Under the Bridge

by Michael Harmon

  He smiled, nodding to my board. “It looks like you’ve got quite a career on your hands. And it’s nice to meet you, too.” Then he shook hands with my dad and said hello to Mom.

  Mrs. Lawson gave an utterly insincere smile, shook hands with my mother, and completely ignored me. I stepped forward. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Lawson, and I promise, I won’t beat you up and steal your wallet.”

  Her eyes widened in shock, and Mr. Lawson stifled a smile. Indy laughed outright, and Kimberly giggled, taking my hand. I knew I had a rough road ahead with her pinch-faced mom, but I had a feeling it would be worth it. Back on track, I thought as we walked from the arena. Everything was the way it should be.

  Except for one thing.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Mist, just the lightest sprinkle gently coating my face as I skated under the streetlights, sent chills down my spine. It would turn to rain later, I thought, trying to keep my mind from where I was going and what I was about to do. Will. I wouldn’t be confronting a guy who wanted to bust it up with me; I’d be confronting a guy who needed my brother dead.

  Will thought he’d be seeing Indy. Wrong. He’d be seeing me.

  You’re an idiot, Tate. You’ve gone too far this time. Leave it alone for once. It’s not your responsibility. I couldn’t, though, because he wouldn’t go away. This wouldn’t fade into nothingness, like when someone was pissed off about some guy dissing him in the cafeteria or knocking him in the hall. There was no anger involved with Will. He needed Indy dead to save his own skin, and it changed things. The hammer would hit harder tonight than it ever had.

  And although my dad told me that some things are better talked about than fought over, there was no talking to Will. There was only action. At least he and I saw things the same way in that respect. Action. Put up or shut up.

  Two blocks away from the Monster, I rounded the corner, deep in my thoughts. “Two blocks away. Almost there,” I mumbled. “Almost time.” I kicked my board up and started walking, and as I did, Will stepped from a doorway, his figure cast in shadow.

  He held a pistol, studying me. “You’re a pain in my ass. Where is he?”

  Panic swept through me. No. This wasn’t the place. Not here. I wasn’t ready. I looked at Will, clearing my throat and looking at his face, still bruised by my board. “Nice face, asshole. I hope it hurt as much as I enjoyed doing it.”

  He shrugged. “Two for one, then. You know I’m going to get him after I’m done with you.”

  I glanced at the store we stood in front of. The China Doll Shop. I nodded my head toward it. “So after all this, I’m going to get smoked in front of a Chinese doll shop. Somehow that fits a pussy like you.”

  He smiled, enjoying himself. “You always had a mouth.”

  I sneered. “Did Lucius have a mouth, tough guy?”

  He laughed. “Lucius was in the way. Just like you.”

  “You liked it, didn’t you? You got off when you were killing him, huh?”

  “The weak die. He was weak,” he said, his eyes tightening on me.

  I chuckled. “Your uncle told you to scare him away. You killed him for fun.”

  He shrugged, keeping the pistol on me. “So what if I did? He’s gone, and how I got him gone doesn’t matter.” Then he smiled again. “But yeah, it felt good to cave his head in. Just like it’s going to feel good to kill you.”

  I nodded, the sweat on my forehead mixing with the mist. I braced myself, tensing, then dropped my board, opening my arms. “You’re a chickenshit coward, Will. A spineless bitch with a gun to make you look tough.”

  He smiled, raising the pistol and cocking it.

  “You can’t take me and you know it. The only reason you need it is because you know I’d kick your ass.” I forced a smile. “You’re the weak one.”

  His eyes flashed, and I knew I’d gotten to him. Please. Please let it work. Let there be enough time. He lowered the pistol, uncocking it and putting it in his back pocket. “Tell you what, Tater. You get this gun away from me and we’ll see who the pussy is,” he said, raising his fists in a fighting stance.

  I had my chance, so I took it. I rushed him. I came in swinging like I’d never swung before. Not to win a fight or not get hurt, but to live. To put him down. My fists were pistons.

  My first left caught him in the ribs, and my right, with my entire upper body pivoting to put as much force behind it as possible, nailed him square on the eye socket. He flew back, falling to one knee.

  Blood seeped from his eye, and in a flash, he flew into me, catching me on the ear with a solid right. I couldn’t believe it. The guy could take a punch like nobody I’d seen, and he hit just as hard. Stars flashed in front of my eyes, and then I was being pummeled, his fists hammering me.

  I tasted blood and we stood toe to toe, beating the living shit out of each other. No dancing, no jabbing, no dodging, just whaling on each other like we were meat-filled punching bags. Ribs, kidneys, ears, eyes, over and over again we went at each other, each refusing to back off. And it hurt. God did it hurt. I actually felt one of my ribs crack.

  Desperate, I lunged in and landed a huge forearm to his eye again, this time accompanied by the sick crunch of his cheekbone fracturing, and he reeled, falling to his knees and reaching for his pistol. I lunged after him. “HURRY UP!” I screamed, grappling with him, trying to keep him from the pistol as pain and fatigue coursed through my body. My face was a bloody mess, the front of my shirt plastered with blood.

  On his hands and knees with me on top of him, my arm pinioned around his neck as I tried to pull him back, he twisted, driving his elbow into my cracked rib. I howled, paralyzed, unable to breathe as I fell to the side. The pain was so piercing I almost blacked out, and the next thing I knew, he had the gun in his hands. On his knees, panting, half his face covered in blood, his broken cheekbone grotesquely swollen under the glow of the streetlights, he raised the pistol.

