least to put on a helmet—he won’t listen to me.

  I scoop the camera out and set its aperture to its widest setting. Having filmed concerts, I get great images in dim light.

  “Blaze of glory, you jerks,” Chad yells. I train the camera on the circling bike. If I loop the footage, it’ll make people as dizzy as Chad must be feeling right now. I smile at my brainstorm.

  Going full speed, Chad zips up the mound closest to me and launches himself vertically into the air. The setting sun illuminates half his body, with the other half cast in darkness. Hey, thanks for giving me the best shot, I think. On his way up, he lets go of the bike. It sails forward. Chad keeps rising, spinning like a corkscrew—light, dark, light, dark, light, dark. His hair flies outward the way it flew when he spun with his feet on the ground in the park.

  The bike crashes into the lip of the next mound and bounces into the pit between them. A boy curses behind me.

  Chad levels out, arms and legs askew. As he dives, I zoom into the center of his body, focus on his T-shirt-covered belly full of vodka and beer, pizza and McDonald’s. He flips and hits the top of the mound on his butt. He bounces a few feet into the air. Then he flops onto his stomach and rolls facedown, headfirst to the bottom of the mound. Dirt flies around him. He comes to a stop on his back, a quarter turn away from where the bike came to rest.

  “What a wipeout!”

  “Classic.”

  At least ten thousand hits, I think. The camera continues recording. Holding my hand steady, I walk slowly toward him.

  For a long moment Chad doesn’t move. Dirt sticks to his hair, mouth, and cheeks. One cheek is rubbed raw, specked with blood and dirt.

  I feel the crowd gather behind me but keep my eye on the screen. Chad rocks back and forth, trying to get onto his side. After a few tries, he rolls onto his left side and touches his hand to his scuffed cheek.

  Through the screen I see a thin line of liquid in the dirt next to his hip. The line becomes a river that puddles next to his thigh. The top part of his jeans is soaked.

  “Peed his pants,” someone says.

  Chad lifts his head. His eyes are wide open and unfocused. He rolls onto his stomach and lifts himself onto his hands and knees. Pushing off from one knee, he struggles to his feet. He sways and staggers forward.

  “Can’t feel my legs,” he says, the words running together.

  “How was the ride?” I ask, camera still recording, setting sun to my side. I put on my interviewer tone, the way Antonio did when he tried to interview me.

  Eyes shiny and rimmed with dirt, Chad thrusts his face toward the camera. “Haven’t stopped.”

  He stumbles toward the fallen bike. I scoot in front of him, keeping the focus on his face but for a moment cutting to his wet and dirt-caked jeans. The image is too dark, but I can fix it later. “You wiped out. What was that like?”

  “Din’t … wipe … out.” He hiccups. “In … air.” He stretches out his arms. “Flying.”

  He hiccups again, licks his lips, and swallows. A groan rises from deep inside him, and he claps his hand to his mouth the moment before he crashes into the bike.

  Pink liquid gushes from his mouth, followed by what looks like oatmeal and stinks like rotting garbage. I take a couple of steps back. Slime drips from the silver bike’s frame and tires and pools underneath.

  “That’s my bro’s bike you puked on!” The boy with the black T-shirt, Josh, sticks his palm in front of my camera. “I’m gonna kill that kid.”

  Chad straightens up. I hit the stop button.

  “Kill me.” He staggers toward Josh. “Don’t … want … to … live.” He drops onto his knees as if kneeling to pray.

  CHAPTER 24

  JOSH WAVES HIS HAND IN FRONT OF HIS FACE. “MAN, YOU stink,” he says.

  “Hey, Camera Girl,” someone else calls out. “Why’d you turn it off?”

  “Don’t you know people like watching stupid drunks?”

  “Extra points if you catch ’em puking.”

  I do what they ask even though I already have the extra points—raise the camera and get Chad and Josh on my screen. I hit the record button ri
ght before Josh puts his hand on Chad’s shoulder and pushes him hard into the ground. Chad cries out. I can’t make out his words because of all the talking behind me.

  My hand trembles. I fight to hold the camera steady. Chad sprawls on his side. Josh steps up to him. “Raggy, you are banned from here.”

  Then he steps forward, pivots, and kicks Chad in the stomach. The thud of impact mixes with the gasps of kids behind me. My own gasps. Chad’s breath rushes out in a strangled moan. He curls up in a tight ball. Josh circles him like he’s about to kick him again.

