Tangled (6 page)

I got a week’s vacation. That’s the automatic sentence for fighting. I’d never been suspended before because, other than minor shoving, I hadn’t been in full-fledged combat on school premises.

Coach was the one who handed down my punishment. It’s usually the vice principal, but I have a feeling he let Ritter do it because of the circumstances, Natalie’s ceremony and all. I ended up waiting in Coach’s office for an hour, spinning around in his chair, reading the memos on his walls. He was probably up in the auditorium. I wondered what would happen in the slot when I was supposed to give my speech. My name was in the program and everything. I wondered who would lead people down the hall to see Natalie’s plaque.

At ten, Coach opened his office door, gestured to the folding chair, and said, “Move it.”

I stood up, wincing in pain. My left knee was smashed from where I’d dropped onto the floor when I took Timon down.

Coach sat in his chair, leaned forward so he was looking me in the eye, and said, “What the hell were you doing up there, Dakota?”

Coach never calls me by my name. I was in deep shit. I looked down at my shoes. I wasn’t going to whine about the crap Timon said to me, how he was asking for it.

“I know emotions were running high,” he added, “but I always tell you guys that you’ve got to walk away. Especially now that you’re eighteen. You’re not a minor anymore. You don’t want people pressing assault charges, do you?”

“No,” I said.

“I spoke with Mr. B,” Coach said. “You’ve got five days. Nothing I could do about that.”

“What about baseball?”

“Out for a month. That means you’ll miss the rest of the year unless you guys win sectionals.”

“Shit,” I muttered.

“Watch the language,” he said, reaching for his
phone. “What’s your number?”

“You mean my home number? Who’re you calling?”

“Parents have to be notified when there’s a fight. Mr. B wanted me to get your dad in for a conference, but I convinced him that a phone call would do. It’s your first time.”

Now this was
really
starting to suck. After fourteen years as a sergeant, my dad had no tolerance for juvenile delinquents. Also, it was just a few minutes after ten, so he was still asleep.

“Your number, Dakota.”

I recited the digits. As he dialed, I prayed it would go through to voicemail. I prayed Coach would tone down the description of the fight. I prayed my dad would take Natalie’s death into consideration.

“Hi, Mr. Evans? This is Curt Ritter, the wrestling coach over at the high school.”

Coach covered the receiver for a second and mouthed,
Wait for me out there
. Then he pointed to the bench press. As I limped outside, he closed the door.

After a few minutes, he emerged from his office. His broad face was stern. “Your dad wants you home right now,” he said.

I stood up slowly. This was going to be fun. People
sometimes say I have a temper, but believe me, it’s nothing compared to my dad.

Coach escorted me out of the weight room. When we reached the door, he said, “I expected more from you, Dakota.”

I tossed my coat onto the passenger seat and pulled out of the student parking lot. It was ten twenty on Friday morning. It’s not like I love school, but no one wants to get suspended. And now baseball season was fucked. The guys were going to kill me. I’m always good for a run or two. Maybe three if I’m pumped.

It was all that prick Timon’s fault. Timon and his parents. What were they thinking, picking a poem that Natalie wrote for Jake? Did they hate me that much? They weren’t exactly warm and fuzzy to me at the funeral, but her dad did shake my hand and her mom gave me a weepy hug. Plus, they can’t deny that I took Natalie to junior prom and two Winter Balls, and they even brought me up to their camp in the Adirondacks last summer. If she was so into poetry, I’m sure they could have unearthed a few words she’d put together about me. She was always carrying around that journal.

Then again, Natalie used to joke that she only wrote
in her journal when she was mad at me. Her family probably read it after she died. They probably think I’m an asshole. Maybe I
was
an asshole at times, but Timon didn’t have to rub my face in it, telling me how Natalie got my necklace from some guy she had a fling with in the Bahamas.

I should drive over to the Birches’ house and find Timon, finish what he started. He’s tall, but he didn’t seem that tough. Except, knowing Timon, he probably
would
press assault changes.

When I hit Allen Street, I turned left. But instead of going the direct route to my house, I cut onto Holley, which runs into Redman Road. That’s the long way. I’m not such an idiot that I’d race home just to get the shit kicked out of me.

