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Authors: Lesley Choyce

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BOOK: Running the Risk
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I don't know why, but that made me angry.

So I focused on the far side of the road— where I wanted to be—and I just started walking. Straight across. I didn't even look to the side. I just kept walking.

I heard the car horns and I heard some tires screeching and I still didn't look. And then I heard some angry voices. A man and a couple of women yelling something at me.

But no one actually stopped.

I arrived at the other side of the road, and after those honking, cursing drivers had passed, it was as if nothing had happened. The stream of traffic just kept going. I stopped being angry and I laughed out loud.

Chapter Six

When I read the report in the newspaper about the robbery, it seemed like something completely different from what I had experienced. No one's name was reported except for the owner's, Ernesto Millard. He was quoted as saying, “No one was hurt, and we assume that there was really no gun, just someone with something that looked like a gun.”

Well, Ernesto Millard was not even there. And yes, it was a gun. Not something
that “looked like a gun.” There was even a bullet hole in the ceiling if anyone wanted to see proof. But Ernesto wanted to make people feel safe about going back to Burger Heaven. He knew something like this might hurt business. He had even phoned my house and talked to my father, suggesting that my dad urge me not to talk too much about what happened.

At school on Monday, I looked at the faces of my classmates. I noticed some of them looking at me kind of funny. At first I thought maybe it was all in my head, but then I saw Cam hanging out with a couple of his friends, Nick and Deacon. I could imagine Cam had told them his version of the events.

I ran into Deacon later that day in the washroom. We were standing beside each other at the urinals. “You must have been scared pretty bad to just hand over all the cash,” he said. He was smiling as he said it.

So that had been Cam's story—his version of what happened. I was trying to come up with something to say to set the record straight. I understood immediately that if
Deacon thought that's what happened, pretty soon that would be what most of the kids in school would think. But I figured that whatever I said to him right there wouldn't make much difference. So I turned slightly and pissed on Deacon's shoes. Maybe I got a little on his pant leg.

“Oh, sorry, man,” I said. “Guess I have bad aim.”

Deacon was shell-shocked. He said nothing. I zipped up and left.

It took me a little time to get settled after that. If anyone asked Lacey or Jeanette, they would get the real story, but as I headed to English class, I was beginning to realize something. The newspaper story. Cam's version. The official police version of the event. There were so many different ways to view things. What did it matter what people believed had happened? To hell with what anyone wanted to think about me.

I had a quick flash of an image of the gun aimed right at me, of the eyes of the
young guy holding the gun. The intense crazy eyes of someone who could lose it at any second.

And then it was gone.

I walked into Mrs. Ryerson's classroom and noticed the kids looking at me again. I wanted to yell at them. But I didn't. I slid into a seat and opened my book.

“How many of you liked Shirley Jackson's story, ‘The Lottery'?” Mrs. Ryerson asked.

It had been the weekend reading assignment. I'd read the story Friday right after school, right before going to work. It was a weird story, for sure. Something about a town and a lottery where the “winner” gets stoned to death by the townspeople. I couldn't say I liked it, but it was interesting.

Julie Coles raised her hand. “I thought it was great. I mean, it wasn't a happy story but it had a lot of meaning.” Her answers were almost always vague and elusive. She thought she'd get a better grade in school if she answered questions in class, even if she didn't really have anything to say.

The door opened and Deacon walked in.
Mrs. Ryerson looked at him but didn't say anything. She'd make a note that he was late for class. That was her way of doing things. Three notes for being late and you'd be in trouble. I looked at Deacon's shoes. They were still wet. I smiled.

“Yes,” Mrs. Ryerson said, “the story did have a lot of meaning. It could mean many things. It was an allegory, perhaps. What kinds of lotteries do we participate in?”

“Scratch and Win,” someone said. “And the Six Forty-Nine. You pay some money and you have a chance at winning a lot of money.”

