Under the Bridge

by Michael Harmon

  “My brother.”

  Anger cut Mr. Halvorson’s mouth into a slit. “Why would you—”

  “Because you wouldn’t have read it if you knew who wrote it.”

  Mr. Halvorson paused. “I would have read it, Tate. You didn’t have to lie.”

  “I didn’t lie. I never said I wrote it in the first place. I just asked you to read it. Besides that, you don’t like Indy. Nobody at school does.” I gestured to our room. “He’s got a whole computer full of stuff in there. That’s what he does instead of studying.”

  He nodded. “I wish you would have given me a chance before assuming, Tate.”

  I glanced at my dad, giving him a wicked look. “My brother doesn’t have any more chances, Mr. Halvorson.”

  He looked at Dad. “Why hasn’t his English teacher seen this? Or any of his other writing?”

  Dad’s eyes flashed. “If he ever went to class, maybe she would have.”

  I cut in. “She did see it. I took it to her.”

  Mr. Halvorson looked at me, perplexed. “She read it?”

  “She refused to.”

  He grimaced. “That should not have happened. I’m sorry.”

  I shrugged. “He wrote a regular assignment paper at the beginning of the year, and she wouldn’t accept it because it was ‘inflammatory and had foul language.’ Same old story.”

  Dad took a breath. “Why wasn’t I told about this? I didn’t know he …”

  I looked at him. “Why didn’t you ask?”

  Tears welled in Mom’s eyes, and Dad looked like he was about to skin me alive.

  Mr. Halvorson sighed, then nodded. “I’m sorry to intrude on a family matter.” He paused. “Indy will be coming back to school soon?”

  Mom looked at Dad. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Indy isn’t living with us.” With that, the tears in my mom’s eyes ran down her cheeks. She whispered an apology and left the room.

  Mr. Halvorson looked at the story. “Well, the offer still stands for him to join my class, and I’d enjoy talking with him if he’s willing. May I submit this to the competition, Mr. Brooks?”

  Dad handed it to him, his face a rock. “Do what you choose with it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  At twelve-thirty that night I unlatched our window, slid it up, and hopped out, the cool night air prickling the hair on my arms. Three houses down from ours, I dropped my board and skated.

  Night skating is one of the coolest things to do in the world. With everything still and quiet but for your wheels rolling on the pavement, it’s like skating in a dream. The glow cast from streetlights and the emptiness of the city either freak you out or make you feel like the pavement and rails and sets were made just for you. I wished Indy was with me.

  We’d snuck out a few times to carve the bowls Under the Bridge on midnight prowls. The clattering echo of our boards ratcheting under the open cavern of concrete, along with the occasional late-night traveler rolling on the freeway above, was peaceful. Under the Bridge would be ours on those nights, and those were the times having a bro was the best.

  I skated downtown, past the school and the park and further, until I reached Second Avenue. Five blocks west of the school and set in an old industrial-storage area, the warehouse sat brooding like a dark beast, its huge roll-up doors closed and locked and the upper-story office windows dark and foreboding.

  I’d been to a rave here before, and the warehouse was the perfect place for it. No houses around, no businesses open late, litter and garbage strewn in the gutters and along the barbed-wire-topped fences, with the occasional bum wandering around collecting empty pop cans, meant hundreds of teenagers could listen to live music, get stoned and plastered, and stumble around puking without much hassle from anybody.

  Down a narrow alley on the side of the building was a small door with a big guy standing to the side of it. Long dyed-black hair; leather jacket; black fatigues; combat boots; pierced nose, ears, and lip; and tattoos running up the sides of his neck told me he wasn’t a guy to be messing with. As I neared, he crossed his arms over his chest and waited for me. I nodded. “Cover?”

  “Seven.” He held his hand out. “Any fighting and you’re out permanently, plus you get to deal with me. Bring your own booze and drugs. There’s no water in the toilets, so if you piss in them I’ll make you drink it back out with a straw.”

  I dug in my pocket, took out a ten, and handed it to him. He stuffed it in his pocket. I waited for my change. It didn’t come. “You owe me three.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not a bank. Go in or split.”

