Under the Bridge

by Michael Harmon

  He clicked Play again and stayed zoomed in on the shape. It didn’t move, just stood there as the other two figures went out of camera range. In another few seconds, he clicked Stop and closed the case. “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah. The crew doesn’t night-skate that often, but tons of guys do.”

  “Your ‘crew’ would be Thomas ‘Piper’ Sandusky, Sid Valentino, your brother Indy, and yourself, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  He zipped the case up, turning to my dad. “Mr. Brooks, it is important that we speak to Indy. If you see him, please contact us.” He took a card from his wallet and handed it to him. “Anything at all will help. And if you’d like to file a report to find your son, we can help with that, too.”

  Dad brought himself up. “He can find my door on his own and make things better if he chooses.” He glared at the detective. “Maybe you should do something about the scum in this city before this kind of thing happens.”

  The tension was palpable. The detective clenched his teeth. “We do what we can with the manpower we have, sir. We arrest them, the courts let them out. Just doing our jobs.”

  “Line ’em up beside the damn judges and shoot ’em all.”

  That got a laugh from both detectives. I pictured my dad shooting his son in that line. Dad loosened up a bit, then held his hand out. They shook. “I hope you catch him. And if Indy comes home, I’ll contact you.”

  “Thank you,” the skinny one said, then turned to me. “Tate, if anything comes to mind at all about that tape, call.”

  After the detectives left, my dad faced me. “I don’t want you down there anymore.”

  I shrugged. “It’s not that bad. We stay away from that side of the park.”

  “Where is Indy?”

  Even though I was telling him the truth as far as I knew it, I knew this question would come up. I hated lying. Every time I did, things just went from bad to worse because I sucked at it. I glanced at Mom, hoping she’d keep her promise. “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  Mom cut in. “He’s not, Dan. Tate and I talked last night. He doesn’t know where he’s staying.”

  He furrowed his brow. “Well, what the hell is going on, then?” He looked at me. “Why the detectives, Tate? Why did they come to our house?”

  “They’re questioning everybody who skates down there. I swear, Dad, I have no idea what happened to Lucius or who did it. They even talked to Pipe and Sid. Nobody knows.”

  “This doesn’t add up, son.”

  I wished right then, more than ever, that I could trust my dad, but I couldn’t. I wanted to tell him about Will, the gun, Indy dealing, and everything, but I couldn’t. He wasn’t like Mom. He’d railroad it just like he railroaded everything. Just bull his way through and do it his way. “I don’t know. Sorry.”

  Dad looked at Mom, then turned to me. True concern and worry etched his face, and I was surprised. I don’t think I’d ever seen my father afraid, but I could tell he was. He cleared his throat. “You tell Indy to come home. No more yelling, no more trouble. Just come home. I’ll stay out of his way, Mom can be the one to talk with him, and that’s it. You’ll tell him that?”

  “Yeah, I will. I promise.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The entire skater population at school buzzed with gossip. Who was the dude? Skaters usually weren’t on the top of the list as far as spreading gossip and rumors was concerned, but when you had the cops interviewing dozens of guys, it made some waves.

  Sid and Piper caught up with me at the wall during lunch, and Sid, of course, brought it up. “Duuuude, I’m putting some pieces together that don’t make a pretty puzzle.”

  I sighed. “What are you now, a detective or something?”

  “No, but Lucius dead plus Will taking over his territory equals trouble in one way or another for Indy. The cops will find out.”

  I shrugged, thinking about what Piper had said, which was exactly the same thing. “I don’t know.”

  Sid snorted, spitting a loogie. “Common sense says the guys in that video are Will and his uncle.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  He stuck his hands in his pockets. “What are we going to do?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Piper cut in. “Have you talked to Indy?”

  I shrugged again. “A little bit.”

  “What’d he have to say?”

  “I just asked him to come home. He wouldn’t.”

  Piper laughed. “You were always the worst liar in the world. I swear.”

  I clenched my teeth. “Will was with him when I did. He pulled a gun on me.”

  Piper’s eyes widened. “No shit?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tate …”

  “I know, Pipe, I know. I just about crapped my pants.” I told them what Will had said, too, about staying away.

  Sid grunted. “Bullets can make you dead. You know that, right?”

  Piper lit a smoke. “He’s, like, the hard-corest dude I’ve ever known, man.”

  I kicked my feet against the wall. “Have the police talked to him?”

  Sid shrugged. “Only he knows that. The guy is like a ghost. Here, there, and everywhere, but nowhere you can find him.”

  “I know where he lives, and if I know, the cops do, too.”

  Piper took a bite of a Snickers bar, exhaling a lungful of smoke as he chewed. “Good. Maybe they’re onto him.”

  I looked at my feet, torn up and confused. “I should have told them about it. About him and Indy dealing.”

  Piper shook his head. “And then what? You said Will threatened you about it. Besides, unless the cops are as stupid as they seem, they’ll end up knowing who the new dealers are in the area. They can put two and two together just like we can.”

  I grunted. “Yeah, and that means they’ll tie Indy in to things.”

  Piper shook his head again. “He was the last one I figured would get into this stuff, you know?”

