Tag Along

by Tom Ryan

  I look across the yard and sure enough, Lannie is standing under a cherry tree with Darrah and Ryan Penner, but Paul is nowhere in sight.

  Paul and I grew up across the street from each other. When we were little, we were best friends. After junior high, when I funneled into academic classes and school band and Paul stuck with sports, we just sort of stopped hanging out. Until the end of tenth grade, we still walked to school together a lot of days. That summer he and Lannie started going out, and now she picks him up every morning. I honestly can’t remember the last time I even talked to the guy.

  Everyone was pretty surprised when Lannie and Paul started going out. She’s basically queen of the school, and Paul is the kind of guy who fades into the woodwork. Maybe that’s what appeals to Lannie. That and the fact that he put on about six inches and twenty pounds of muscle during the last half of tenth grade.

  I notice a table set up on the patio, with some sandwiches and bowls of chips laid out.

  “I’m starving,” I tell Bethanne. “I’m going to grab something to eat. Don’t go anywhere.”

  I’m filling a plate when Penner comes stumbling up and pours himself some soda.

  “Interesting choice of outfit,” he says. I can smell the liquor on his breath.

  I glance down at my T-shirt. “Yeah, whatever, thanks.”

  He pulls a flask from his pocket and pours something into his drink. “You want some?” he asks, shoving the flask toward me.

  “No, thanks,” I say.

  “I should have guessed,” he says. “You’re probably opposed to drinking or whatever.”

  “I don’t care what you do,” I tell him, which is true. “What is it anyway?”

  “Tequila and rum and Irish cream liqueur,” he says, tossing back a big swig. “Stole it from my old man.”

  “Oh my god, that’s disgusting.”

  “Does the trick,” he says. He takes another big gulp and belches. “’Scuse me.”

  “Right,” I say. “Sure. Have fun, Ryan,” I tell him. His mouth is full of chips, so he just holds his cup up and grunts at me.

  I take my plate back to where Bethanne is standing.

  “What did Penner want?” she asks.

  “Nothing,” I say. “He’s already wasted and it’s not even seven. What a loser.”

  “What do you expect?” she says. “He’s got a reputation to keep up.” She looks past me and her eyes widen. “Okay, perfect,” she says. “Justin is totally standing over there by himself.”

  I glance over my shoulder, trying not to make it obvious. Sure enough, Justin is standing by the corner of the house. He’s staring at his phone, and from the way he’s holding it, and the expression on his face, I’m pretty sure he’s playing a game.

  I know that playing video games at a party like this isn’t the epitome of cool, but there’s something about it that I find kind of adorable. I wonder why, out of all the guys in school, I have a thing for this one. Justin’s hair is always kind of messy, his glasses permanently sit halfway down his nose, and right now his khakis are just an inch or so too long and dragging under his heels, but still…There’s just something about his face that gets to me. His lips are full and usually open just enough that you can see the tips of his two front teeth. His cheeks are always slightly flushed, as if he’s kind of embarrassed about something. And his eyes, those eyes…pale blue and crystal clear. He’s a little bit shy and doesn’t say a lot in class, but when he does, when he’s talking about something he’s interested in, his eyes practically glow, even from behind his bangs.

  “Andrea,” says Bethanne. “You’re staring. Go now. Go talk to him.”

  “Bethanne, I can’t,” I say. “I look like an idiot.”

  “Andrea, please,” she says. “He’s wearing a tie with a picture of the starship Enterprise on it. He’s in no position to judge. Now will you go make something happen?” She reaches out and grabs my paper plate, then gives me a push.

  Justin is engrossed in his phone and doesn’t look up as I approach. I begin to wonder if this was such a good idea.

  “Hey, Justin,” I say.

  “Oh, hey!” he says, looking up from his phone and shooting me a big smile. I start to relax.

  “Hey,” I say again.

  He opens his mouth and is about to say something when Bethanne runs up and practically tackles me from behind. She grabs me by the shoulders and pushes me around the corner of the house. Justin gives me a confused little wave goodbye. I wave back at him.

