by Alex Flinn
But I knew her.
“How was practice today?” she asked.
“Great. I’ll probably make varsity next year.”
“That’s fantastic.” But she looked distracted, like she hadn’t heard me.
“I didn’t save you dinner,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t think you would.”
“I would have, if I could, but—”
“You could have.”
“Walker thinks if you miss dinner, you shouldn’t get it saved.”
“And what Walker says, goes.”
“That’s right. He’s your father … as close to a father as you’ve had anyway, and—”
“That’s not very close.”
“Michael, please.”
I looked away. Mom had made all kinds of promises about Walker. A real family, everything perfect like a television sitcom. Maybe he’d even adopt me. And, of course, hot and cold running money. The money was the only part that worked out. I’d known the rest was a lie anyway. Even when they were dating, she’d come home with bruised arms or start wearing a scarf around her neck in ninety-degree heat. And there were his phone calls at three in the morning. I remembered those, too.
“You should leave him,” I said.
She laughed. “You think it’s easy because you don’t remember how it was, living paycheck to paycheck, never sure if we’d make rent.”
I did remember. Once there was a paper on our door, signed by the sheriff, threatening to put us out on the street. A few days later she’d gotten the job as Walker’s secretary. A week after that they’d had their first date.
“I remember we were safe,” I said.
She winced, like I was the one hitting her. She buried her head in her hands, starting the same old guilt trip. Usually it would have worked, but something about that night kept me going, made me say, “He’s doing it more and more.”
“That’s not true.”
“You think I don’t notice, but I do.” I pulled up the sleeve of her robe, revealing a mottled collection of bruises on her arms, some new, some gone purple and gold. “I’m not stupid, you know.”
She still didn’t look at me. Everything was silent except the insistent sound of Biscayne Bay behind us.
Then, from the other side of the house, the garage door rumbling up. Walker’s motor.
Mom snapped off the light. She stood.
“At least think about it,” I said.
She walked toward the door. It wasn’t until she got there that she finally spoke.
“Michael?” Barely a whisper.
“What?”
“He says he’ll kill us both if I leave.”
Downstairs the garage door rumbled down.
THIS YEAR
Back at my trailer, I fumble under the mattress for the photo. It used to be in my wallet, which is why I have it even though I left home in a hurry. When I’m lonely, I look at it.
Like now. It’s one of those photo-booth pictures, maybe even from the fair. In the picture I’m about twelve, wearing this so-cool-you-want-to-smack-me expression, which, after a year with the carnival, I now know is universal to all twelve-year-old suckheads everywhere. Mom looks happy. We’re pre-Walker.
I’ve looked at it so many times that now, when I think of my mother, I can only see how she looked in the photo. I wonder if she ever really existed. Maybe I wish she didn’t.
I stare at it a second longer before shoving it under my mattress. Eleven other guys sleep in this trailer, and there’s not much you can do to keep stuff from getting gone through.
I wish I had a photo of Kirstie, too. But it’s okay. I remember her. Kirstie was a carny too, one I loved last year, maybe still love. She was the one who started me on the road I’m on now. If I can find her, maybe she’ll help me figure out where I’m going.
LAST YEAR
Once in driver’s ed we saw this movie about hydroplaning. That’s when the road’s wet and the water picks up your car and makes it skid. The movie said the reason hydroplaning causes accidents is people fight it. It’s instinct to try not to skid.
But what you really need to do is the opposite. Accept it. You want to be safe, just keep your hands on the wheel and turn into the skid.
I was in a skid those weeks before I left—with Walker, my mom, my friends. And if I fought it, I’d crash and burn.
I fought it.
Monday, after I talked to Mom, I went to Coach Lowery’s office to tell him I couldn’t play football.
Coach reacted with the concern and compassion you’d expect from an educator.
“You’re shittin’ me, right? You gotta be shittin’ me.”
“I wouldn’t … do that. Coach.”
Coach’s office was full of wrestling trophies and smelled like old sweat and the Clorox they used on the floor. He ran his hand through hair that wasn’t there, then banged his fist on the desk.
“You waltz in here and say, ‘I’m quitting, Coach. Sorry.’ Like it’s nothing. Like the Dolphins are nothing.”
“It’s not nothing, Coach. It’s—”
“Darn right! I was going to start you at QB this fall. Is that nothing?”
I gaped at him. Starting quarterback! And only going into junior year. Usually positions like that went to seniors, and the best I could’ve hoped for was backup. I’d been playing football since Pop Warner, bumming rides off people, even walking to practice, all for this—and for the chance of catching the eye of some recruiter and getting out of here once and for all.
Not to mention the game itself. Most guys I knew played because their dads pushed them or to get girls. But I never had a dad to push me like that. And girls—they started calling me back when I still only wanted to play G.I. Joes. No, it was the game, the feel and smell of the ball on my hands. The high—better than beer or even the X I’d tried at a party once—the high of being tackled by a bigger, faster player, but you’d already made the perfect pass.
Then I remembered why I couldn’t play.
“I’m sorry, Coach. I am.”
“You on drugs?”
“No, sir.”
