Breaking Point (9 page)

“I wouldn't, if I were you,” Charlie said.

The cop turned back, smirking, letting his light shine in Charlie's face. “You wouldn't, would you?”

How did Charlie keep from moving, squinting? A mosquito buzzed my ear, but I didn't dare swat it. Charlie said, “You have no warrant, have you, to search his truck?” Charlie's voice stayed cool. “We're nowhere near it—certainly not close enough to grab any weapons. We present no danger. We're not stoned or anything. We definitely haven't given our permission. What would happen if someone investigated this search?”

“What do you know about it?” But the cop moved away from the truck, toward us. It dawned on me that Charlie knew something about the law, somehow. And the cop was listening.

“Plenty.” Charlie didn't move. “My mom's a U.S. attorney, Mary Good—no
E
. Works in Washington, mostly. Her specialty's prosecuting cops who do bad searches.”

The cop didn't move. I stopped picturing Mom pulling her hair.

“Don't think she'd look kindly on you harassing her son.” Charlie shrugged. “You know how moms are.”

The cop shrugged too. “Hey, I wasn't going to search the car.”

Charlie smiled, understanding. “Didn't think so.”

“But you're not supposed to be in the park this time of night.” With his flashlight, the cop lit the sign posting park hours.

“Oh, is that all?” Charlie stood, gesturing for us to do the same. “Well, men, we'd best leave, then.” I followed, barely finding my feet beneath me. “Thanks for the advice, Officer…” Charlie squinted at the cop's badge.

“Wolofsky,” the cop said.

We piled into the car, managing not to break up for a block or so. Charlie sat, trancelike, saying, “Keep a cool head. That's what Big Chuck says.” Then, Meat started to giggle. St. John followed, a full, hollow laugh. Not me. I watched the fading streetlights, the roadside benches flashing by, the Dumpster where we threw the uneaten bagels, and I knew that with Charlie, I was safe. Charlie could get away with anything.

Monday in chapel, the sermon was “Thou Shalt Not Steal.” I couldn't help but glance at Charlie when Reverend Phelps announced the topic. He sat, hands in lap, listening like the perfect Christian schoolboy. Maybe he even was.

“Write about a childhood memory,” my English teacher had said, probably thinking she was being profound. Thinking that it would be easy, anyway. Miss Bundy, who reeked of CK cologne and drove a new white Saab her parents had probably bought, couldn't have imagined childhood would be a difficult subject for anyone. But it was for me. Oh, I knew what the clones would write: “My First Bicycle” or “Our Third Trip to Europe.” But my childhood stretched behind like so many identical calendar squares. Read with Mom, watched television, wished Dad would come home, then regretted it when he did. Nothing ever happened. At least, nothing memorable. Nothing memorable had happened until this month. Until Charlie.

Maybe, I thought giddily, I could write about smashing mailboxes or stealing bagels. That would be an A paper, all right.

I calmed myself.

I stared out the window, flipping through memories like tabs on a notebook. All I remembered was trying to keep Mom happy, keep my parents from fighting.

Finally, I wrote about going to Disney World when I was five. I could be a clone, too.

“When I walked into class, everyone turned to stare. Then, they looked away.”

Amanda was reading her English essay. I fidgeted, suddenly uncomfortable in my clothes.

“I was nine, and it was my fourth school.”

Beautiful. Perfect. Hot
. Adjectives hit my ears like enemy missiles, then fell away, harmless. Roget himself couldn't have come up with a word for Amanda Colbert.

“Every year, Dad promised we were somewhere to stay. But every September, there I was, staring at the linoleum. Different schools, same sinking feeling.”

Amanda sat three seats behind me. Impossible angle. Still, I strained to watch. She'd never read in class before. I couldn't remember hearing her voice. Now, her eyes didn't leave the paper. Her reddish hair fluttered across her forehead, obscuring her face. She didn't fix it. She was scared. Suddenly, the feelings I'd been having for girls in general since coming to Gate all concentrated themselves on one girl. This girl. This girl was different. This girl was real.

This girl was Gray St. John's ex-girlfriend. He still liked her, Meat had said. She might as well have a sign hanging around her neck: LOOK, DON'T TOUCH.

Still, I watched. She kept reading, about sitting alone at lunch, crying in her pillow every night. “I thought I'd never make friends,” she said.

I know what Binky would have said.
Poor baby. Such a deprived childhood
. But me, I longed to reach back through the years and comfort her. I'd been there too.

She looked up and met my eyes. A second, no more. It meant nothing. But she smiled.

I forced my eyes down to my paper.

I was still recovering from the Great Bagel Caper when Charlie sent another shock wave. Friday morning, I fumbled through my books, mentally preparing for the exhilarating change from religion to Algebra II. Down the hall, Mr. Motter talked to Miss Bundy. A jock named Pierre, one of the guys who'd mooned me the first week, grabbed Emily's lacrosse stick, making like he'd hook Motter's toupee. The assembled clones cheered. Motter walked on, oblivious. Charlie emerged from the mob.

He leaned against my locker. “You free after school?”

He wanted more homework help. Still, I said, “The usual.” Not mentioning that the usual was going over to Binky's house.

“Blow it off,” Charlie said. “We should hook up after school. You could come over my house.” Charlie was already looking elsewhere.

“Sure.” I glanced around. Did anyone else see us talking? Yes. Down the hall, Binky frowned. I met her eyes, then looked back at Charlie. “Are St. John and Meat—?”

“No, just you. I'm not a pack animal.” He shifted his book bag. “If you can.”

He walked away. Binky was still standing, watching us. When Charlie left, she came over.

“What were you talking to
him
about?”

“Nothing. I mean, he had a question about the assignment—he's in my Algebra II class.” Did she know I was lying? That Charlie was in none of my classes?

