Dead Ends (9 page)

I stood up and growled down at Billy. “My dad is not in some yearbook. I don't need that or an atlas or anything else. If I wanted to find him, I could. I wouldn't need your help. I don't
want
to find him, okay?”

Billy zipped up his backpack and stood, unfazed. “Okay. We can look at it later.”

“I don't want to look—”

“Anyway, I have to go home. My tummy hurts from the cookies.” Billy's eyes widened, and he pointed a finger at me. “Don't tell your mom!”

“Trust me,” I said, “I'm not telling my mom about this. I've asked her about my dad before, and she totally freaks out—”

“No,” Billy interrupted, one hundred percent serious. “Don't tell her what I said about the cookies.”

• • • X • • •

After Billy left, I sat at the kitchen table pretending to write a paper for English. I stared at the notepad under my hands, but I didn't see the words written there. My senses were all focused on Mom instead—the sound of her opening and closing the fridge, the smell of her shampoo, and the feel of her eyes on me.

“How's the homework going?”

“Fine.”

“English?” she asked, sitting across from me.

I didn't look up. “Uh-huh.”

I was afraid to say anything more than a few syllables. Billy had opened up something inside me when he opened that yearbook, and even though I knew it would lead to nowhere good, all my thoughts were now focused on asking Mom a question—a question I hadn't asked in a very long time. Of course, I had asked variations of it over and over as a kid, and she had given me answers that ranged from half truths to what I suspected were out-and-out lies. Finally, after a few heated conversations that had ended with her crying behind her closed bedroom door, I'd dropped it. I never meant to drop it
forever
,
but the more time that passed, the harder it became to bring it up again. But Billy had set something simmering, and now it was at a full boil.

“Mom, do you
know
who my dad is?” I blurted.

Her mouth fell open. “
Excuse
me?”

“Do you—well …” I didn't know how else to word it.

“What exactly are you implying, Dane?”

I stumbled over “I didn't mean—” and “uh, uh, uh” and just
ick
. The weight of what I was really asking her fell all over me, and I wanted to sink into the floor.

Did I really just ask my mom if she was a slut? It was the very accusation I'd defended her against the first time I ever threw a punch. I blamed Billy for planting crazy ideas in my head. This kind of thing was exactly why I didn't want to go looking for my dad. Too messy.

And now Mom was right across from me, barely keeping a lid on that temper I understood so well and waiting for me to say just the wrong thing.

I wanted to drop the whole disgusting conversation, but the pressure of her staring at me was too much. Plus, I had to know. As gross as it was, I had to know if she at least knew who he was. I mean, there had to be a
reason
she hadn't told me, and if it wasn't that she didn't know …

Oh shit. Oh God. No.

It was too sick to think about. It was worse than talking to Mom about sex—way worse. I tasted bile in my mouth.

“Oh my God, Mom, were you—did someone
do
something to you?”

“What?” She kept her eyes narrowed at me, trying to figure out whether I was insulting her again. Then her eyes opened up, and all signs of anger melted off her face.

“Oh geez! No! I wasn't raped, if that's what you're asking. Honestly, is that what you think?”

I recoiled at the word “rape” and wished even harder that I hadn't started this whole awful conversation.

“No, I'm sorry. Shit.”

Mom and I were mirror images with our heads in our hands, looking anywhere but at each other.

“I'm sorry I asked,” I said to the table. “It was stupid.”

“Dane, I need you to understand something.” Mom pressed her fingertips together in front of her mouth and forced herself to look into my eyes. “The reason I never talk to you about your … your
father
… is not to protect myself. I wasn't rap—”

I winced.

“I wasn't attacked,” she went on. “And I wasn't sleeping around.”

I sighed. I had known that, deep down, but it was good to hear Mom say it.

“The reason I don't talk to you about him is to protect
you
.”

I raised an eyebrow. That sounded like a line, but I wasn't going to protest when she was so close to spilling the beans, so I kept my mouth shut.