  Sid watched a drunk bum across the street stumble by. “Maybe we should do an intervention. Like they did on The Sopranos. We could tie him to a chair, and you could beat him up with a garden hose until he realizes how stupid he is.”

  “Great idea.” Piper rolled his eyes. “Maybe you could ask your alien friends to abduct him and give him an anal probe. That might work, too.”

  “I don’t have direct contact with them like that. Besides, they probe for genetic-mutation purposes.”

  I hopped down. “I’m heading home after school, guys. No park today.”

  Piper nodded. “I’m entering the Pro Skater Invitational. You?”

  That was the least of my worries. “No.”

  He sighed. “Indy will be okay, Tate. Don’t sweat it. They’ll nail the dude who killed Lucius, they’ll bust Will or something, and this will blow over.”

  “Yeah.”

  He pleaded with me, refusing to let the Invitational go. “At least enter. Then if things clear up, you can do it. If not, bail out and no sweat.”

  “We’re not sponsored.”

  He smiled. “That’s why we have to find one. Come on.” He grimaced at Sid. “Sid will even compromise his rock-solid principles and do it. We could give ’em a run for their money, that’s for sure, and if you can get Indy out of this shit and make him do it, we’ll stomp all over Corey and his crew.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “At least think about it?”

  “Okay.”

  Sid started humming “It’s the End of the World as We Know It” by R.E.M. as I walked away. I had to smile at that one, even if the world did seem like it was ending.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Kimberly Lawson stood at the exit I usually take after school, and as I walked through the doors, she smiled and said hello. She hadn’t been in class since I’d watched her volleyball game, and I was surprised she stood waiting. I smiled. “Been skipping class, huh?”

  She laughed. “Sick.” She pau
sed, then said, “So, you noticed I was gone?”

  Almost by accident, our eyes met for a moment. “I guess so.”

  She blushed. “That’s nice.”

  I smiled. “Don’t forget, I beat people up and rob them.”

  “And you go to volleyball games. I saw you there.”

  “Yeah. I was passing by and heard the noise.”

  She giggled. “Oh. I thought there was probably some girl you liked in there.”

  “Don’t you have some sort of practice to go to, Miss Busybody?”

  She smiled. “Yes. Orchestra prep. We have a concert tonight.”

  “You’re in orchestra, too?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Violin. First chair. I hate it.”

  “Why do it, then?”

  She shrugged, looking away. “Hungry?”

  “I thought you had orchestra.”

  She giggled. “I do.”

  “But you want to get something to eat.”

  She nodded.

  “With me.”

  “Yes.”

  I hesitated. “Okay. But you have to answer one question first.”

  “What?”

  “Why.”

  She looked at me. “Why?”

  “Yeah. Why do you want to go with me?”

  She looked at her feet. “Because I thought about what you said. About following all the rules no matter what. That, and you came to my game.”

  “Why me, though? We’re like salt and pepper.”

  “Because you’re different. And you came to see me.”

  “I didn’t come to see you.”

  She smiled again. “Yes, you did.”

  I sighed. “Okay, I did, but I was just walking by and decided to come in.”

  “I’m glad you came by.” She looked down the street. “So, are you coming with me?”

  “Sure. Where?”

  She smiled and we began walking. “I loooove the chimichanga at Señor Froggy, but my parents don’t believe in fast food.”

  I shrugged, not understanding. “What does that have to do with what you believe in?”

  She laughed.

  “What now?”

  She was almost giddy. “Nothing.”

  “You just do whatever your parents say, don’t you?”

  She skipped once, her ponytail bouncing. “Yep.”

  I laughed. “Living dangerously, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  We sat in the back corner of the joint while Kim chomped down on her second chimi and I finished a third burrito. We talked about school and volleyball and Indy, minus the drug-dealing thing, and the Skater Invitational coming up and some kind of leadership summer camp that she’d just signed up for. All in all, it was sort of cool to talk to somebody about my bro and my family, and it just seemed to come out easy. I even told her about “Stealing Home” and me trying to give it to his English teacher.

  She popped a Mexi-nugget in her mouth, then sat back and rubbed her stomach. “Ahhhh. I am SO full.”

  “So you really can’t eat fast food?”

  She nodded. “They’re all into the natural-food thing. No chemicals and stuff. If I ever have any time, I can sneak away, but not often.”

  “What do you do? I mean, your schedule?”

  She counted off on her fingers. “Volleyball four days a week and Saturdays, track during track season, violin lessons three times a week, cheerleading when I have time, babysit my cousins twice a week at night, homework, church, camp during summer.” She rolled her eyes. “It never ends.”

  I smiled. “The perfect angel and her perfect family.”

  She looked at me for a moment, then burst out laughing, looking down at her tray.

  I decided she was psycho. “What’s so funny?”

  “Perfect, huh? You have no idea.”

  I shrugged. “Sounds perfect to me.”

  “It’s not.”

  “How, then?”

  She stopped laughing. “You really want to hear it? You really want to hear how not-perfect my perfect family is?”

  “Sure.”

  “You know when we saw you in the church parking lot that night?” Her eyes glinted. “When you were beating up and robbing Corey?”

