Played

by Liz Fichera

I leaned forward. “And hanging with Riley has made all my problems go away? Made me a better person?” More sarcasm. “That girl is a walking train wreck.”

  Martin barely flinched. “Nothing wrong with shaking up the status quo.”

  My chin pulled back. “Status quo? Big words.”

  Martin ignored me again, surprising me. Usually I was the one giving him advice. “You needed something besides school all the time. And pining away for Fred? You were really starting to become a huge bore, bro.”

  My breath hissed between my teeth. I couldn’t help but glare at him but that only made his grin spread. “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Hanging with Riley has put a little of the life back in you. Admit it.”

  I rolled my eyes. “She’s crazy.”

  “Besides,” Martin said, still all casual-like, “it’s obvious you like her.”

  “Who?”

  “Riley.”

  “You’re crazy, too.”

  “I might be crazy but I also know I’m right.”

  I waved him off and then lay down on my sleeping bag, half inside the tent. My feet fidgeted. The nervous tic climbed up the rest of my body. It was as if spiders crawled over my body. I couldn’t sit still, I couldn’t concentrate and I definitely couldn’t lie down for the rest of the day inside Martin’s tent. Annoyed, I got up. “I’m gonna go for a hike.”

  Martin leaned forward, pulling his knees to his chest. “Just listen to what I’m telling you for once.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  He smiled up at me. “Nope.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Martin’s smile faded. “Seriously, dude. There’s something about Riley and you. I’ve watched you around her.” He paused. “And I’ve seen the way she is around you. It’s like you two are doing a mating dance and don’t even realize it.”

  “Shut up.”

  He lifted his palms. “All I’m saying is…maybe you should give her more of a chance.”

  My eyes widened. “Who says she’s interested?”

  Martin laughed. “And I thought you were the smart one!”

  Grabbing my water bottle next to the fire pit, I stormed away.

  “Hey, I’ve seen the way she looks at you, too.”

  I stopped but didn’t turn. “When?”

  “Around. In the cafeteria.”

  I glanced at him over my shoulder. His expression had turned completely serious.

  “And I see the way you look at her,” he said. “Stop denying it.”

  “The girl drives me crazy. And not in a good way.” I started walking again, higher up the mountain. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” I yelled without looking at him.

  “Like hell I don’t,” he yelled back, his voice bouncing all the way up the mountain, whether I wanted to hear it or not.

  49

  Riley

  During homeroom, I’d planned to beg Mr. Holdren for a pass to see Mr. Romero. It wasn’t necessary.

  “Seems he beat you to the punch, Miss Berenger,” Mr. Holdren said, handing me a folded paper. It was a note from Mr. Romero, instructing me to see him before first period. I stuffed the note in the front pocket of my jeans, squared my shoulders and darted for the door, but not before at least two boys taunted “Wild Girl” underneath their breaths. Junior jocks and friends of Jay, I was fairly certain. Apparently even being Ryan Berenger’s sister wasn’t working to my advantage anymore. I scowled at them, anyway.

  Except for a couple of security guards, the halls were empty, so I arrived outside Mr. Romero’s office in a matter of seconds. I knocked on his door.

  “Come in!” he said.

  I opened the door and entered.

  “Miss Berenger.” By his tone, I knew that this wasn’t a social visit, if there even was such a thing with guidance counselors. But, for once, I had something to tell him, too. “Nice to see you back at school,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Feeling better?”

  If feeling numb and confused was feeling better, the answer was yes. I nodded and sank into one of the chairs in front of his desk, waiting for my heartbeat to slow. I sat with my bag in my lap, even though there was an empty seat beside me. I had a feeling I was going to need something to cling to. “I’m glad you asked to see me, sir, because I needed to see you, too.”

  “Oh?” Mr. Romero removed his glasses.

  “Yeah. I need to talk to you about Sam Tracy.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t talk to you about other students, Miss Berenger. You know that.”

  “I’m hoping you’ll make an exception, especially after you hear what I have to say. The fight with Jay Hawkins, for starters. Sam tried to warn me about Jay, but I didn’t listen.”