“The truth … or the thing is … damn.” Mom whispered the last word and looked away, toward the wall of lottery tickets, toward all the things we should have had but refused to claim.
When she turned back, her eyes were liquid. One tear escaped down her cheek as she said quietly, “He didn't want you.”

It was soft, the way she said it, but it punched me hard in the gut. I wanted to puke again but in a whole new way—like I could upchuck my whole heart.

Mom rushed to fill the silence.

“But
I
really
did
, honey. I wanted you
so
much. It's his loss. It's always been his loss, because you are so great—”

“It's okay, Mom.”

“No, it's not. I'm sorry. But do you see now why it doesn't matter who he is?”

No. It matters more than ever.

“Yeah, I see.”

I realized right then that I
did
want to know who he was. I didn't want to go find him for some lame father-son reunion. I didn't really want to find him at all. I just wanted a name. I wanted to know who was making my palms itch right then—whose face belonged at the end of my fist. But I wasn't angry for myself. I was angry for Mom. I was pissed that she had to apologize for that bastard, that she had to shed tears for him—or for me, because of him.

I reached forward to take Mom's hands. It made me feel like the adult.

“Mom.”

“Yeah?” Her tough voice was back, but I could still hear a little sniffle behind it.

“If he doesn't want me, I don't want him, either.”

She met my eyes and squeezed my hands as if afraid I would pull away. “Are you sure?”

I held her gaze. “I'm sure.”

As Mom wrapped her arms around my neck, I added to myself:
Sure if I ever do find him, I will beat him until even
he
doesn't know his name.

After a couple of weeks of Billy tagging along to and from school, I'd forgotten to be embarrassed being seen with him—forgotten to notice other people noticing us. The only times I remembered we might look strange walking side by side were once when I heard a rumor that Billy must be my little brother and whenever Nina Sinclair gave me that weepy “aren't-you-sweet” smile. I pretty much stopped talking to her after a few of those.

Our walks were mostly a tug-of-war between Billy trying to get me to decipher codes from the atlas and me trying to give Billy bonus fighting lessons. I knew I let Billy down whenever I couldn't figure out his dad's cryptic messages, so I tried to make up for it with the extra-credit fight-club stuff. I'd been teaching him to stand a little taller and firmer, to get a good stance for leg swipes. He'd managed to knock me off my feet a
few times, and I noticed he wasn't hunching so much now when he walked.

We were practicing those leg swipes on one of our walks home when a flash of white ahead of us caught my eye.

“Hey, Billy D., isn't that your girlfriend?”

Billy followed my line of sight, then ran ahead, arm straight out in front of him, waving like a maniac. “Seely! Seely!”

Seely skidded to a stop and used the back wheels of her skateboard to do a 180-degree spin. “Hey! Billy D., right?”

“Right!” Billy made a fist and did a little elbow tuck like he was celebrating a victory. “You remember me.”

“Sure I remember you, little dude.”

“I'm not little,” Billy corrected. “I'm—I'm big enough to ride your skateboard.”

Seely tapped the end of the board with her toe to make it pop into the air. She caught it one-handed without taking her eyes off Billy. “That's right. I said you could ride it if we met again.”

“Yeah, 'cause we're friends now.”

I caught up to the two of them and shrugged over Billy's shoulder at Seely. She
had
promised.

She hesitated only a second before plastering on a big smile and passing the board to Billy. “Okay, friend, let's see if you can stand up on it first.”

“Yes!” Billy dropped his heavy pack right there in the street and stepped onto the board. Seely steadied him with two hands, then one, then let him fly around on his own. I noticed he was using his fighting stance to keep balanced. Seely and I both sat
on the curb to watch Billy, impressed and—speaking for myself—a little proud.

“He's pretty good,” Seely said.

I snorted. “Not like riding a skateboard is very hard.”

“It is for some people,” she said.

I glared sideways at Seely. “If you mean people like Billy D., you're wrong. He can stand on a piece of wood as good as anybody.”

