The Fight for Kidsboro (47 page)

Jake Randall was the one who had told my story. I just knew it. He'd been a neighbor of mine in California before we had moved. He'd visited his grandmother in Odyssey last summer and had a stranglehold on me because of what he knew about my past. I believed he had just returned to Odyssey for summer vacation. I was going after him.

Someone in the crowd answered my question. “I just saw Jake at Whit's End about 20 minutes ago,” he said. I was gone before he could finish his sentence.

Whit's End was crowded when I burst through the door, but I barely even noticed. Jake was standing in a corner of the shop, next to a tall indoor plant. I went straight for him. He saw me coming and must have known why I was there, because he stopped talking to Max.

“You just couldn't keep your fat mouth shut, could you?” I said.

“I didn't tell him nothing, man.”

“Liar!”

“You've got the wrong guy, dude,” he said with a smirk. I hated that look, and some how it sparked an uncontrollable anger in me. I wasn't going to look at that face any more. Suddenly, my fist clenched up and I let it fly. I hit him square in the jaw. He Was caught off-balance and fell backward into the plant. The sides of the pot broke apart underneath him, sending dirt in all directions. The crowd fell silent as I looked at him. That wasn't me that had just punched someone. I didn't hit people. Jake looked up at me with blood streaming from his chin, more shocked than hurt.

Mr. Whittaker ran up just as Jake got to his feet and charged at me. Mr. Whittaker grabbed Jake by the chest, and his punch missed me by a foot. Mr. Whittaker forced him to the wall.

“What's going on?” Mr. Whittaker asked.

Max spoke up with shocked glee. “Ryan clocked him.”

“What?”

“Right in the jaw.”

Mr. Whittaker looked at me in disbelief, and then he looked at Jake. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Just caught me off guard,” he said, loosening up to show that he wasn't going to charge me again. He pointed at me. “If that punch would a hurt, you'd be lyin' in a ditch sometime tomorrow.”

“That's enough, Jake,” said Mr. Whittaker.

“I never said a word to that reporter,” Jake continued.

“Let me see your face,” Mr. Whittaker insisted. Jake moved his hand and Mr. Whittaker looked it over. “I don't think it needs stitches. You want a ride home?”

Jake shook his head. “I'm okay.”

Mr. Whittaker turned his attention to me. His face was rock-hard. “I
am
taking
you
home, Ryan.”

“You want to tell me what that was all about?” Mr. Whittaker asked in his car on the way to my house. I had seen him angry before, but never at me.

“I don't feel like talking about it,” I said, not looking at him. I didn't want to hear any advice. I wanted to be mad for a while. I didn't want him to make me regret hitting Jake. I knew I would probably feel bad about it later, but right now I was enjoying the memory of his bloody chin. He was trying to ruin my life. I was glad I had at least ruined his chin for a moment.

Mr. Whittaker must have known what I was thinking, because he allowed me to keep my feelings to myself. He probably knew that I would tell him everything in time.

My mother wasn't quite as understanding. The second Mr. Whittaker and I walked through the door, she wanted to know exactly what had happened.

“You hit him?” she exclaimed.

“I'm sorry.” It was all I could say.

“Why did you do it?”

I glanced at Mr. Whittaker, who I knew was anxious to hear my explanation. “You don't have to say why in front of me, Ryan,” he said.

“No, you can stay,” I replied. I looked at my mother, whose face had an odd expression—somewhere between fury and sympathy—knowing something heavy was going to come out of my mouth. “Jake told a reporter all about us. It's in the Bettertown newspaper. Everyone knows everything.”

My mom put her hand over her mouth, and her fury instantly vanished. “Everything?”

“Except for Dad. He wasn't mentioned, except to say that he's alive.”

“I should call Mr. Henson.” Mr. Henson was the agent assigned to keep us safe. We knew my dad was close by, because he had called our house the previous winter. He knew what state we were in but possibly nothing more. He could narrow it down to an area code, but our next three digits didn't give away anything. The local exchange numbers Mr. Henson had given to us weren't found anywhere else in the state. But the more word got out about us, the easier it would be for him to find us.