  “You know Indy Brooks?”

  He stared at me. I took that as a sign that I should get out of his face, so I walked past him and went inside. A single bulb hanging in a hallway dimly lit the way to a small alcove at the end, where two Goths stood smoking at a steel door. The beat of heavy music came through the wall. Another kid, this one sitting Indian-style, his hair covering his face, rocked back and forth slowly, chanting something low and indecipherable. I looked at him, and one of his buddies laughed. “Does it every time he trips the acid, man.” He dug in his pocket, taking out a Baggie. “Five bucks a tab. Good stuff.”

  Good was all in the eye of the beholder, I thought, glancing at the tripping kid on the floor. “No thanks,” I said, and the Goths stepped aside for me. I pushed the door open, and the smell of pot mixed with sweat hit me. At the far side of the huge room, a screamo band blasted the amps, and at least a hundred people formed a pit center stage, moshing and stage diving while groups of people—from hard-core punks to Goths to straights out for a night of the other side of life—listened, talked, smoke, drank, and watched the band.

  I walked through the crowd, looking for Indy before I found Paul Higgins. He and five guys sat in a circle in the far corner, old car seats and half-rotted couch cushions under them as they passed a bong around. He waved when he saw me, yelling over the music, “Tater! Duuuude!”

  I nodded, sitting next to him. He slapped me on the shoulder, calling for the bong and yelling, “Bring it over, guys. This is Tater. Old skater buddy. Best in the whole fucking city if you ask me.”

  I waved the bong away, looking around. “Busy place.”

  He nodded, leaning to my ear. The band raged. “Not even. You should see this shithole on Saturday nights. Packed with the dregs.” He laughed, cackling at his stoned joke.

  I sat back, listening to the band and glancing through the crowd. “Seen my bro?” I yelled to him.

  He shook his head, taking a hit from the bong. He held his breath, then exhaled. “He usually doesn’t hang on the floor.”

  I glanced at my watch, pushing the light button in the dimness. One-fifteen. “Where, then?”

  He waved behind him, to a hallway. “There’s five or six offices down there. No-man’s-land. The hard-core hang there.”

  I studied the dark entryway littered with garbage, then stood, leaning down to Paul’s ear. “Thanks, Paul. I owe you.”

  He smiled, shaking his head. “Just get him the fuck out, dude. He doesn’t belong in there.”

  As I made my way through the crowd and walked down the hall, the music faded, and it took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the deeper shadows. I came to the first door, which stood open. Complete darkness greeted me, so I kept going. After three more empty rooms, I came to a closed door. Light flickered from beneath it. I put my hand on the doorknob, taking a breath and tensing. Will might be with him, and it would mean a fight. A big one. I wished I’d kept the gun, but it was too late for wishes.

  I turned the handle and opened the door. At least a dozen people sitting and lying on ratty sofas, beanbags, lawn chairs, and old recliners dotted the room, all high or zoned out and talking in low murmurs. A cloud of smoke encapsulated my head—weed mixed with a toxic, harsh smell. Several people looked up, giving me indifferent stares before going back to talking. The tang of burned meth stung my nose.

  A card table with a broken leg taped togeth
er stood in the center of the room, a half dozen lit candles on it, and bottles, cans, and garbage lay scattered between the groups of people. Two dim forms, a guy with a shaved and bristly head and his girl, lay on a mattress in the corner having slow-motion sex under a blanket, and I had to peel my eyes from them. From the look of disinterest everybody else had about it, I figured privacy wasn’t too important when you were trashed out of your mind.

  I scanned the room for Indy, peering through the shadows and the smoke at each guy until I came back to the couple on the mattress. Then I did a double take. I clenched my teeth as I walked across the room, standing above them. “Get up.”

  He turned his shaved head from the girl’s neck, saw me, and smiled. “Hey, bro, what brings you to this domain?”

  “Get up. Now.”

  The girl looked up at me with glazed eyes, then smiled, pulling Indy back to her. He giggled into her neck, then gave me an “I dare you” look. I reached down, grabbing his arm and yanking him up. “I said get up, man.” I looked around, picked up his shirt next to the mattress, and threw it at him as he pulled his pants up.