“I didn't mean
people like Billy D
. I just meant
people.
It's not as easy as you think.”

My arms relaxed at my sides, and I looked away so Seely wouldn't see the little smile of relief that slipped onto my lips before I could stop it.

“Why do you ride a board, anyway?” I scoffed. “Didn't you say your dad owns a motorcycle shop or something? Why don't you have wheels?”

Seely pointed to the street, under Billy's feet. “I've got four of 'em.”

She winked as Billy slid by and laughed at her comment.

“Anyway,” she went on, “I have to
earn
the big wheels. I'm logging hours at the shop for my dad. He had to lay a bunch of people off when the shop started losing money. So I'm helping him out to earn cash.”

“You gotta pay for your own car? With a mechanic for a dad?”

“Fifty-fifty. Every dollar I earn at the shop, he matches. When we have enough money combined, we'll buy something classic but busted from Ray's, then fix it up together.”

“How much is enough?” I asked.

Seely shook her head, and her short, spiky white hair moved with it. “I don't know. Every time I go to Ray's, I see something I like better—and by better I mean more expensive.”

I began to wonder just how much money she'd saved up already—if it was even half of what Mom had hung up on the wall.

A clatter in the street spun both of our heads. The skateboard was on the ground, wheels up, and Billy was facedown. Seely and I moved at once, sprinting toward Billy. I got there first.

“Billy D., you all right?”

He groaned, his face still in the pavement. I nudged his shoulder with my boot.

“Real gentle.” Seely elbowed me aside and crouched down next to Billy. She swatted my boot out of the way and replaced it with a soft hand on Billy's shoulder. “Hey, friend, are you hurt?”

The groaning gave way to a giggle, and Billy finally rolled over to face us.

Bits of gravel stuck to his cheeks, and he had road rash on his chin, but he was smiling. “That was awesome.”

We all laughed, and I stuck a hand down to help Billy to his feet. “Now
that
is how you take a hit.”

“Pretty tough,” Seely agreed.

She kept a smile on her face while she inspected her board. It was two whole minutes before she declared the board intact and let that fake smile melt into a real one. She dropped the board to the ground and put one foot on it.

“Guess I'll see you guys around.”

“You live in this hood?” I asked.

“Close enough.” Seely pointed over a row of houses. “I live about ten blocks that way. You know where the park is, by the strip mall?”

“We know,” Billy said. “We go to the playground there.”

I hung my head, swinging it slowly from side to side.

“Oh yeah?” Seely kept her voice polite, but I could hear the laughter in it. “The playground?”

“Yeah, with the yellow slide and all the drawings.”

“He means the graffiti,” I said, looking up. “And we don't
play
there. We just hang out there sometimes.”

“Whatever,” Seely said. She put the other foot on her board. “Maybe I'll see you over there sometime.”

“Cool,” Billy said, his eyes on the skateboard.

Seely pushed off down the street and waved. “See ya, Billy!” She nodded at me. “Dane.”

I nodded back but didn't say anything. I didn't realize I had my hand on my head, flattening my hair, until after she had disappeared around a corner.

I found myself scanning the cafeteria the next day for a shock of short white hair, but apparently Seely had a different lunch hour.
Too bad
, I thought as I weaved my way out of the cafeteria to the patio outside. I could have used the company.

I dropped my tray onto one of the patio's concrete picnic tables. I used to have a spot inside, freshman year. But as my friends got kicked out of Twain one at a time, it got harder to hold on to the table, until finally I was the only one left, and I just gave up on the cafeteria altogether.

The patio was usually pretty empty, but today a familiar face threw himself onto the bench across from me—Jake something-or-other. He used to sit with my crowd sometimes last year, when we made room. He reminded me of one of those little yappy dogs that think they're bigger than they are and try to
take on Rottweilers. Actually, Jake tried to take on everyone. As often as he picked fights, it was kind of a miracle he hadn't been kicked out yet himself.