  “What are you doing?” I ask Bethanne.

  “Your mom is here,” she says.

  “What?”

  “I just saw her through the window. She’s in the kitchen, talking to Terry’s mom. They’ll be out here any second.”

  My mouth drops open. “Oh. My. God.”

  Then I hear her, calling out into the backyard.

  “Andrea!”

  She sounds 50 percent angry, 50 percent frantic and 100 percent mind-numbingly embarrassing.

  “Shit,” I say. “What do I do?”

  “Just hit the road,” says Bethanne. “You’re going to catch hell anyway. This is embarrassing enough without your mom dragging you out of the party in handcuffs.”

  I hesitate, and Bethanne snaps her fingers right in front of my face.

  “Andrea! In five seconds you will either be the victim of the most embarrassing moment of your life or the hero of the most badass moment of your life. Now move it!”

  She’s right. I hurry through the front yard to the sidewalk. Then I start to run.

  Sticking to the back streets, I move away from Terry’s house and the school. Finally, several blocks later, I slow down to catch my breath. I try to think of someplace to go, somewhere my mother won’t come looking for me.

  Then I turn a corner and find myself face to face with her. She’s wearing her best business suit and her hair is perfectly coiffed. I stop in my tracks and stare at the big fake smile that beams out at me from the side of the bus shelter.

  Dinah Wants You to Get Home Now! says the life-size poster of my mother. Let Dinah Feingold of Feingold Realty Help You Find Your Dream Home!

  “Really?” I ask out loud. Then I hustle past the bus stop, leaving my mother behind to boss around the commuters of Granite Ridge.

  PAUL

  I’m about to jump into Dad’s truck when someone yells at me from across the street.

  “Paul!”

  I step back from the truck and slam the door. Andrea’s mom is waving at me from in front of their house. I wave back before I realize she isn’t smiling. She’s not really waving, either. It’s more like she’s beckoning me to come over.

  I cross the street. She looks impatient. I’ve never really liked Andrea’s mom; she’s strict and not very friendly.

  “Hi, Mrs. Feingold,” I say.

  “Are you going to the prom?” she asks.

  “Uh, no. I’m feeling kind of—”

  She cuts me off. “Is someone having a party beforehand?” she asks. “Do you know where it is?” She sounds irritated, as if I’ve done something wrong.

  “Uh, I think Terry Polish is having people over to his house.” I wonder immediately if I should have kept my mouth shut, since this probably has something to do with Andrea jumping out her window.

  “Okay,” she says, turning away abruptly and getting into her car. She backs quickly out of the driveway and zooms away toward Terry’s house. Now I’ve probably gone and gotten Andrea in trouble. Nice one, Paul.

  I get in the truck and drive toward the main strip. I plug my iPod into the stereo jack and scroll through to a playlist I only ever listen to by myself. For one thing, Lannie only listens to divas like Beyoncé and Adele. For another thing, Penner looked through my iPod one day, and he’s made fun of me ever since for listening to trip-hop and techno and dance music. He called me a Eurofag, which I guess is his idea of a joke. Whatever. Beats the hell out of the poser fake punk he listens to. M83 blasts at me through the speakers.
I jack up the stereo.

  I love it when Dad lets me drive his truck. It’s a beast, and it totally kicks the shit out of Mom’s Corolla. If I could have any job in the world, I’d be a high-end mechanic. I love working with engines and seeing how everything fits together under the hood to make a vehicle run smooth.

  I made the mistake of mentioning that to Lannie one time. She didn’t like it at all.

  “Paul, you don’t have to resort to that kind of thing,” she said.

  “What kind of thing?”

  “You know, blue-collar stuff. You’re smarter than that. You could be a teacher or something. You just have to focus and work harder.” Lannie wants to be a physiotherapist, and no doubt she’ll do it—she’s definitely smart enough.