  Once buckled, he picked up his shirt, a grimace on his face. “Dude, just get the fuck out of here. Leave me alone.”

  “No.”

  He shook his head and plopped down on the mattress. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Just then, one of the guys in the room spoke. He couldn’t stop moving his hands, the meth stringing him out like a live wire. “You heard him, chief. Get out.”

  I ignored him, even as the rage in me built. “Put your shirt on, Indy.”

  The guy piped up again. “Hey, man, nobody tells anybody what to do around here. It’s all cool.”

  I turned on him. I clenched my teeth. “You want your face caved in, chief?” I waited a moment, staring him down, and when he opened his mouth again, I jacked him in the face. He sprawled back, then lay still, moaning. Nobody moved. Nobody said a word. The candles flickered. Then I turned back to Indy, yanked him up, and dragged him out. He didn’t fight me.

  I pulled him through the crowd on the main floor and to the steel door, pushing it open. The two guys and the chanting acidhead were still there, and as I dragged him down the hall, I stopped, remembering the rules of the place. No fighting. I faced Indy. His eyes were hazy and his shoulders slumped as he stood there, a disgruntled and pissed-off little-boy look on his stoned face. I shoved him against the wall hard, his back thudding against it. His face twisted up in surprise and pain. “Hey, man! What was that for?”

  I looked at him for a second, then threw a hard right, clocking him on the cheekbone. He yelled and went down in a heap, and the two guys at the end of the hall yelled, too. Indy clutched his face. I dropped my board and knelt next to him, getting ready to nail him again as he squirmed, when the huge guy came through the door and ran down the hall.

  Big hands reached down and yanked me up; then he threw me against the wall. I kept my feet and faced him, ready. Indy scurried to the side, still holding his face. I nodded to the big guy. “Do it, man. I’ll tear you fucking apart.”

  He sized me up. “I told you no fighting or you’re out. Forever.”

  I readied myself for his fists on my face. It’d be a good fight, but I had no doubt he’d get the best of me. “Maybe it’s a good rule.” I pointed at Indy. “That’s my brother. Beat the shit out of him if you ever see him again.”

  He glanced at Indy, then back at me, understanding in his hard eyes. He nodded. “Get out or I take you out in pieces.” He looked at Indy on the floor. “You too, asshole. Ever come back and I’ll break your neck.”

  I grabbed Indy and pulled him up, and we walked out. Indy didn’t say a word until we got to the end of the alley. He cupped a hand over his swollen cheek, spitting blood. “You’re a dick.”

  “So are you.”

  “There’s other places to party.”

  “So what. I’ll come there, too.”

  “What, are you, like, my guardian fucking angel? I don’t need help.”

  “Who was the girl?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know and I don’t care.”

  “You don’t even know her name? Are you that high?”

  “Whatever, dude. You’d take it if you could get it. And no, I’m not blasted. Just perfect, if you ask me.”

  “I wouldn’t take it from some addict in a room full of scumbags. Ever hear of AIDS?”

  “So what.”

  I grabbed his shoulder and flung him against a brick building. “So what? Why don’t you care about anything? You’ve got a chance, and now you’re screwing everything up. Why?”

  He looked at me, his face cracking. “Why not? WHY NOT!” He shoved me. “I don’t have another chance, Tate, because I’ve never had one in the first place! Don’t you ever think I tried?” He squeezed his head between his hands, rubbing his temples. “Jesus, Tate! It just doesn’t click! I CAN’T do it the way they want! Everything gets messed up in my head, and I screw up. School, homework, tests, Dad. All of it.”

  “Why?”

  He laughed, half yelling. “Well, shit, if I knew why, I wouldn’t have a problem, would I?”

  “You could have a chance, Indy,” I said. Then I told him about “Stealing Home,” school, and the writing contest.

  He shook his head, his mouth an ugly smear. “None of that matters.” Tears welled in his eyes, and he looked down. “Just go. Leave me alone.”

