Guardian (4 page)

It's Sunday night and I can't sleep. Partly because I slept all day. Stephanie and the girls all went to Mass and then probably out for pancakes with more of my money, but no one minded that I wanted to stay in bed all day. It was a combination of exhaustion and depression, but now, when I should be sleeping, I'm all wired. I can't find a comfortable position. It feels like mosquitoes are buzzing in my head. I want my money.

I worked my ass off all day Saturday and Duncan Presser is still going to beat me up tomorrow. Since he's done it three times before, I know it will come at lunchtime. On the morning bus, he'll just act disappointed and sad, taunting me with phrases like, “What are we going to do about this, Goldilocks?” But he knows enough not to make any major moves in front of the driver. All during the morning, every passing period he'll find me in the hall and say, “How you doing, Sweetheart? See you at lunch.”

He's smart. Lunch is the easiest time to catch somebody alone and pull them into a vacant classroom. I've tried hiding, but he always tracks me down. I have no friends, so it's easy to get me alone. Either on my way in to lunch or on my way out, he'll appear by my side and steer me quietly to his room of choice, close the door—
bam, bam, bam
—really fast and leave. He's good.

In case you're wondering, I tried the route of telling a teacher what was happening, but Mr. Seeger told me that this was the kind of thing I should work out for myself. I felt like he was telling me I was a sissy if I didn't fight back against this kid who outweighs me by fifty pounds. Maybe I should have told a female teacher. Maybe I'll try that tomorrow.

No. I shouldn't have to do any of this. I earned eighty-two dollars on Saturday and ten of it should be mine, by all that's holy. I find myself standing up in the dark, standing beside my bed like my legs have taken over. I'm going to go get my money.

My heart goes into hyperdrive at this thought, but it's a good kind of excitement—like at the end of an action movie when the final big fight scene starts. I feel powerful that my legs are taking the initiative. I move slowly, like a stalking animal, getting my bearings in the dark.

I pass Andrea and Jessie's room and see a slice of light coming from under the door. I wonder which one of them is up so late. I don't know the time, but it has to be after one o'clock. I take my steps slowly and carefully so I won't squeak any floorboards. I pass Drew's room, where the door is slightly open and I can hear her snoring. I keep feeding my anger with thoughts so I don't chicken out. Stephanie is exploiting all of us, using us, robbing us. Somebody has to strike back.

Stephanie also sleeps with the door open, so she can hear if Drew needs anything. We used to joke that she and Mike closed the door only when … you know. I guess now it'll be open forever. My heart is hammering away, but I feel strong and steady, almost like you feel in a dream where you face the monster and it crumples in front of you.

Inside the doorway, though, I sort of freeze. I see Stephanie in bed and feel guilty, like I'm doing something dirty coming in here. She's half-lit by her big digital alarm clock, which tells me it's 2:15. She's wearing a man's shirt that must be Mike's and I quickly turn away because that little detail could melt me and destroy my mission.

Stephanie keeps her purse on the shelf in her closet. This part is tricky because it's a darker part of the room and there's a turn and a half wall, so I put my hands out in front of me and go very slowly. In my usual way of not thinking things through, I suddenly realize that I won't be able to figure out what's a ten-dollar bill in the dark. I stop for a minute, all systems short-circuiting, and consider an abort.

No. I never stand up for myself. I always run away. If I stand here and think, I'll figure this out. Maybe I can close her closet door and turn on the light. No, that's way too risky.

Then I picture it. Since Stephanie runs around in her car all day, she's loaded down with security devices and one of them is a little flashlight on her key chain that you squeeze. This is so you can find the keyhole fast and get into the house or the car before the bad guy catches you. I can use that tiny little light to look at the bills. My legs get brave again and I move forward.

Their closet—her closet—is a walk-in. As soon as I round that wall, I feel safer because even if she half woke up, she wouldn't see me. I see the dark mass on the shelf that is her bag. It's as big as a piece of carry-on luggage and I lift it down carefully with both hands, so it won't clunk me on the head.