  His eyes widened. “A fight is a fight, unfortunately.” He leaned forward. His voice softened, as if he didn’t like what he was about to say. “And by all accounts, Mr. Tracy started it.”

  “But Jay’s been taunting him. Egging him on. I think he’s jealous of Sam or something.” I paused to swallow. “Sam was just…protecting me.” I wondered if I should also tell him about the photos Jay had posted to Facebook, but I was still pretty embarrassed by them. It was even worse now that my parents had seen them.

  Mr. Romero exhaled like he was considering this.

  “He shouldn’t have been suspended, Mr. Romero. Sam is one of the smartest guys in school. This could hurt his chances for scholarships.”

  “Yes, that’s true. But there are consequences for our actions, Miss Berenger.”

  I hadn’t expected him to discuss Sam’s future so cavalierly. “Yes, I know. That’s why I think you should punish me and not Sam.”

  His fingers tented. “Tell me why.” He waited for my answer but by the tilt of his head, I could tell he’d already made up his mind. And I was about to blow that right open.

  So I proceeded to tell Mr. Romero everything—and I mean, everything. I told him about how it all began with Sam’s rescue on the Mogollon Rim. My cheeks flushed when I told him about how we’d shared our deepest, darkest secrets. I told him about all the trouble I had been getting into since I started hanging out with Jay Hawkins, both intentional and unintentional. I was probably breaking every unwritten Student Code in the History of Student Snitch Codes when it came to Jay Hawkins, but I didn’t care. I even told him about San Diego and how I’d roped Sam into ditching school. When I shared almost getting mugged by a bunch of gang members at the beach, he didn’t blink for a full ten minutes. By the time I’d finished, the bell to second period had rung and Mr. Romero hadn’t uttered a single word.

  Watching him watch me, I wondered whether I’d hung myself with my own rope or if I’d actually done something good. Either way, I was feeling the weight of my lies and bad decisions lifting from my shoulders. “Sam’s been the best friend I’ve ever had,” I told him.

  And I had repaid him by messing up his life.

  50

  Sam

  Our food and water ran out the next day on our impromptu camping trip, not a huge surprise, but that was okay. Martin turned out to be good company.

  We talked about old times as we watched sparks and ash float from our campfire into a blue-black sky. We talked about some of our earlier camping trips, like the time Dad took us to Woods Canyon to fish, or all the times we went to the county fair and got sick on too many fried Snickers bars after riding roller coasters. We even talked about some of the old legends our dads used to tell us around the campfire when we were kids. They were the kind of mystical stories about coyotes and bears and shooting stars that we could never forget, that we were never supposed to forget. And that we were supposed to pass down to our own children some day.

  The subject of Riley Berenger did not surface again. But that was Martin: once he got something off his chest, he moved on. So by the time we drove down the bumpy dirt road that led to my house, I was feeling like I could face the world again. I even thought about what I wanted to say to Dad. />
  My state of bliss came to an abrupt end the moment we reached my front yard. When I saw it, clear as day, I didn’t know whether to whoop with joy or scream into the sky.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Martin said in a semistunned tone, after the truck lurched to a stop.

  I was half out of my seat before Martin cut the ignition. I ran straight for my motorcycle. It was propped up by the kickstand, its silver handlebars gleaming in the afternoon light. It had been washed—no, more than that. It had been scrubbed clean. The key was in the ignition, the rabbit’s foot still dangling from the ring. My palm pressed against the engine. It was cold.

  The bike was supposed to be locked up in a city impound lot somewhere on the south side of Phoenix. We’d driven by it the night we got back from Durango. Dad had pointed it out. The impound lot was surrounded by barbed wire and fencing that reached halfway into the sky. No doubt a dozen rabid pit bulls patrolled the inside, too.

  “What the…?” I touched the handlebars—also cold, still scratched, but sparkling clean.

  “Um. Dude. How’d this get here?” Martin asked.

  My voice sounded as numb as I felt. “I have no idea.” I stood there, staring at it, shaking my head. It was supposed to cost two hundred to spring it out of impound. I figured it would take me at least two busy weekends at the restaurant to earn the money to get it back.