“True,” the teacher said, “but if you win Shirley Jackson's lottery, you don't get something good, you get something bad.”

I found myself taking a deep breath. I felt the need to talk. “It's all a lottery,” I said. “Like if you're lucky, you get born here and have lots of everything you need. If you're not lucky, you're born in a third world country and starve or get sick and die.”

“That's interesting, Sean,” Mrs. Ryerson said. I knew she was probably shocked. I hadn't opened my mouth once in class since
the beginning of the year. “But what about the element of violence in the story?” she asked. “What about the way it ends?”

She was looking straight at me now and so were the other students. I don't think she knew that I'd been working at Burger Heaven the night of the robbery. They knew—my classmates—or at least they thought they knew what happened. But she didn't. So, in my own head, the set-up was pretty interesting. And I had read the story. It had made me think.

“The townspeople throw rocks and kill their neighbor. Then they go back to their normal, happy daily lives.”

“Yes. It's disturbing, isn't it?”

“Disturbing, right. But maybe that's the way it really is. Maybe we're throwing stones at the victims every day in order to protect our comfortable, safe lives. The homeless, the poor, the crazy ones. I think it's just the luck of the draw that we're not one of them, and if we were, we'd see everything differently.”

“Interesting,” Mrs. Ryerson said again and then moved on.

Which was a good thing, since I wasn't sure where I was going with this. It was only a story, right? We were just doing that English-class thing of “discussing” it, trying to find out what it meant.

“I don't think the story meant that at all,” Julie said, and she prattled on with something that didn't make much sense to me or anyone else, but I was glad the spotlight was off me.

I settled back into my seat and looked around at my classmates. Each of them had won or lost several important lotteries. Brains. Looks. Parents. Health. And I suddenly realized I didn't truly know anything about any of their lives.

I looked out the window at a crow sitting on the branch of a dead tree. The crow seemed to know immediately that I was looking at him, and he didn't like it. He looked right at me and then spread his wings and flew. And as I watched his black image move on up into the sky, I thought about my grandfather again. And I missed him so badly I thought I would cry.

Chapter Seven

I was headed to the cafeteria when Jeanette found me. She had a frantic look in her eyes and I wondered if she'd been toking again.

“Sean, I've been looking all over for you.” She grabbed my arm and squeezed so tightly that it hurt.

“Hey, easy,” I said. “What's up?”

“I'm having a panic attack.”

“A what?”

“Anxiety. I'm, like, freaking out. It's happened before. I have to get out of here. Will you go with me?”

“Go where?”

“Anywhere.”

“Now?”

She seemed to be having a hard time breathing. “Yes. I have to get out of here now.”

“Sure,” I said, not knowing what I was getting myself into. “Let's go.”

We left school and started walking quickly. She began to calm down, and we slowed our pace. “What was that all about?” I asked.

“Something happens in my head. I can't quite explain it. I was just sitting in math class, hoping I wouldn't be called on. I started to get kind of nervous—stressed-out. And then panicky. I had to leave class. Mr. Boyd asked me to sit back down and that made it worse. So I left the room. And came looking for you.”

“Why me?”

“I feel safe around you.”

I guess I felt flattered just then. I put my arm around her, and she tucked into my side as we walked.

I thought that the “right” thing to do would be to go to the office and maybe see if one of the counselors could talk to her. But I knew she didn't want that. And neither did I. I liked the way this made me feel. I felt important.

This was the first time I had ever walked out of school in the middle of the day. And it felt good. After a while I said, “Let's go downtown. Wanna catch the bus or just walk?”

“Let's just walk. It helps sometimes.” Jeanette seemed a little calmer.

“What brings it on?” I asked.

“Could be almost anything. It's mostly in my head. I feel like everything is going out of control. I feel like I can't stand it anymore.”

“Can't you just calm yourself down?”

“Sometimes. But not all the time. You ever feel this way?”

I thought about it. “I've felt depressed and felt like saying ‘screw the world, to hell with it all.'”