She did. I was sure. But she said, “Oh.”

“I need to get to class.”

Binky smiled. “Algebra, right? The one Charlie Good's in with you.”

I shifted foot to foot. “Yeah, well, he transferred in.”

“Whatever.” She shrugged. “See you after school, then?”

“Can't.” Shifting faster, desperate to get away. “I've got stuff, family stuff.”

“Next week, then.”

She started toward Motter's room, then turned and waved. I waved back and went in the opposite direction. But somehow I knew I wouldn't be visiting Binky's house next week or ever again.

Later, we pulled into Charlie's driveway in his Mercedes. My first ride, and I was shotgun.

I crossed the threshold, eyes open, looking for something but not sure what. Something to explain what made Charlie—well, Charlie. Yet, the house, though rich and beautiful, was ordinary. Beige. The right number of books on the correct number of shelves. Even the pool, surrounded by palms through the French doors, was typical around there. The tennis court occupied the prized spot beside it. Nothing was surprising, and that surprised me. I'd expected Charlie's world to be painted in colors I'd never seen before. Not beige. Anything but beige.

“Hey. Anyone there?” Charlie interrupted my thoughts. I jumped. “Sometimes, you look like you're curing cancer, Einstein.”

“Nothing like that.” My eyes fell on a framed photo, Charlie under a banner for the Junior Orange Bowl tennis tournament. “That's your dad with you?” He didn't look like Charlie, but he had his hand on Charlie's shoulder.

“The man himself.”

Charlie didn't smile. “Sorry,” I said. “What were you—?”

“My room's upstairs.”

I followed, still blown away about being there. The first thing I noticed was the computer. Couldn't help it. It was a new Dell, with flat-screen monitor and speakers I'd have killed for. Before I knew it, I was touching it. I saw Charlie looking and backed off. “Wow. Some setup.”

“Is it?” Charlie shrugged. “Birthday present.”

“What kind of software do you have?”

“You're sure into computers.” But he smiled and flipped on the stereo. Someone's drum solo filled the air really loud, so I knew we were alone. Charlie sat on the floor. “Turn it on and look,” he yelled.

I sat on his desk chair—leather soft as flannel—and fired up the computer. I scrolled through the programs. He had everything. He had Doom II, which Mom had forbidden once she'd seen Doom. And all the Tomb Raiders—Lara was hot. I pointed to Doom II. “Where's the disc for that?”

He gestured toward the CD rack. “I have Quake III Arena too.”

I nodded. There wasn't even time to look at everything.

“And The Last Revelation. But mostly, I use it for homework. Like word processing.”

I nodded.

“Play on the Web sometimes, especially since last year's honors awards. Meeks's keynote address was about the ‘Influence of the Internet on our children.'” He said the last part in Meeks's lispy voice.

I laughed. “What'd he say?”

With his other foot, Charlie removed one whitish Top-Sider and kicked it to the floor. He wore no socks. Gate required them. “He's against it. Misses the old days when they communicated by Morse code.”

I laughed again. “Or Pony Express.”

“Sent Mary scurrying for the parental controls, though,” he said.

“Yeah, my mom did that too.”

“I told her I'm not that easily influenced, and she respected that.” He kicked the other shoe aside, wiggling his toes. “It didn't block much anyway. Mostly porn sites, and who cares about that?” I nodded, though I wouldn't have minded seeing one. Charlie reached for the volume knob, turned down the stereo. “Found some wicked websites, though. Pranks, stuff to do to people. Pretty wild.”

“Like what?” God, I still couldn't believe I was there.

“One funny one was putting birdseed on someone's car. Makes the birds come and crap all over it.” He grinned. “Haven't done that one yet. Saving it for someone special.”

I laughed, picturing it. “What else?”

He leaned on his elbow, starting to tell me. Then, a voice from the hall.

“Charlie!”

I started. Charlie sprang to a seated position, feet to floor, hunting for his discarded shoes. “In here, Dad.” He rolled his eyes, mumbling, “Don't you ever work?”

Like Charlie, Mr. Good wore white—shorts, polo, tennis shoes. Actually, he was dressed for tennis. Charlie stood, still shuffling into his shoes. I stood too. Charlie's Dad snapped off the stereo. “What's this?” Walking closer, next to Charlie.

“Dad.” Charlie stepped back. “This is Paul Richmond. From school.”

“Forget something?” He took my hand, looking only at Charlie. “Good to meet you, Phil.”

“Oh.” Charlie stared at his shoes.

“Now he remembers.” Charlie's father smiled at me, like we were coconspirators against Charlie. “Pretty hard to forget a practice we discussed this morning.”

“Thought it was later.”

“Should
we start later?” He dropped my hand and turned full attention on Charlie. “You tell me. Your backhand was for shit Saturday.” His posture was straight, military. He was much taller than Charlie and bore down on him. “That little Chicano kid almost beat you.”

Charlie backed away. “Dan's not a Chicano, Dad. He's Colombian. And he was born—”

“I don't need his life story.” Charlie's dad stepped closer. “He almost won. Five sets. The last one was seven-six.”

“He's two years older, Dad. He's in college.”

“Are there age divisions in the pros?”

Charlie turned away. “Guess not.”

“You guess?”

“No, sir. There aren't.”

“Better. And look at people when you speak. Eye contact. You look like a punk.”

“Yes, sir.” Charlie gestured at me.

Mr. Good remembered I was there. “I apologize, Phil. My son needs to get his priorities straight.” He turned back to Charlie. “See him to the door.”

“Yes, sir.”

I stared at Charlie. He was my ride, after all. He wasn't saying anything, though, just walked to the door. Was I supposed to stay until he finished? Wait outside like a dog? Finally, I said, “Um, that's fine, sir. But Charlie drove me here. I don't…”