  I nodded.

  “We weren’t going to church. We were going to family counseling. I didn’t mention that in my schedule.” She popped a potato ball in her mouth. “My dad goes Tuesdays, my mom Wednesdays, and we all go Mondays and Saturdays.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, the perfect family isn’t so perfect. On the outside we are, because that’s all that counts, right? All about the look, huh?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that my mom found out eight months ago that my dad has been cheating on her for the last twelve years, she’s hooked on Xanax because of it, my sister wets her bed every night because they fight constantly, I hate them both, and the only thing they can tell me is that I’ll end up being a nothing unless I keep doing what I’m doing, which is being perfect.” She grunted—it was half a laugh and half an expression of disgust. “I’ve got to turn out just like them, right?”

  “That sucks.”

  She nodded with a sad, small smile. “No, it doesn’t suck. It’s a joke. We’re a good churchgoing family, my mom volunteers at a hospice, my sister is a premier gymnast for her age, I’m almost a god, my dad is an upright family man with a great job, we have backyard barbecues, donate money to the church, bake cookies for charity events. And when everybody isn’t looking, my dad screws his girlfriend, my sister pees her pants, and my mom pops pills.”

  I looked at her. “What do you do?”

  She stopped smiling. “I do everything I’m supposed to because I don’t know what else to do.”

  “Why not start living your life for yourself?”

  She shrugged. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  I smiled. “Yes, you are, but you’re miserable.”

  “You’re here, too, and”—her eyes glinted again—“I could say the same about you.”

  “You’re talking about Indy?”

  “Yes. And your dad.”

  “They’re my family.”

  “Same as me.”

  I frowned. “So I should just blow them off and not care?”

  “No. But you know what I think you should do?”

  “What?”

  “I think you should do the skate thing. I’d come to see it.”

  I looked out the window. “It’s not the right time.”

  “You want to, though. And you’re good. At least that’s what everybody says.”

  I shrugged, somehow happy that she was interested enough to know that I was good. “It’s just not the right time.”

  “I’ll make you a deal, then.”

  “A deal?”

  She nodded. “You do the Invitational and I’ll quit orchestra.”

  I looked at her, thinking about it. “Serious?”

  “Yes.”

  I thought about Indy and all the crap that was going on, then thought about skating in the arena. I’d have to practice big-time. Excitement rippled through me. Maybe I could do it. Maybe it was time to look after myself for once. “Deal.”

  She held out her hand, and we shook. “Deal,” she said.

  As we walked out the door, she stopped. “You know what I think you should do also?”

  “What?”

  “I think you should take that story Indy wrote and make her read it. The Greater Spokane Area Young Writers Competition is taking entries, and if it’s as good as you say it is, you should enter it. The only thing is that since the schools sponsor it, it has to be recommended by a teacher.”

  “A competition?”

  She nodded. “I entered mine already.”

  “You like writing?”

  “No, but my honors teacher insisted.”

  I laughed. “Is there anything you’re not great at?”

  She smiled, and that sad flicker came to the corners of her mo
uth. “Yeah. Being myself. See ya, and thanks. I had a great time.”

  I said goodbye, tempted to kiss her, but I didn’t. I liked Psycho Girl. I don’t know why, but I did. Maybe it was because she was totally different than what she seemed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Kim and I had lunch the next day—7-Eleven nachos that were just about the grossest thing on the planet—and we talked some more. She’d told her parents she was quitting orchestra, and World War III had broken out, but she’d held her ground. Well, not exactly, she explained. She’d locked herself in the bathroom for three hours while her mom railed on her through the door. I smiled, visualizing Kim crouched up in the tub yelling at her mom to go away.

  I looked at her, surprised at first, but not on second thought. I guess that no matter what people look like, we all have the same feelings. Just different shells protecting us from who we really are.

  As we walked back to campus, I took her hand in mine. “We all have our crap, huh?” I said.

  She swung our hands between us, then laughed. “I guess we do.”

  We walked half a block in silence after that, and I couldn’t help myself any longer. “I’m not very good at this.”

  “This what?”

  I looked ahead at the campus. “Liking you.”

  She laughed, squeezing my hand. “Is it hard for you to like people, Mr. Tough Guy?” she said.

  I laughed, thinking of Ms. Potter. “Well, yeah, it is.”

  When school got out, I skated to Under the Bridge. Sid and Pipe were nowhere to be found, so I sat on the concrete wall as late students filtered across the grounds. I unzipped my pack and took out “Stealing Home,” staring at the title page. Indy’s English teacher came to mind. What a crack. She’d never accept it.

  I looked up, staring across the street at a bum wheeling a shopping cart down the sidewalk. He wore camos, patent leather dress shoes, an old turquoise sweatshirt, and a baseball cap. His cart was loaded with all his stuff, and I wondered what he’d been like before he’d become a living throwaway. Maybe his coach screwed him, too.

  I shook my head. There had to be a way to get Indy away from Will. Frustrated, I stuffed “Stealing Home” in my pack and headed across the street to the school. I had to try again, but couldn’t bring myself to deal with his bitch of a teacher.