  Josh … no! I want to scream, but I can’t. Josh is big and Chad is small. Josh has friends, and Chad has none. Just a bunch of people watching him do stupid things.

  Like me.

  Until now, I was glad the kids were picking on someone else and not me. And Chad deserved it for what he called me. But I can be next. I don’t belong here either. I don’t live in College Park or go to the high school. I do stupid things all the time.

  My ears fill with the noise of a dozen conversations, Chad whimpering, Josh yelling at Chad. Then Veg and Antonio break through the crowd. They rush at Josh and pull him away, each holding an arm. Josh breaks free from Veg’s grip and takes a swing at him.

  Antonio … saving Chad from getting picked on?

  “Fight!”

  The heat of the big kids and their odors of cologne and sweat and beer press in on me.

  My face burns. My eyes blur. Antonio’s Livestrong tattoo appears sharp in my mind. He and Veg are doing what I should have done. “Stop it! All of you!” I yell.

  I spin around. Orange light flashes in my screen. I do a reverse quarter turn and record them—all the people who’ve stood watching.

  Except for me.

  I’m the invisible one.

  Rogue would have thrown fireballs to save Gambit. Didn’t matter that they’d just argued with each other because they argued all the time. They came from the same place and were best friends.

  How many times did Gambit say he hated Rogue?

  How many times did she rescue him anyway?

  In the face of my camera, the kids scatter. Brian and Kevin pin Josh’s arms behind him and drag him away. He kicks out at them.

  But it’s too late. Chad’s whimpers turn to gurgles and gasps. Then silence.

  I stand frozen, my back to Chad, staring into the woods. The low sun has turned the tree trunks golden against a mosaic of greens. I slip the camera’s shoulder strap over my head and punch the stop button.

  I’m not Rogue. I can’t save Chad like she saved Gambit.

  “Oof!”

  I twist around. Antonio holds Chad upright, one fist atop the other against the smaller boy’s stomach. Like he’s doing the Heimlich maneuver.

  Like he’s Wolverine bolting to the rescue.

  Color rushes to Chad’s ashen face. Chunks of pizza and more liquid pour from his mouth onto his T-shirt and Antonio’s bare arms. Onto his own limp arms, soaking the bandage. When he stops, his head droops and his tongue hangs from his mouth. He grabs for his stomach.

  “Get his feet,” Antonio says. “We have to take him home.”

  Holding my breath, I slide my hands under the rolled-up cuffs of Chad’s jeans and grab his bare ankles. Sticky, still-warm puke covers his sneakers and the bottoms of his jeans. His head flops backward over Antonio’s tattoo.

  “We can’t. Not with his parents cooking there,” I say. We start walking, away from the other kids and toward the part of the woods where I left Chad’s mountain bike.

  “Right.” Antonio shifts the deadweight in his arms. “I can’t carry him much farther. We’ll have to get the guys to help once Josh calms down. And find a ride because I came on my bike.”

  It’s getting dark fast. I don’t want to stay in the woods any longer with all the wild animals and the party still going on. In the distance, even more kids are arriving, flashlights in hand. We’re the only ones leaving.

  “Can we take him to your place?” I ask Antonio—even though Chad would mess up the huge, spotless house that I’ve imagined.

  Antonio shakes his head. “No way. My mom’s boyfriend is there. And he’s …”

  “He’s what?” I’d never imagined anyone else living in Antonio’s house. He never talked about his mother.

  Antonio lowers his voice. “The dean of the university.” He hitches Chad’s shoulders toward him. Chad groans. “Scandal City if we turn up there.”

  I have to do something. To keep Antonio from a scandal. To find a place where we can take care of Chad until he sobers up, because Antonio already saved him from choking, and even if Chad acted like a jerk, I don’t want him to die. But if I do my part, I’ll get into even more trouble than I’m going to get into when Dad finds out I failed my exams on purpose. “I can call Dad at work. But I don’t have a phone.”

  Antonio sets Chad down next to the bike, wipes his hands on the seat of his cargo pants, and digs his cell phone from the side pocket. It’s a much more expensive model than Dad’s and it takes me a few seconds to figure it out.

  “Hello.”

  I take a deep breath. “Dad. It’s me. We need your help. We’re in College Park. In the woods behind the sledding hill, and Chad … he’s”—I look down at the grimy, smelly hunched-over boy I thought of as Gambit—“he’s hurt bad.”