I ended up climbing the locks. They’re over by the canal, near the college parking lot on the way to Redman Road. It’s a tall steel tower on the south bank of the Erie Canal, about thirty feet above the water. There’s a ladder running up one side. A few times, on warm nights, some of my buddies and I have climbed up here to drink. I’ve heard about SUNY students getting wasted on the locks and jumping into the canal. Judging by the color of the water, you’d have to be
pretty gone to do that.

My biceps were strained and my knee was bruised, so it killed to grasp the rungs. But once I was at the top I could feel the stress easing up. I was planning to hang out here for a few minutes, get a small buzz going, enough to help me face my dad.

The sky was clear blue, just a few clouds up north near Lake Ontario. I could see a guy jogging along the towpath, a bottle of water in his hand. A woman was walking her dachshund on the other side. His snout was low to the ground, following some scent.

I took a sip from my sports bottle and peered over the edge. Man, it was a long fucking way down. I’m surprised that those guys who dive from here actually live to tell. If I jumped off, it’d be instant suicide, especially if I hit one of those rocks lining the side of the canal.

I scooted back from the edge. I may do some crazy things, but I’m not the suicide type. The whole concept of suicide freaks the shit out of me, deciding one day,
Hey, I’m going to end my life.
Scary as hell. Especially now that I know what it’s like when someone actually dies.

When I was at that resort my mom took me to after Natalie died, the girl I hooked up with, Jena, found
a suicide note on the edge of the hot tub. It was all about how some person wants to slice their wrists and bleed on a bed. When I read it, I thought I was going to vomit. I kept picturing an ambulance removing a corpse from the hotel, which then made me think about Natalie, wonder if she’d been in a body bag.

Jena was cute, the smart, cheerful type. The only problem was, I got the feeling she liked me too much, thought I was going to be her Prince Charming. Also, she was there with a gorgeous friend who I happened to be alone with on the beach one afternoon. We played a few rounds of gin rummy and at first she was flirtatious, even coming with me on a boat ride that night. But as soon as I tried to touch her she went ice cold, barely talking to me. She split so quickly she left her cards in our rental car, but I could never track her down to give them back.

Maybe it wasn’t the nicest thing in the world to blow off one girl for her hotter friend, but it’s not as if Jena and I had an official commitment. Not like Natalie and me, which makes it all the more messed up to find out she cheated on me even in the beginning, with a guy in the Bahamas.

That fucking necklace.

I unscrewed it from my neck and chucked it toward
the canal. It landed with a plunk and disappeared beneath the sludgy water.

People would probably be shocked to discover this, but I never actually cheated on Natalie. Sure, I flirted with girls. But I never even kissed anyone else. Of course, when Natalie and I were in one of our breakups, I did whatever I wanted. It was amazing how quickly the sophomore girls would put out, almost like they had something to prove.

Whenever we made up, Natalie would be pissed. “How could you have been with that slut, Dakota?” she’d say. “Did you look at her nose? She’s not even cute!”

I knew better than to defend myself, so I’d reassure Natalie that I was drunk when it happened, that she was much sexier than any of them.

“Hey, buddy, what’s going on up there?”

I glanced over the edge of the lock.

Fuck.

A patrol car was parked next to mine and I could see two cops. A chunky one was hanging out near the cars, his hand positioned on his right hip. The other, a tall guy, was hiking up the incline toward the canal. I quickly stuffed my sports bottle under the metal grate.

At least it was the Brockport Police. Better than the sheriff’s office because then it’d get back to my dad.

“Everything okay up there?” the tall cop asked, peering up at me.

“Yes, sir,” I called down to him. I know from my dad that it’s key to cooperate with police. Most of them start off calm, but if you get mouthy they’re going to escalate things. Next thing you know you’re at the station getting fingerprinted.

“Are you coming down or do you need me to get you?”

“No, sir,” I said. “Sorry. I’m coming down.”

I swallowed hard, hoping he wouldn’t smell the Jack on my breath, and lowered my foot onto the top rung. My knee was killing and my pecs felt like they were going to tear and the alcohol was screwing with my coordination. But I could feel this guy watching me closely, so I directed all my concentration on climbing, climbing, climbing—

My foot missed a rung and I slipped. I quickly caught myself, but my heart was racing so fast I could barely hold on.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. I took a deep breath and resumed my descent.

When I reached the bottom, I brushed my hair out of my face. Sweat was pouring down my forehead. So much for calm and collected.