  No words, just insanity. I groaned, lying on the ground, huge steel pincers jabbing over and over again into my lung as I breathed. I knew I was dead. Detective Connelly and the police had been waiting on the other side of the park. I wheezed into the hidden wire taped to my chest, wondering if they even knew where I was. I’d hinted about the China Doll Shop when Will had stepped from the shadows, and I hoped to God they’d heard it. “Hurry. Please.”

  Five feet away, Will cocked the pistol, aiming it at my head. His eyes drove into mine like red-hot irons, with no feeling, no anger, just an indifferent and rock-hard intensity that shot straight through me like a knife. I watched as his fingers tightened on the grip. I groaned, looking away, the last tendril of fear spiraling through my gut only to be replaced with resignation. I would die here.

  The shot rang out, echoing against the buildings, and my eyes flew open. Blood blossomed on Will’s shoulder, and he crumpled, the gun clattering to the pavement. I lay back, staring at the blackness of the sky. I heard running footsteps. A police officer kicked Will’s pistol away, then knelt at his side, spinning him on his back, smashing a knee between his shoulder blades, and cuffing him.

  Then I passed out.

  EPILOGUE

  The broken rib punctured my lung when Will drove his elbow into me that last time, and I was in the hospital for three days to make sure my lung didn’t collapse. I coughed up blood for two days, and I’ve got to say it was the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life.

  But it was done. Will was being charged with first-degree murder and attempted first-degree murder, and he was going away for a long time.

  When I was in the hospital, I had two surprise visitors. The first was Ms. Potter. She’d taken heat for helping me, but she explained to me that sometimes taking heat was worth it. She’d taught me a lot. There were different ways to do the right thing, but I also realized that not getting yourself into bad situations in the first place was as important as doing the right thing. My brawling days were over. I’d seen that it only led to more fighting, and it wasn’t worth risking
my life. My path had changed, and Ms. Potter had helped me see that there were different ways to fight.

  The second person was Detective Connelly. He knocked, then walked in, dressed in his detective suit. I groaned. “You’re not going to arrest me, are you?”

  He actually smiled, then shook his head. “I told you that day at the park that my son skates.” He paused. “This morning he told me he saw some street skater from Spokane on ESPN, blowing the world away with his tricks.” A moment passed, and he handed me a piece of paper and a pen. “His name is Chance. Do you mind? He’d be thrilled.”

  I wrote him a note, then signed my name.

  Connelly tucked it in his pocket. “Good luck, Tate. Stay out of trouble.” Then he was gone.

  A week later, Mom, Dad, and I, with my ribs still taped, sat in the front row of the Lewis and Clark auditorium and watched as Indy Brooks accepted the second-place award in the Greater Spokane Area Young Writers Competition. For “Stealing Home.” Of course Mom bawled her eyes out. The crew sat next to us. Sid farted.

  Indy received a one-thousand-dollar scholarship to Eastern Washington University as part of his award. He stayed in school, too, even though he hated every minute of it, except for Mr. Halvorson’s English class. By the end of the year, Indy wrote and handed in sixteen short stories about whatever he wanted to write about.

  When Dad saw the four A’s and one B on Indy’s report card, tears glistened in his eyes. And he kept his word, too. Anytime Indy had an issue, Dad would calmly talk to him about it, or he’d ask Mom to handle it. He read everything Indy wrote, too. They actually started getting along, even though Indy would occasionally come home stoned and Dad would get pissed and walk away until he could talk.

  Indy’s working on quitting the smoke entirely, but I don’t know what will happen. You might be able to change Indy a bit, but you can’t take the Indy out of Indy. He’s a rebel, and he’ll always be one.

  The crew sort of broke up, but we’re still close. Stick started hanging around, too, which was cool because he’s really cool. Corey skulks around, being an asshole, but I don’t care anymore. I’m on a circuit right now, and I’m doing all right. Middle of the pack, I guess, but traveling on Flying Gecko’s nickel. Oh yeah, I was featured in a skate mag last month when I took third in a competition in Arizona. I won three thousand dollars. Me. Tate Brooks. Ha. Maybe I can be something, huh?

  The craziest thing is that with all the traveling I’m doing, Indy goes to school more than I do. Irony rules the ironic.

  Kim and I are still together, and I actually sort of love her. Okay, I do love her. But don’t tell. My tough, cool skater-pro party-guy rep would be ruined.

  Indy and I skate with the crew occasionally, but he’s changed. He’s grown up, I guess. He still has that sense of humor and recklessness about him, but he’s more serious. He loves writing. He wants to make a career out of it. He told me Mr. Halvorson is trying to get him accepted into college courses next year, and he’s jacked about it. He’s been published twice in local mags, too.

  I guess having a purpose makes a difference. For both of us. I always thought Indy would live and die on a skateboard and that I’d fade out of it, but things don’t always turn out the way you think. I also believe that Mr. Halvorson, the guy who slammed Indy into the locker that day, saved his life. Some rules, I suppose, are meant to be broken for the right reason.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  George Nicholson of Sterling Lord Literistic, my friend and agent, thank you for your integrity and wisdom. Erica Silverman, it goes without saying … brilliance at work. My editor, Erin Clarke, Knopf/Random House, you’re awesome. Thanks go to Joan Slattery for seeing value in this story. Frank Oberst, thank you for guiding me through school policy and showing what a caring teacher would risk for a student. And as with all of my work, it wouldn’t be possible without my wife, Kim.

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  IT’S NOT THE RULES YOU FOLLOW,

  IT’S HOW YOU FOLLOW THEM.