  CHAPTER 25

  VEG HELPS US CARRY CHAD TO WHERE THE TRAIL MEETS THE road, and Brian follows us with Chad’s two bikes, a few bottles of water, and a handful of paper napkins. After they leave, Chad crawls into the woods to throw up. Antonio goes with him to make sure he doesn’t choke again. I hold the phone in case Dad gets lost. Text messages scroll past: u coming back? from Brian G, howz raggy? from Veg, im gonna get u loser from J Laiken.

  Veg is worried about Chad. Someone’s mad at Antonio. Could J Laiken be Josh?

  All the effort seems to wake Chad up and makes him fidgety too. He picks at his stained bandage, then unrolls it. Underneath the inflamed skin oozes.

  “Does it hurt?” I ask him.

  “My stomach hurts.” He sniffs. “Why did he kick me?” His words are so slurred I can barely make them out.

  Antonio answers, “’Cause you barfed on his brother’s bike.”

  I glance quickly at Antonio, his face now dark in the twilight. I may be slow to understand things, but that’s still a rotten excuse to kick a smaller kid.

  Antonio’s phone plays a rap song. He punches a button and lifts it to his ear. “Hello … Mr. Thornton? … This is Antonio Baran. Max’s friend. Kiara and Chad are with me… . Are you on State Route Twelve? … It’s one mile past the Highway Six overpass. Beresford Road entrance to Beresford Estates … No, you’ve gone too far. Turn around.”

  Chad moans. I shush him. I want to hear everything, but only Antonio’s side comes through.

  “Kiara’s fine. Chad had a fight, though. It wasn’t his fault. Some kid went off on him.”

  Antonio faces the street, where lines of cars are parked on both sides, as far as I can see. A couple walks toward us, arm in arm.

  “Yes, there was drinking. Not Kiara, though,” Antonio says. The couple passes us without a word of greeting. “Are you at Beresford Road now? … Go all the way to the end of the road. You can’t miss the cars.”

  Two minutes later, the lights of Dad’s truck blind me. He and Antonio load the bikes in first and tie them down. No one talks, but Chad mumbles softly. We lift him to the back of the truck and pull him across the bed.

  Antonio and I crouch low and hang on to the bikes in silence while Dad drives. We couldn’t have heard each other anyway, with the wind and road noise.

  “I’m surprised your dad didn’t bite my head off,” Antonio says at a traffic light.

  “He doesn’t bite,” I say. “He’s way too old.”

  “I don’t mean that.” Antonio smiles for a second. “He’s taking it a lot more calmly than my mom would.”

  “Or mine. But Dad isn’t the flipping-out type.” More like the
do-nothing type, according to Mami. But right now, I’m grateful that my dad is so mellow.

  When we get home, Dad tells us to bring Chad upstairs to the bathroom, then goes inside to make coffee. Antonio tries to carry Chad through the back door, but he stretches out his arms and kicks at Antonio while shouting, “Leave me outside!”

  “Fine with me,” Antonio says as he sets Chad on the back step. It’s fine with me too. I don’t want to bring Chad in smelling like he does. While Antonio stays with him, I dig out some of the clothes my brothers left behind—boxer shorts, sweatpants, a science fair T-shirt, and a T-shirt from the Willingham High School marching band. Two sets—for Antonio as well as for Chad. I take soap, shampoo, hydrogen peroxide, and gauze from the bathroom and go downstairs.

  Outside, under the porch light, Antonio holds Chad’s head up while Dad tips the coffee mug to his mouth. “Why don’t you let him sleep?” I ask. “Now he’s going to be hyper all night.”

  “I’d like him to sober up a bit first.”

  “I’m sorry we made you leave work early,” I mumble. “Maybe you can make it up …” I stop myself before saying next week.

  Dad grunts. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  “I’m not in trouble, am I?” I realize I sound like a little kid—in front of Antonio. Hot blood rushes to my face.

  “I don’t know what to think,” Dad snaps. Of course I didn’t tell him I was going to a party, and he certainly wouldn’t have suspected it. Why would he? I haven’t been invited to a party in years.

  After Chad finishes the coffee, I turn on the hose and spray him. Even though it’s a warm evening and he’s full of hot coffee, he shivers. His dark lips stand out on his face. Dad goes inside for a blanket.

  “I’m going to set things straight with your father.” Antonio folds his arms across his chest and lets his breath out slowly. “He was right, what he said on the phone. You two had no business at a high school party in another town.”

  Still, I don’t want to think of my first party in four years as a giant mistake like the other one. “You had fun riding, didn’t you, Chad?”

  He nods weakly.