  “Your dad?”

  My head shook faster. “No way.”

  “Trevor Oday?”

  I dragged my hand over my chin. “I really don’t know. Doubt it.” No one I knew could part with that kind of green and I’d taken enough from Trevor as it was.

  The front screen squeaked open and Grandmother walked out the door, leaning against her cane. She walk-limped faster than usual.

  “Who drove this here, Grandmother?”

  She waited to answer till she was standing right in front of me. “The white boy with the yellow hair. Brought it here yesterday.” She pointed to my bike with her cane. “An older man followed in another car. His father, I think.”

  “What white boy?”

  Grandmother shook her graying head as if she was trying to shake out the words.

  I put my hand on her bony shoulder, steadying her. I leaned lower. “Did they give you their names?”

  “Berenger,” she said. “He said his name was Berenger.”

  “Holy. Sh…” Martin hissed beside me.

  “Ryan?” I said, my voice flat. Riley. I bet she’d talked her brother into this, too. That made me angrier. Didn’t she think I was capable of getting back my own bike?

  Grandmother nodded once.

  My hand dropped from her shoulder. I looked at the bike, then at Martin, then at Grandmother and then at the bike again. Finally my head fell back, my eyes squeezed shut and I cursed to myself. I didn’t need Ryan Berenger’s help. I didn’t need Riley’s help. I didn’t need their charity. I didn’t want it. I’d rather have worked for the rest of my life as a busboy to get my bike back.

  “Du-u-uddde,” Martin said in a long exhale. He clapped his hand against my back. “You owe that guy. Big-time.”

  I glared back at him.

  “What?” He took a step back, confused. “What’d I say?”

  I shook my head. I wasn’t about to explain it to him. Again. Didn’t he get it?

  Martin’s eyes narrowed as he studied me warily. For once, his mouth clamped shut.

  I toed the dirt, deeper and deeper. Then I kicked the ground as hard as I could. Pebbles and dirt flew across the yard.

  No words could express the burn inside me.

  I stormed into the house, feeling more frustrated than before I left.

  51

  Riley

  Ever since I learned that Dad had helped Sam in Durango, things had been better between us. It wasn’t like my dad never did nice things for people. It was the fact that he’d known how much this would mean to me.

  Things improved—between all of us. I wouldn’t say it was great; it had never been great. But I would say that things had the potential to get better, and I supposed that was sometimes all you could ask for with your family.

  The time between Monday and Thursday rolled by as slow as the world’s slowest freight train on the world’s slowest train tracks. Why was it that, when you needed your days to speed ahead, time always laughed in your face? I counted down the hours, even the minutes, till the moment when Sam would finally return to school. I memorized at least a dozen things to say to him, with “I’m sorry” on the top of my list followed by “Please, please, please forgive me.”

  When Thursday arrived, I asked Dad to drive me to school a little earlier than usual so that I could wait for Sam at the edge of the courtyard by the curb. When Mr. Oday’s van pulled up, I would be waiting.

  I sat on the curb, my bag beside me and my knees pulled up to my chest, rocking in place. From the corner—the farthest point from the school buses—I watched as car after car pulled into the school parking lot and then dropped off one load of students after another, mostly freshman and sophomores and those who didn’t have their own cars.

  Finally, the Oday van arrived. It chugged into the parking lot, a thin veil of gray-blue smoke trailing behind it. Like some kind of welcome committee, I stood as soon as it rounded the drop-off point in front of the courtyard, biting back the anxious smile toying with my lips.

  Fred got out first. Two boys followed, one really tall and skinny—Vernon Parker, I think his name was. The other was Peter Begay, a junior like Sam.

  I gave a tiny wave to Fred and she waved back. But then she slid the van door closed and I felt my smile fade. I could hear the door slam from where I stood.

  No Sam.

  As if reading my mind, Fred yelled out, “He’s right behind us, Riley. He rode his bike.”

  I bounced in place. I wanted to hug her. “Thanks, Fred!”

  Fred nodded knowingly.