  I didn’t bother arguing with her. When Lannie gets an idea in her head about how things should work out, there’s no point discussing any other options. It kind of pissed me off though. My dad’s a carpenter, and he runs his own small contracting business. He’s always wiped out when he gets home from work, but he’s in great shape for an old guy, and every day when he gets home, he cracks a beer and says, “I sure as hell earned this one today.” He loves his job. What’s wrong with that? But I just keep my mouth shut when Lannie talks to me about education, because I know she just wants what’s best for me.

  I turn onto Coronation Boulevard, which is what passes for the main strip in Granite Ridge. A Walmart, a grocery store, a bunch of shops and some chain restaurants. If you want to do anything really fun, you have to go into the city, but most of the time people just end up on the strip unless there’s a party at the Ledge or something.

  I drive by some short dude in a tuxedo walking by himself along the sidewalk. As I pass, I glance in the rearview mirror. Roemi Kapoor. I don’t really know Roemi that well. He’s in all academic classes, with Lannie and Andrea and the rest of the brains. Penner has a serious hate on for him. He says it’s disgusting that we’ve reached a point in history where someone can be openly gay in high school. He knows better than to lay a hand on Roemi, but he definitely throws a lot of fag talk around when we pass him in the hallway.

  I don’t agree with Penner about the gay thing. I don’t think it’s a big deal, but I would never in a million years say that out loud. To be honest, I kind of admire Roemi. When people talk shit to him, he just walks past with his head in the air as if he hasn’t heard a thing. It’s pretty crazy that someone can be that confident when they’ve got that kind of heat on them.

  Other than Roemi, the strip is pretty much dead. Everyone is obviously at the prom or one of the pre-parties.

  On a whim, I pull up to the arcade and go inside. It’s full of junior-high kids. A few of them look at me funny, but I figure what the hell and grab a seat at one of the racing games. I get caught up in it for a while, drop a few bucks.

  I find myself wishing that Jerry and Ahmed were here with me. We spent a lot of time at the arcade as kids. Now we’re a year away from graduating, and I barely talk to them anymore. I could probably stay here all night, playing, but after a few games I force myself to get up out of the little chair and call it a night.

  On my way through the parking lot, I decide to stop at the Snak-Stop and pick up some junk food. I’m pretty sure I can convince my brothers to watch The Bourne Identity with me for the millionth time.

  I grab a few chocolate bars, then head to the chip aisle. I’m trying to decide between sour-cream-and-onion or BlastaCheese nachos when some girl hurries right up next to me out of nowhere, grabs my hand and squeezes it tightly.

  I’ve never seen her before and I’m about to ask her what the hell she’s doing when the bells on the door jingle and I see a cop come into the store.

  I glance down at her face and can tell that she’s scared.

  “Please just help me out here,” she whispers.

  CANDACE

  I wander aimlessly for a while before I find a spot that looks like it might have some potential. A little one-story elementary school at the back of a corner lot where two quiet streets intersect. The parking lot is empty, and the school is obviously deserted for the weekend. Just the kind of place I’ve been hoping to find.

  I cross through the playground to the school and duck behind the building. I’m in the dead space behind the school, where a line of pine trees and a chain-link fence partially shield the area from the street. I stick my face up to the fence. There’s a sidewalk on the other side of the trees, and across the street are some houses, far enough away that I’m pretty sure they don’t have a clear view of the school. A bit farther down the street is a four-way stop sign and some more houses. There’s no traffic in sight.

  Confident that the coast is clear, I turn and examine the wall in front of me. A big metal box hums quietly at one end of the building, and two large windows sit just above eye level. I get on my tiptoes and peer through one of them into a classroom. I can just make out little desks and little chairs and colorful kids’ drawings all over the walls. Between the two windows is an eight-foot stretch of clean brick. It’s perfect, the kind of blank slate I’d never find back in the city.

  I stop and listen. Other than the electrical box, some kids screaming in the distance and the faraway buzz of a lawn mower, it’s dead quiet. In one sense, this is great. It means that nobody is around. On the other hand, it makes me a bit nervous that there isn’t at least some traffic to help create a bit of white noise. Spray paint can be pretty loud.