“Because your work in history’s been for shit. I been passing you through—since I know you’re trying hard—but that can’t go on forever.”
Message, Loud and Clear: He’d flunk me in history if I quit. For a second my mind screamed, Tell him! Tell him the truth! But no. I’d already tried that once, telling a teacher. Mr. Zucker had reported it to the authorities as apparently required by state law. But when the social worker showed up, a tired-looking woman, Walker had explained it away, saying I was having a little trouble “adjusting.” He thanked her for her interest and said he’d take care of it. After she left, he had. Mom hadn’t come out of her room for two days.
“I’m sorry,” I told Coach again.
“Wanna clue me in on what makes the best player I have decide to throw away his life? And ruin things for everyone else, too?”
“I can’t.”
I’d come home from a game. A game we’d won, so I should have been happy. But the whole time, I’d wondered why she wasn’t there. She’d always gone to my games, if only to worry about my getting hurt. I didn’t know I cared. But that night, I looked out into the stands and didn’t see her. I fumbled a gift of a pass, thinking about it, so everyone gave me shit the rest of the half.
When I got home, I knew it was happening.
I stood there, my feet feeling stapled to the floor. And then the grip was released, and I was running, shoving past doorways and stairs like they were defensive linemen I should have gone through, hearing her screams, flying, falling across the dark, slick, wooden floor to Walker’s study.
The room was bright with moonlight. From the door, I could see Walker’s back, her blond hair. I stepped closer. His hands gripped her neck.
“Will you make me?” he screamed. “Will you make me do it again, you bitch?”
I started toward them.
“No. No don’t.�
�� Her eyes met mine. “Michael, don’t.”
At my name, Walker turned and saw me. Then I was over him, on him, hands on his throat. On top of him, screaming, “You bastard! Get off of her!” feeling him struggle beneath me. All the strength that had been sapped in football flowed back through me, letting me hold him down, letting her get away.
Except she didn’t get away. She stood there, like she didn’t know whom to protect.
Walker rolled on top of me, but instead of hitting back, he just slipped away. He stared, the anger in his face evaporating.
He stood and walked out.
That’s when she moved.
“Oh, baby,” she said. “Oh, Michael, I’m sorry.”
She tried to hug me, but I pulled away. I kept her away. Her shirt was ripped at the neck. There were bruises shaped like his hands. I felt nothing looking at her. Or maybe I hated her.
“It won’t happen again,” she said. “I promise.”
I was so sure she would leave. Or, even if she didn’t, everything would change. I was strong now. He knew I’d take him on. He wouldn’t do it again, not now.
But the next week, another game missed. And when I got home, this eerie déjà vu. My footsteps followed the same path to the same room, same place. But this time Walker fought back. I missed the next three days of school because of the pain. Walker’s arm was in a sling too. I didn’t confront him after that. Didn’t, because I knew if I did, someone would get killed.
So instead, I watched. There was nothing else I could do. I was too weak.
“I just can’t play, Coach.”
I placed my locker key on his desk. I felt his eyes follow me out the door and down the hall. I didn’t let myself look back.
By lunch, I still hadn’t told Tristan.
“Let’s roll,” he said as we left fourth-period Spanish. Coach was posting scrimmage teams today, and though he wouldn’t post the real roster until fall, we’d figured these teams would give us an idea of his plans. Tris had packed up his stuff five minutes before the bell rang. “You go,” I said. “Tell me what it says.”
“Yeah, right.” He laughed. “It’ll be so cool if we both make varsity next year.”
I followed him downstairs and across the breezeway, trying to find my nerve. When we got to the P.E. office, lots of guys were already there. My friends were high-fiving and slapping backs. Tristan started pushing through to look.
“Wait,” I said.
He stopped, looking at me like, Well?
“I quit the team, Tris.”
“Yeah, right. What’d you, go out for track instead?” He started back toward the door.
I grabbed his shoulder. “Listen to me. I quit for real, okay? It’s a dumb game. I don’t have time for it. I’m practically flunking history, and my mom is on me about it. Okay?”
I realized I was shouting. I elbowed past Tris and some other guys to get down the hall.
Tristan followed me. “For real, even? Your mom was so into you playing. Is it your stepdad?”
“Just leave me alone!”
I felt his eyes on me as I left, expecting something. Seemed like someone—Coach, Tristan, Mom—was always expecting something from me. I headed to the cafeteria, figuring I’d be safe from questions there. Most of my friends got lunch from the “roach coach,” this truck that parked behind the basketball courts and sold stuff like greaseburgers with a side of grease.
But Vanessa was in the cafeteria with half the cheerleading squad. I hadn’t called her over the weekend. When the cheerleaders saw me, they started to giggle and talk faster. I gave myself a pep talk about how dumb cheerleading really was, and I kept eating my lunch—pb&j’s from home. A minute later Vanessa strolled past my table to put her tray onto the conveyor belt.
“Hi,” I said.
She lowered her eyes, cool. Her look said she wasn’t going to sit by me without an engraved invitation. Lots of girls would’ve been on my lap. That was what was so cool about Vanessa. Well, that and her breasts. But I didn’t invite her, and she went back to her friends.