“No. It's not like that. There's, like, a fire alarm going off in my head.”

“That's the panic part?”

“Yeah. I want to scream.”

“Do you want to scream now?”

“It's not as bad as before but, yes, I want to scream.”

“Then let's scream. Together, okay? One, two, three...”

And then we both opened our mouths and screamed in tandem. Not a word, just a syllable. We were both looking up at the sky as we did it. And then we looked at each other. And laughed.

I noticed a man walking his dog across the street. Both he and his dog had stopped in their tracks and looked over at us. The man's face said it all—we were a pair of dangerous teenagers up to no good. Then the dog started barking at us.

I made eye contact with the man and he scowled. I looked back at Jeanette. “Don't
worry about him. Let's go.” And we walked on.

“Wanna smoke some weed?” she asked. “That helps calm me down sometimes.”

“No,” I said, “but you can if you want to.” It was funny. I liked the way I was feeling just then and didn't want to alter it in any way.

“I'll save it then. Sometimes I need it to get to sleep at night.”

“Brain won't shut off?”

“Something like that.”

We were headed away from the manicured lawns now, away from the suburban homes and into the older part of town. This was the south end of Main Street, with empty storefronts, some of the older mom-and-pop stores and a few small dingy-looking restaurants. It had been a while since I'd even walked down here and I wondered why I'd chosen to come this way.

“Where are we going?” Jeanette asked.

“Don't know,” I said. “I guess I just wasn't in the mood for hanging out at the mall and getting harassed by the security goons. I kind of prefer the ambience here.”

“Ambience?”

“It was on the vocabulary list in Mrs. Ryerson's class a while ago. It means atmosphere, how the environment of a place makes you feel.”

And it was right about then that someone came up from behind and walloped me on the head with something that knocked me to my knees.

Chapter Eight

Jeanette screamed again, but this time it sounded different. I had been hit from behind. As I turned and got to my feet, I realized I had not been hurt. Whatever had conked me in the head had not been all that deadly.

I saw an older woman in a dirty ski jacket. She was glaring at me and holding her assault weapon, a gym bag of some sort. “There you are, Doyle. There you are. I've been looking all over for you and you've had me worried sick.”

Her eyes were angry and her face was contorted. She was big and her hair was wild and messy.

“Leave us alone,” Jeanette shouted at her.

The woman stared at Jeanette and then suddenly seemed confused. She looked back at me and then turned to go.

I noticed she was wearing running shoes that did not match. She was wearing men's pants as well. It was starting to sink in. I didn't know who she was. And I didn't know who Doyle was. I didn't really even care that she had just brought me to the ground, blindsided by a gym bag.

“Wait,” I said.

At first she just walked on.

“Wait,” I said again. “Please.”

Jeanette gave me a wide-eyed look. “

It's okay,” I said.

The woman turned and walked back toward us, her face softened now by something short of a smile. “I'm sorry, Doyle,” she said. “It's just that I've been so worried about you.” She hugged me then and began to cry.

She smelled bad. I wanted to push her away. I looked at Jeanette and could tell she was repulsed by the woman.

“Where have you been?” the woman asked me, pulling back a little and adjusting her ski jacket.

“School,” I answered, for no clear reason. “I was in school.”

“Oh,” she said. “Of course. I guess I knew that. It's just that I was so worried.” And then she turned to Jeanette. “Who's this?” she said suspiciously.

“Jeanette,” I said. “She's my friend.” I could tell that Jeanette wanted us to turn around and get the hell out of there.

A couple of old men walked by, sharing a bottle of something. They watched us but didn't say anything. One nodded at the woman though and said, “Lovely day, Priscilla, ain't it?” But she didn't say anything back.

“Your name's Priscilla?” I asked her.

“Of course. But don't you start addressing your mother by her first name.”

“I'm not...,” I began but cut myself off.

“You've grown so big,” she said.

BOOK: Running the Risk
11.99Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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