The cop stepped closer to me and shielded his eyes with his hand. “So what was going on up there?”

“Nothing much,” I said. “Just hanging out.”

“We got a call from the dispatcher.” He gestured to the top of the lock. “That’s considered trespassing.”

“Sorry,” I said, grinding the grass with my foot. “I didn’t know that.”

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“Are you supposed to be in school?” he asked.

“I got suspended today.”

“Bad day, huh?”

“You could say that.” I kicked at some more grass and stumbled a little.

The officer stared hard at me. “Have you been drinking?”

I shrugged.

“Where’s the alcohol?”

I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t like I could deny it, especially if he climbed the lock and found my sports bottle, but I wasn’t going to admit anything, either.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Dakota Evans.”

“Well, Dakota,” he said, “you seem like a nice kid, so I’m not going to run a Breathalyzer. But you should know that possession of alcohol is illegal for anyone under twenty-one. Also, the village of Brockport has an ordinance against open containers.” He turned and gestured toward the parking lot. “That your car?”

“Yeah,” I said quietly.

“One violation against the open-container ordinance and we can suspend your license. And you don’t even have to be driving for that. But, as I said, you seem like a nice kid. Do you have any prior record?”

I shook my head.

The officer glanced toward the other cop and then said, “I’m just going to give you a warning. Between you and me. Quit it with the drinking and the trespassing and you’ll be okay.”

I was about to drop to the ground and kiss his feet when he cleared his throat. “So what’s your parents’ number?”

My stomach lurched. “My parents?”

“I can’t send you in a car like this.”

“Can I call a friend? Or can’t I just walk home? I live over on Meadowview Drive.”

“Hey, buddy.” The officer straightened up. “You’d
rather get an appearance ticket?”

I wondered whether I should give him my mom’s number. No, she wouldn’t know how to deal with this. Besides, she’d just refer him to my dad.

And so, for the second time that morning, I recited my dad’s number. The officer jotted it down on his pad. As I stood there dying a brutal death, he pulled out his phone and began dialing.

Five minutes later, my dad pulled up. He parked, got out, and strode over to where I was standing next to the officers.

“Wait in my car,” he hissed without even looking at me.

Then he smiled at the men and shook their hands. As I was walking away, I heard him mention something about C-zone, and the chunky officer said a guy’s name and they both laughed.

After a few minutes, the officers got in their patrol car and my dad headed toward me. As he opened the door, he held up his hand as if to say:
Not a goddamn word.
Then he shifted into gear and we drove in silence across the parking lot and down Holley Street. When we pulled into our driveway, he turned to me and said,
“Give me your keys.”

I reached in my pocket and tossed him my keys. He pried my car key off the ring and handed the rest back to me. Then he stepped out of the car, walked down the driveway, and took a right on Meadowview. I watched him for a minute and then got out of the car and hobbled into the house.

When my dad returned with my car, I was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping some water.

“Dad?”

He held up his hand again. His face was flushed, angry. “Your mother is going to call you.”

“Mom? Why?”

He walked past me, stomped up the stairs, and slammed his door.

The phone rang a few minutes later. I was laying on my bed. I considered letting my mom go through to voicemail, but she’d just call my dad and the last thing I wanted was for him to storm into my room and chew me out for not answering.

“Hey, Mom,” I said, lifting the phone to my ear.

“You got in some trouble this morning,” she said.

Leave it to Melinda Evans to state the obvious.

“Your father and I talked,” she said. “It sounds like things are getting out of control for you. We both decided you need a change of scenery.”

Oh, Jesus
, I thought, wondering where this was headed.

“You’re going to stay with your grandparents for the week that you’re suspended. No protests.”

I held my breath, hoping she’d say my Idaho grandparents. They’re clueless, but okay. Unlike my mom’s parents, who are downright assholes.

“I’ll drive you to Knolls Landing at nine tomorrow,” my mom added.

There were a million things running through my head, like how could they send me to Pauline and Bill’s, who don’t like me, who barely like
her
?

“Can’t I just drive myself?” I asked.

“Your father didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“He’s taking away your car,” my mom said.

I inhaled sharply. After all the shitty things that had happened today, I hadn’t realized it could get worse.

“See you tomorrow,” she added. “Be ready.”