The closet smells like Mike's aftershave. I try not to think about that.

I sit on the floor, so there's no chance of dropping the purse. Struggling to breathe slowly and calmly as I rummage around, trying to find that key chain …

A siren blasts out, louder than a police car on a high-speed chase. Stephanie must have bought one of those purse alarms. All circuits freeze, chemicals flood my body. Stupid, scared chemicals that keep me from running for my life, like I should.

After that, there is no real time sequence. Just a bunch of images that come to me only later. Lights springing on. Stephanie rounding the closet doorway like she's blown by a huge wind. Her screaming at me. My back hitting the wall. My sisters in the closet doorway screaming at Stephanie to stop hitting me. Me, alone on the closet floor, curled up and panting.

I don't know how I get back to my bed, but somehow I'm there and the house is dark and quiet again. Except for a lot of pain, it's like the whole thing was a dream. Only now I know that Stephanie will always see me as a thief and watch my money like a hawk. And tomorrow, Duncan Presser will beat me up all over again.

I feel myself sort of cracking up, like splitting into two parts. One part of me—no, it's all of me—slides out of bed and lands on my knees. I fold my hands on top of the sheet. I'm six years old, back with the nuns. Words come out of my mouth.

“Gabriel, please. Come back to me. I know I forgot all about you, but I need you now. I can't do it on my own. I know it's bad to come to you just because I need something, but please help me. All I need is ten dollars before lunch tomorrow. That's all. I don't want to get beat up again. I can't take it. I'll go crazy if one more person beats on me. Please. I wasn't stealing. She was stealing from me. I know I don't go to Mass, but I'm a good kid. I swear I've been a good kid all this time and now Mike is dead and I don't have anyone to help me but you. I know you're real. You used to come to me and you were real. I believe in you. I believe in you. Please.”

After that, it mercifully deteriorates into crying. I haul myself back into bed, totally ashamed and really glad no one had been around to hear that. We all go crazy in different ways, I guess. Being religious is better than getting a handgun and shooting up the family, right?

Of course, neither one solves the problem. But at least I'm so worn out, I can sleep.

Chapter 4

The distant growl of a motorcycle engine wakes me up and I wonder if I'm going crazy. That's something I actually worry about a lot. Dr. Phil did this whole show on what kind of kids are prone to turn out bad and it was my biography.

Any guy who is disconnected from his father is something like ten times likelier to end up in prison and if you put disconnected from his mother into the equation, you might as well throw me in the trash can right now. And my chances of going insane are really high too. So I've always watched myself carefully for the signs.

But now, when I hear that motorcycle engine at five a.m., I jump out of bed and run to the window like I think Santa is coming.

And I see him.

Clear at the end of my street, turning the corner. I know it's the same bike I saw at the cemetery. I see the angel-wing logo and the mirrored visor. And then he's gone and I stand there wondering if I really saw it at all.

Jessie and I walk to the bus stop in silence. My sisters are always quiet and respectful of me after Stephanie has beaten the crap out of me. Jessie, in particular, probably thinks I'll bite her head off if she asks how I'm feeling, but today I feel different.

“Thank you for making dinner for me on Saturday,” I say. I keep my head down as her head swivels toward me in astonishment.

“You had to be hungry after mowing all those lawns,” she says. Then she adds quietly, “Stephanie should have given you some of the money. I wish I had some so that …”

“Why don't we sit together on the bus?” I say, pretending to study the Skylark Pest Control van parked across the street. “I know he's gonna get me sometime today, but if I sit with you, he might not taunt me about it this morning.”

Her gaze scorches my face. “Of course I will, Hunter. Of course I will. Anytime, all you have to—”

“I want to ask you a question, Jess. A serious question. A deadly serious question.”

I finally meet her eyes and see that her expression is just a little worried. I'm sure she's reviewing what she knows about snipers and bombers too. “Sure.”

“At Mike's funeral, there was a guy on a motorcycle who rode through the cemetery, right?”

She frowns. “Yes. He screwed up the whole service.”

