More Than Good Enough (13 page)

White.

He actually thought I was white.

This was fucked up on so many levels. I mean, yeah. My mom was from the UK. “Across the pond” was how she put it. Not that you’d ever guess by looking at my skin, the same color as maple syrup. Sometimes people would talk Spanish at me. God, that really pissed me off. They just assumed I knew what the hell they were saying. They never asked.

While the Miccosukee kids did their thing, I wished I could zoom into another dimension. I’d tell them it doesn’t get better. All that shit about “doing your best” in school and making good grades in Geometry. What does it get you? A stupid desk job in an office.

I’d tell them to live every second like the last. Not the most original statement. Still, it’s better than the crap you get in school. My teachers couldn’t even admit that Columbus didn’t “discover” America. It was there from the start.

Why doesn’t somebody tell the truth? Nothing gets better unless you make it happen. There should be a special class. Call it Reality 101. You could learn about stuff that really matters. Like what to do if your dad gets wasted and decides to use you as a punching bag.

The Miccosukee kids looked so free, gliding back and forth on the ramps. When they crashed, it was no big deal. They just got back up again. My new friend, Mr. Skinny, tried to kickflip onto a ramp. Of course, he was doing it all wrong.

After watching him eat pavement like a million times, I finally said, “Hey newb. Let me see that board.”

He circled around the rails, then slowed in front of me. “Why? You want to steal it?”

“Nah. I’ve seen better boards at Kmart.”

“Oh, so you’re an expert?” he said, stepping off it. “That’s why your face is wrecked? You tried to vert and got a concussion?”

I shrugged. “The wack meter doesn’t lie.”

Mr. Skinny was amped now. “Well, I’d like to see you throw down.”

“Sure,” I said. “Prepare to be owned.”

He shoved the board at me. “How about those rails?” he said, walking toward the opposite end of the park.

I’d never grinded on a rail. That trick was impossible to pull off. You couldn’t even practice it. Not without multiple levels of hell. Man, what did I get myself into?

This was going to suck.

As I stepped onto the board, he yelled, “Dude. What happened to your shoes?”

“Don’t need them.”

His buds rolled to the side. They held out their cell phones, ready to snap a picture, waiting for me to fail.

I steered toward the cement pyramid. It felt good to skate again. I’d forgotten how much it chilled my brain. All the shit that happened today.

When I picked up enough speed, I ollied onto the rail. As I locked my back wheels against the metal edge, I stayed centered. The pain inside my muscles dripped away. I wasn’t thinking about anything. I got caught between the cement and the sky. I was right there, floating in that space outside the “now.”

I was exactly where I needed to be.

I slid for a couple seconds, then bailed. The kids came running up to me, yelling all kinds of nonsense. I only heard bits and pieces. Guess I was still in the nowhere zone, not functioning on a human level yet.

“That was a high-ass ollie. Seriously, man. I can’t believe you did it barefoot. That was sick,” said Mr. Skinny, pounding my shoulder. “What clan are you?”

“Panther,” I said.

This was sort of a lie.

I was clanless.

“You know my Uncle Seth?” I asked.

“Yeah. But I’ve never seen you before. You go to school here?”

I kicked the board to him. “Nah, I’m at Palm Hammock.”

He chewed the end of his gold chain. “Isn’t that, like, in Kendall or something?”

The others stayed quiet. They were trying to size me up. That much was obvious. Did I belong here on the Rez? Or was I better off in the suburbs, like the white kids and the Cubans?

“You’re Trent. That’s your name, right?” said another kid. He kept popping his retainer, sliding it out with his tongue. Man, I’m glad I never got braces. “Your uncle does the gator show ’cause they got rid of Manny.”

Who the hell was Manny? It seemed like everybody knew each other on the Rez, like we were one big family. But I wasn’t from here. I’d come onto the scene too late. Now it felt like I’d never catch up.

“Yeah, that’s Uncle Seth. The Alligator Man,” I said and they laughed. Sometimes it’s too easy, getting kids to laugh. They hopped on their boards and rolled off.

I wanted to trade places with those kids. Seriously. What did they have to worry about? They grew up with PlayStations and cable TV. But they could probably steer an airboat, one-handed, across the Glades. Soon they’d become men with new names.

Yeah. The Miccosukee kids had it good.

It started pouring. Cold, stabbing drops speckled the cement. I leaned back and stuck out my tongue, catching the flavorless rain. No doubt it was laced with chemicals from all the junk people chucked in our lakes. The clouds sucked it up and dumped it on us. That’s the way things worked. If you put something out there, it always swung around to you.

The skaters were doing tricks in the rain—pulling off backside 180s and landing killer pop shove-its. Then they stopped all at once, as if somebody hit pause on a video game. Mr. Skinny and his buds huddled behind me, clutching their boards.

“Oh shit,” he said.

The light bounced around the park, flickering off the ramps and grind rails.

“Which one of you is Trent?” somebody called out. He stood near the trees—a cop waving a flashlight.

All the kids gawked at their feet. Still, they didn’t rat me out. I give them props for that.

“Don’t waste my time,” he told us.

“It’s me,” I blurted, hating the sound of my voice, the way it cracked.

“Thank you,” he said, as if I’d done him a favor. “The rest of you guys need to leave.”

They scattered. No time wasted.

“Okay Trent.” The cop turned to me. “What’s the story?”

“Chilling.”

“Well, you can’t chill here. Come over and sit down a second.”

God, this was so freaking stupid. My dad was the one in trouble. Why was I getting hassled? Sure, I’d messed up. But that didn’t make me a bad person.

I squatted on the sidewalk like a fugitive.

“All right, Trent. Let’s talk, okay? Here’s the deal. Your father says you got into some sort of altercation and ran off. You want to tell me what’s going on?”