  I drop my pack to the ground and unzip it, then bend over and start pulling out my supplies. Five spray cans—brown, two blues, black and red. I know enough to leave them in the pack, upright and sticking out for when I need them, in case it needs to be rezipped in a hurry if I have to make tracks.

  The first time I did graffiti—I mean really did it, with spray paint, not just markers—I was scared shitless. I’d been out with Rick a bunch of times when he was bombing, but I’d always just stood back and watched. A couple of times we’d had to run for it when somebody got nosy, but he was always totally cool about it. We’d usually end up in some park, hiding in the trees, laughing our asses off and passing a bottle back and forth. The first time I did it myself, though, it was like I had crossed a line. I was doing something I shouldn’t have been, and it felt really good. The thing I liked the most, though, was the final product. We weren’t just out smashing shit up or doing drugs or whatever—we were breaking the rules by creating something new.

  I uncap a paint stick. When I’m throwing up a new piece, I like to start with a quick outline. Some people use Magic Markers or charcoal; really good artists just slap up an outline with the spray can, but I like paint sticks. They’re kind of expensive but worth it—they’re slick, so they slide nicely over the walls, and they leave a good crisp edge. They smell really good too.

  The trees cast some shadow on me, but it’s still broad daylight, so I have to be extra careful. I’ve been working on this image of a rose. I know it sounds girly, but it’s not, really—it’s got hard edges and, most important, it’s original. I start off with a black outline, then fill in the stem and a couple of thorns with brown paint. I finish the rose with blue—kind of a chalky bluebird-blue for the background, and a deeper blue for the highlights. The final touch is a drop of blood hanging from one of the thorns. I can usually get the whole thing done in about ten or fifteen minutes if I’m working smoothly with no interruptions.

  I start sketching, and soon I’m lost in the rhythm of it. Some people are into music, some people play sports, but I get a thrill from the flow of my arm and the smell of the paint.

  I finish the outline and reach down to grab a brown spray can. There’s a certain skill to filling in narrow spaces—there’s no room for error, so you need to make sure you have the distance right. Too close to the surface and the paint will puddle and drip; too far and you’ll overdo it, and the paint will feather outside your edges. Either way it will look like shit. I take aim at the ground and shoot a few test blasts, then bite my
lip and hit the wall. That’s when I hear a car slow down right behind me, on the other side of the fence, and the whoop sound of a siren, warning me that I’ve been spotted.

  I’m careful not to turn around, so my face stays hidden. I quickly and carefully bend down and grab my pack, and then I run. I have a good head start, because the cop car has to take two corners to get to the open edge of the schoolyard entrance. Without taking time to think, I dart to the opposite corner of the playground, tossing my backpack into a small playhouse as I move.

  By the time the cruiser makes it around the corner and pulls to a quick stop by the entrance of the playground, I’ve managed to duck behind a garbage can three driveways past the school. I catch my breath and stick my head out just far enough to see a cop jump from the car and run onto the playground. I know it will only take him a minute to realize that I’m not there, so I have to hustle.

  As soon as I move out from behind the garbage can, I’ll be exposed, so the question is which way to run. Do I take a chance on crossing the street, hoping there will be a clear path to safety? Or do I run up the driveway of this house and into the backyard instead?

  I choose the house, because it will save me a few seconds. As the cop hurries back to the cruiser, I stand up and take off for the yard, as fast as I can. I hear him yell for me to stop, and the car takes off with another whoop whoop, but I don’t look back. I just run.

  It’s a lucky break that this backyard backs onto another with no fence between them, just some hedges. I race through the two yards and make it to the sidewalk on the other side. Right away, I see the back of a little strip mall across the street. Moving quickly, I make it into the alley between two buildings. I pull off my hoodie and hat as I run, wedging them behind a Dumpster. Then I hurry around the corner and through the first door I see.

  It’s a convenience store, glaringly bright and pretty much empty. The woman behind the counter is reading a magazine and eating pizza—she doesn’t bother to look up at me. The only other person in the store is some young guy standing by a row of chips.