  “No.”

  He shook his head again. “I know what you did to Will. He’s after you now.”

  “So what?”

  “So it’s my fault!” he screamed. “I know that! And I know everything else is my fault, but you’ve got to stay away, Tate. Just stay away.”

  I shoved him again. “I am so tired of you feeling sorry for yourself! You make me sick, dude, because you have all the choices now! You can come home, go to school, write whatever you want! Dad’s not even pissed anymore! You should see them, man! They’re just scared. Plain and simple scared for you! So don’t be such a prick.”

  He looked at me. “It’s not like that.”

  “What’s not like that?”

  His eyes searched mine, fear in them. Pleading. That little brother I’d always known was in those eyes. “I can’t get out.” He gushed, “I told Will I was splitting. After I got my stuff from the house and you talked to me, I told him I was done.” He held back tears. “They’ll come after me.”

  I refused to believe this was happening. “They won’t come after you, Indy. Will is just trying to scare you.”

  He stopped, staring at me with wide eyes. “No, Tate. He’s not just trying to scare me. You were right about him. He’s crazy.”

  I looked at him, and there was something in his expression that chilled me to the bone. “What happened to Lucius?”

  He looked away.

  I sighed. “Jesus, Indy. What do you know?”

  He sniffed. “There was nothing I could do. Not like I could stop it.”

  Slivers of ice stabbed through me. “Oh God.” I took a breath. “You’re the one in the video?”

  He nodded. “Will told me we were going to scare him off. That’s it. Next thing I know, he’s bashing his brains in. I couldn’t do anything.”

  “You could have gone to the police! That’s what!” I groaned, looking up at the night sky. Any idea I had of getting Indy home based on the writing contest was out the window. That was beans compared to this. “Are you that fucking stupid? Jesus, Indy. You’re an accessory to murder now.”

  He shook his head, defeated. “I can’t go to the police.”

  “Why?”

  “My fingerprints are on the bat.”

  “What?”

  He nodded. “He wore gloves. Afterward, he pulled a gun out, shoved it in my face, and told me to take the bat. My fingerprints are on it now. Then he told me it was insurance that I was in with them.” He looked at me. “I’m in, man, and I can’t get out. His uncle has the bat, and if I turn Will in, his
uncle will turn over the bat. I’m done.”

  I clenched my teeth, thinking about the detective. “You’ve got to come home. We’ve got to tell Mom and Dad.”

  “Then what? They kill me or I get charged with murder? Or worse yet, Mom and Dad get hurt? Will is psycho.”

  “So you’re going to get high all the time to deal with it.”

  He nodded. “If I stay wasted, nothing matters. Better yet, I should just fucking kill myself.”

  I looked at him, remembering Gregory in “Stealing Home.” “Don’t say that.”

  He shook his head. “I should. Everything would be better if I was gone. Mom. Dad. You.”

  “No.”

  “Then what? Nothing works, man.”

  “Then you meet me tomorrow night.”

  He looked at me. “For what?”

  “We’ll figure this out.” I thought about Ms. Potter. “There’s a right way to do this, but we just have to find it.”

  He swallowed. “Okay. Where?”

  I told him.

  “Why there?” he said.

  “Just meet me. At midnight.”

  He hesitated. “Fine.”

  I took his shoulders in my hands. “Make me a promise?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t hurt yourself. You promise?”

  His chin quivered just the slightest. “Yeah. I promise.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  With school out for a curriculum day, I stayed inside, thinking about meeting Indy at midnight. Dad was gone before I got up, and Mom was busy in the salon out back all day, so I had the house to myself.

  Dad usually got home at five-thirty, and I didn’t have it in me to talk to him. So at five, I left, leaving a note for Mom that I wouldn’t be home for dinner.

  Badger sat behind the counter at the Hole in the Wall, eating Tootsie Rolls. He smiled, his mouth full. “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  He swallowed the gooey brown lump in his mouth, smacking his lips. “How’s little skater fellow Mitch?”

  I picked up a bong, studying it. “Fine.”

  “Have you harmed another human being lately?”