How could I shape it into words? My dad got wasted. That’s the way it goes. The man drinks a sixer every night. This time, he got a little out of control. He didn’t mean to hit me. It just happened.

“Me and my dad started fighting,” I told the cop.

“Okay,” he said. It seemed like “okay” was his default answer for everything. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“He got mad.”

“Any idea why?”

“Because I took something.”

“You mean something that wasn’t yours.”

I focused on the dent above his lip. If you stared at one part of somebody’s face, you didn’t have to look them in the eye. That’s a little trick I’ve learned.

“Answer me.” He was totally over it now. “Did you steal your father’s motorcycle?”

“Sort of,” I mumbled.

“Well, is it true or not?”

“Listen. I already told you—” I started to get up, but he pushed me, dropping a hand on my shoulder. I could’ve sued for harassment.

The cop had no off button. He kept blasting away, screaming shit like, “When I talk, you listen.”

Why did I have to listen? It’s not like anybody listened to me. Just because he had a badge and gun didn’t mean the universe put him in charge. Just thinking about guns made my stomach twist. If I got blamed for messing with it, they could charge me with illegal possession of a firearm. Then what would happen? I’d go straight to jail. That’s what.

“Just stay where you’re at. You got yourself a whole world of trouble. Do you want to make it worse?”

So typical. Why did cops always ask dumb questions like “Do you want to make it worse?” I mean, come on. Did he really expect an answer? This night couldn’t get any worse. You could pretty much bank on it.

The cop was getting soaked. I could tell he was totally over this situation. He told me to follow him to the car, which was parked behind a building with coral rock walls. This was the school those kids mentioned. More than anything, I wanted to zap myself into their reality. Start over. Get a new name, one that belonged to me.

I’d never been arrested before. Was he going to slap on the handcuffs? He still hadn’t mentioned the gun. Somebody must’ve heard it go off. Wouldn’t be the first time.

“Am I going to jail?” Might as well face the truth.

He studied my face. “Just calm down, okay? Your cheek looks a little swollen. How did that happen?”

If I stuck to the facts, he’d probably throw Dad’s ass behind bars. Then I’d get sent to juvie or whatever. “I was skating, right? And I fell.” That’s what I told him.

“Where’s your board?”

“Back there with my sneakers.” Another lie, but how would he know?

“So the rest of your stuff is in the park. Is that it?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing, running around with no shoes? You could step on broken glass. There’s scorpions out here, too. Saw a big one yesterday. Almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Please,” I said. “Just tell me if I’m going to jail.”

He slammed the door so hard I flinched. “Jail? That’s where you want to go?”

Again. Another dumb question.

“No sir.”

The “sir” probably tripped him up. He stared. “Trent, I’m taking you home.”

“What?” I must’ve blanked out or something. A high-pitched noise stung my eardrum. Damaged nerves. I don’t know.

The cop pressed his fat arms on the window. “How old are you?”

I couldn’t think straight. “Eighteen. No. I mean, I’ll be eighteen this summer.”

He nodded. “Okay. Sit tight.”

“Maybe you could drop me off someplace?” I was almost begging.

“I’m not a taxi,” he said, walking away, slow as hell.

I shivered against the fake leather seat, thinking about all the bad guys who’d sat in this same spot—the men who hurt people and took things away. I wanted to bust out of there. Just breathing in that stale, air-conditioned car made me feel dirty.

“Can I go back and get my stuff?”

“Listen, kid. I’m giving you a break here.” He got behind the wheel and started messing with a laptop—a clunky old Dell mounted to the seat. My school had better computers than that piece of crap.

“I just want my hat,” I whispered.

“Unbelievable.” He punched a couple keys on the laptop. Glanced at me again. “Do you smart-mouth your father like that?”

“You don’t know shit about my dad.” I turned away from him, twisting my body as far as possible.

He got so quiet, I could hear the laptop’s empty hum. “Something you want to tell me? Go on. Now’s your chance.”

This guy couldn’t make up his mind. Talk. Don’t talk. Well, I wasn’t talking to a cop. That’s for damn sure.

“Okay,” he said. “It’s your choice. Totally up to you.”

That was a complete lie.

Nothing was up to me. I had no control unless I detached from reality. That’s how skating used to feel if I landed a sweet trick. The same numbing effect when I blasted tunes on my Gibson. Or when I finally unlocked Prestige Mode on Call of Duty. And when I was flying down the highway with Pippa. All the beatings in the world couldn’t make me trade that moment in time.

As the car lurched through the neighborhood, I kept my eyes shut. I didn’t need to see the road. I could sense every turn, all the stops and starts.

I wasn’t going anywhere.

eleven

Headlights scraped away the darkness. As we pulled up to the house, I glanced through the window and there was Pippa in the yard. She looked so worn out, like a smaller, less intense version of herself.

The cop marched me to the front door where my dad stood, waiting. I tried to move toward Pippa, but Dad got in the way.

“They got into another one of their crazy fights.” He wouldn’t shut up. “Teenagers, right?”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” I said.

“Just settle down, okay?” the cop told me. “You’re in enough trouble right now.”

I watched the man’s face, the way it changed. If I told the truth, would he believe me? Or would it make things worse? Maybe I would go to jail. And if that didn’t happen, Dad would knock me around again. In my head, I got this picture: me and Pippa in the backyard, playing pirates, the rope tightened around us.

“That’s the girlfriend.” Dad jerked his thumb at Pippa. If I could’ve jumped on him, I would’ve ripped his lips off. But I couldn’t breathe, much less jump.

“Is that true?” the cop asked.

I glanced at Pippa, but she kept her head down. Behind her, a macramé plant hanger dangled. It looked like something a kid would make in art class. It tilted in the damp breeze, tipped and swayed in pointless circles.