  My smile returned just as Sam Tracy coasted his motorcycle into the parking lot toward the bike rack where students were supposed to park motorcycles and bicycles. He was wearing sunglasses, and his hair must have been pulled back into a ponytail because it wasn’t flying past his shoulders. And he wasn’t wearing his helmet.

  I jogged toward the bike rack, my messenger bag bumping against my thigh, as Sam coasted his motorcycle into a corner spot.

  When I reached him, I was out of breath. “Hey!” I said, unable to hide my nervousness as Sam shut off the engine. I let my gaze trail across his face. It felt as if I hadn’t seen him in centuries.

  “Hey,” he said with noticeably less enthusiasm. He sat on his seat and seemed to take an extra moment before he lifted his leg over his bike.

  I swallowed. “You’re back.” Brilliant observation.

  “Yeeeeppp.” The word popped between his lips.

  “I’m glad,” I stammered. “You being back, and all.” And it had only been three days, twelve hours and fifteen minutes, but who was counting? “I’ve missed you.”

  “Thanks,” Sam said, hitching his backpack higher on his shoulder. Once again, way less enthusiasm in his voice than I’d expected. But what should I expect? The last time I’d seen Sam, the poor guy had been handcuffed and soaking wet. At least he’d gotten his bike back.

  The sun was at Sam’s back, framing him. I lifted a hand over my forehead, squinting against the glare.

  Sam exhaled.

  Then I said, “Sam, I am so sorry. About everything. I shouldn’t have interfered—”

  “No, you shouldn’t have. On that we can agree. And we’ve already been over this. Forget it.”

  I swallowed. “I know. But I’m sorry. I just had to say that again.”

  “Okay, apology accepted.” Sam’s nostrils flared. “Just…just leave me alone. And stop interfering in my life. Okay, Riley?”

  It was as if I’d been punched in the stomach. We’d been through so much together. And he was talking to me like he didn’t know me. “If you’d just le
t me explain—”

  Sam raised a hand, stopping me. “I’ve let you explain too much as it is.”

  “No, you haven’t.”

  His gaze dropped to the ground as he prepared to ignore me.

  “You know, I can’t believe I’ve been sitting here all morning waiting for you.”

  “Nobody asked you to.”

  My temples began to pound. “Jerk,” I spat. “All I wanted to do was see you and tell you again how sorry I was. I felt terrible about everything that happened.”

  “And I said, ‘apology accepted.’ What more do you want from me?” His palms spread open.

  “Thanks for making me feel like shit.”

  “Oh, so this is all about you again, is it?” He grabbed my arm. “You Berengers…” He paused. “You know how to turn everything around. You got nerve. I’ll give you that.”

  Fire exploded in my chest at his words. I backed away from him. “I was totally wrong about you.” I paused. “You’re an idiot.”

  “Can’t disagree with you on that!” A maniacal grin spread across his face.

  “Who are you?” I said.

  “The same guy I’ve always been, only more honest.”

  “I hate you,” I said.

  “Thank you,” he said, but now his grin had faded.

  I reached inside my bag and pulled out the dream basket that his grandmother had made for me the day I’d cut his hair. The day we’d played chess. The day, in retrospect, when I’d fallen for him. The day I’d let myself wish that someday Sam Tracy would love me as much as he loved Fred Oday. “Here.” I thrust it in front of him. “This is for you. I don’t want it anymore.”

  Sam’s chin pulled back. He stared down at the basket and then he looked at me, saying nothing. With a shrug of his shoulders, he reached out for the basket, both of us watching as it got swallowed up by his hand.

  I spun around and stormed toward the courtyard so that Sam wouldn’t read the hurt in my eyes.

  52

  Sam

  I almost didn’t recognize Riley when I drove into the school parking lot. Pink Girl was back in full force. Her face looked pretty again instead of shellacked with the scary makeup she’d started wearing while she was hanging with Jay Hawkins and the rest of his loser friends. The closer she got, the more I could see the freckles that sprinkled across her nose. Her eyes were no longer darkened with too much eye shadow or whatever it was called. Good thing I was wearing sunglasses, or she might have thought I was staring, which I kind of was.