Mr. Henson came by to talk to all of us. My mother asked Mr. Whittaker to stay for emotional support, and he did.

“We'll confiscate all copies of the newspaper,” he said.

“There's a reporter for the
Odyssey Times
that's been asking questions in Kidsboro,” I said. “What if the
Times
gets it?”

“I can talk to Dale Jacobs,” Mr. Whittaker said. Dale Jacobs was the editor. “I'll make sure he doesn't print this.”

“Good,” Mr. Henson said. He sighed and looked at my mom and me. “Listen, I want to give you this option one more time. I know you like Odyssey, but we can safely move you away. We can change your names again, change everything.”

I loved Odyssey, and I never wanted to move. Mom and I exchanged pitiful looks. I was sure she was feeling the same way I was. “I'm tired of running, Mr. Henson,” she told him. “This is the place I want to be. I'm not going to let him dictate our lives any more.”

“Ms. Cummings,” Mr. Henson said, looking to Mr. Whittaker to see if he would back him up, “this is for your own safety.”

“I know it is, and I appreciate your concern. But we need to put an end to this now. If he finds us once, he'll find us again.”

Mr. Henson breathed heavily and stood up from the couch. “I'll put the police on alert. We have his picture up at the station. Everybody knows who to look for. But if you change your mind …” He looked at my mom and must have decided not to finish his sentence. She would not change her mind.

He glanced at me before he went out the door. “The article didn't mention the abuse. Don't tell your friends about it. The more you tell, the more danger you put them in if he comes around asking questions.” He nodded to Mr. Whittaker and left.

There was no pretending it never happened. Everywhere I went I was reminded that I was no longer Ryan, mayor of Kidsboro. I was now Jim, the fraud who punches people. I tried to slink to my office unnoticed, but all my friends wanted to know if the
Barnacle
story was true, and all my enemies wanted to dig their nails into my skin.

The last person I wanted to see, Max, ran over from Bettertown to see me. “Jimbo! Hey, buddy!”

“Go away, Max.”

“Wow. It's true. You really are a new man. I like it. You're not gonna punch me, are you? You know, I'm definitely voting for you in the next election.” “You don't get a vote.”

“Oh, I'll get my vote in there somehow.”

“I've got stuff to do.”

“Oh, that's right. Mayor stuff. Bills to sign, laws to write, people to send to the hospital …”

“Go back to your own town.”

“You know, you've inspired me. I'm thinking about completely changing my image too. Hey, you'd know this. Where would I go for a fake ID card?”

“Max—”

“No, just call me Dirk from now on. I think I look more like a Dirk.”

“I have a meeting.”

“It must be so cool to be able to reinvent yourself like that. Nobody even knows who you are any more. Not even your friends. The only thing we all know for sure is that you're a liar and a thug.”

I had tried my best to ignore him, but his last statement struck me. Did my
friends
really feel this way?

We held a scheduled city council meeting to discuss the new budget, but when I got to the meeting hall, the only item on anyone's agenda was getting to the bottom of the whole Jim Bowers story.

I sat down and took out my notes. No one was there to discuss the budget. They all just stared at me like I didn't belong any more. I needed to get this over with.

“It's all true,” I said. “I lied about my past because I had to. I can't really tell you any more than that. It's about my family, and it's very personal, and I hope you can understand that I … I just can't talk about it. I was upset that the information got out, and that's why I hit Jake. I shouldn't have done it, but I did. I'll apologize as soon as I see him. Could we please not mention it again?”

I could tell from their faces that they were not satisfied with my answer. They probably felt betrayed because I didn't trust them, but apparently nobody trusted
me
, either.

No one said anything for a solid minute. I stared at my hands. My city council sat there frustrated, not allowed to ask any of the hundred questions that must have been on their lips.

Finally, Scott asked a pretty harmless one. “Do you want us to call you Jim?”

“No,” I said firmly. “I'm Ryan.”