“He drove all around the graves and stopped in front of us and he had the Gold Wing logo on the bike, right?”

“Right. Why are you asking me?”

I don't answer, just nod to myself. I'm not hallucinating. That's a good thing.

When we get on the bus, Jessie actually looks reluctant to sit with me but a promise, with her, is a promise. And the trick actually works. Duncan smiles at me but he stays in his place. At least for now.

Here's a miracle: When I get to my locker this morning, there's a girl waiting to talk to me. It's Carolina (nothing finer) Cummings, who wears soft sweaters (butterscotch today) and has long black curls. She's in Gifted just like me, but the other girls shun her because she's too sexy. This is one reason I'm glad I'm a guy. If a guy is an outcast, he gets ignored or beat up. But girl-society has all these cruel little whispery, giggly, note-passing things they do. And what did Carolina ever do that was so bad? She got boobs before the rest of them.

“Hi, Hunter,” she purrs. She's holding her books up over the goods today.

“Hi,” says witty, clever me. Then, unable to look at her anymore, I turn and fumble with my lock, which I no longer know the combination to.

“We have to pick a partner for our science project,” she says. “You want to do it with me?”

I wrestle with my lock, sweating. Her question echoes in my head like the loudspeaker at a truck rally. I ask myself crazy questions—Does she like me? Am I cute? But when I get back down to Earth, I realize I'm the only one she can ask. In our gifted science class, there are only four guys and the other three are even lamer than me. And no girl would partner with her.

“Sure,” I say, finally jerking the lock open. There's some kind of white envelope on the bottom of my locker that somebody must have slid through the grate. Maybe I am cute.

“Cool,” says Carolina. “You want to eat lunch with me today and we'll talk it over?”

I get distracted, looking at the envelope, which has my first name written in spidery pencil—I don't recognize the handwriting at all. I hope I'm not in trouble.

“Uh—sure.” Maybe Duncan won't beat me up today at all. Maybe Carolina will blind him with her beauty and I can sucker punch him.

“Okay,” she says, frowning at the letter like it's making her jealous. “I'll meet you in the hall outside the cafeteria.” She gathers up her hair and tosses it behind her shoulders, pivots like a runway model, and sashays—there's no other word for it—away. I try to keep my tongue from hanging out.

When all the blood returns to my brain, I open the envelope. A ten-dollar bill falls out. I look at the envelope to see if it's from Jessie, disguising her handwriting, but I don't think so. When she does stuff for me she wants full credit.

My knees go funny for a second and I lean against the locker door, pushing it shut. I think of The Motorcycle Man. I think of my silly prayer last night: Give me just ten dollars before lunch tomorrow. I stare at the envelope again, wondering what an angel's handwriting would look like.

The lunch menu for today at Sawgrass Middle is a fish hoagie, spaghetti, salad bar, peas, canned pears, and a ranger cookie. If you're familiar with “elementary and secondary” school lunches, you'll know the only safe choice above is the canned pears, because they don't do anything to them and leaving them out for hours won't hurt them, like it does the salad bar ingredients. I don't think I need to explain why fish is a problem, the spaghetti sauce is always orange instead of red, the peas have been nuked until they have no texture or food value, and although the ranger cookie usually tastes good, a lot of kids think they slip something in it to keep us calm. So today, I'll be eating several dishes of pears.

I don't usually pay attention to morning announcements and what the lunch is going to be, because my usual lunch plan involves buying a bag of chips from the vending machines and eating them in a deserted classroom. Then, if it's a big social day for me, I'll head over to the media center. The media center is like the homeless shelter of middle school. They'll always take you in.

But I'm a different person today, walking through the halls with Carolina, whose curls, and everything else, bounce when she walks and whose eyes sparkle when she talks. Her conversation is pure nerd. She is actually excited about doing a project on sediment, but she's so beautiful, I don't care.

“I was thinking, like, we could mix up different things, you know? Sand, mud, something else, maybe something shiny so it would look really good, you know? And let it settle and it would make layers, you know? Do you think it would? I mean, why wouldn't it? Because that's what it does in nature.”