I didn’t really like her. That’s what I told myself. She was pretty and all, but not a whole lot better or worse than any other girl. I finished my first pb&j and opened the second, not looking up. But then I sensed someone sitting beside me. And, more than that, watching me.
I’d known Julian Karpe since kindergarten, one of those weird grade-school friendships that starts over a shared Tonka truck and keeps going long after you’ve grown past it. When we got to middle school, I went out for football, and that was pretty much that. I tried to talk Karpe into playing, but he said it was stupid. He blew me off after that. I made some new friends and forgot about Karpe.
So it was weird, him sitting by me. I watched him a minute, sort of marveling at his white skin, which looked like it had never seen the sun—tough on Key Biscayne. He read a book, oblivious to the decibel level in the cafeteria, and when he noticed me looking at him, he lifted two spidery fingers to his brow in a salute.
“Hey, Mikey Mouse!” Karpe and I used to make up stupid nicknames for everyone … back when we were seven.
“Hey.” Hoping answering would stop him repeating my name. Was Vanessa looking?
“She’s really all that and a bag of Doritos, huh?” He nodded toward Vanessa.
“Hadn’t noticed. See ya.” I got up and left.
My locker was by the gym, same as all my friends’ lockers. Usually we hung there, but now I wanted to get my junk and leave before they all got on my case.
I’d done the right thing, I knew. It just felt so damn wrong.
THIS YEAR
The Internet White Pages prompts:
Last Name:
I type: Anderson
First Name: Kirsten
I leave the city and state blank. I have no idea where Kirstie is.
The message comes back red.
State
I choose Louisiana, where she said she was from.
No matches found.
Good thing about working for the carnival is that carnies sleep during the day. For insomniacs like me, that means I have a lot of time on my hands. Today I took two buses and a train to the downtown library, where they have out-of-town phone books. I’m trying the Internet first, though.
I type in different combinations:
Andersen, Kirsten
Andersen, Kirstie
Anderson, Kersten
Anderson, K
Twenty-one matches for K. Anderson in Louisiana. I print them out, then try Florida, where I last saw her, then Georgia and Alabama, because I don’t really know if she went home. I avoid thinking about the obvious … that she’s changed her name, is unlisted, is living with family.
Is living with another guy.
That Kirsten Anderson wasn’t her real name in the first place.
That she’s dead.
There are five Kirsten Andersons in Minnesota, but Minnesota isn’t a likely state. Too cold. When I picture Kirstie, it’s always hot. She wears a green T-shirt and short denim shorts, her dark hair flowing out behind her, nothing you’d wear in Minnesota.
I print the Minnesota list anyway.
I don’t know why I need to find Kirstie. I mean, I do know, because I love her, but finding her won’t solve my problems. It might make more.
Still, I try Arkansas, New York, California.
“You need to move on.”
I start. Instinctively I pull my baseball cap lower on my forehead. “What?”
“Your time’s up. It’s someone else’s turn at the computer now.”
I look sideways. It’s a library employee.
“Oh, sorry,” I say. “Can I use it again later?”
She sighs. “I’ll put you back on the list.”
“Where are the out-of-state phone books and the newspaper microfilms?”
She leads me toward the telephone books. I find Louisiana and select the one that includes Kirstie’s town. There are a bunch of Andersons, but only one i
n her town, a woman’s name. Not likely to be her. Still, I copy the number. Maybe it’s an aunt or something. I copy the other Andersons in nearby towns.
I start toward the newspaper archives, then go for the current paper instead. The headline reads:
Jury Selection Difficult in Highly Publicized Monroe Case
Trial may begin next week
There’s a photograph of a guy, maybe Mom’s lawyer, and one of Mom and Walker, taken at some party she and Walker went to once. I stare at it. Other than my one photo, I haven’t seen her face in a year. I wonder if she’s changed as much as I have.
“Robert Frost?”
I look up.
“It’s your turn for the computer again.” The woman smiles. “And I love your name.”
“Thanks. My mom was into poetry.”
She glances at what I’m reading, then at my face. I’m sure she knows who I am. I’m him. I’m the kid. I can’t make my hands pull down my baseball cap, and even if I could, it wouldn’t matter.
“Fascinating case,” she says. “Isn’t it?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Do you think she’s guilty?”
I fold the newspaper and put it back onto the rack. “You know, I found what I need after all. You can let someone else take my turn.”
I wait until her back is turned before I walk out.
LAST YEAR
The dining room at Walker’s house (I never called it our house) overlooked Biscayne Bay. It was only a few feet from the study where, according to today’s Miami Herald (though they used the word allegedly), Walker would soon lie, murdered by his gold-digging wife. But that day Walker was in perfect health. He sat in his armchair, holding a glass of Jack in one hand, a cancer stick in the other, waiting for my mother to get dinner on the table.
I sat with him. “Those things will kill you, Walk,” I said.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Walker checked his watch, and I checked mine. Six fifty-eight. Mom always had dinner on the table at seven—no earlier, and definitely no later.
