The Heartbreak Messenger (15 page)

“Ha! You're in more danger of that than I am.”

He didn't have to say the words—the feeling of dread was already wedged in my stomach like a fruitcake. I knew I was probably pedaling furiously toward my doom, but there was still the money to think about. No delivery, no money. No money, no apartment. The thought of our stuff sitting out on the curb spurred me on.

It took awhile to get back to civilization. I stopped at the garage for a minute to let Mom know what I was up to. Well, to let her know I was working on a “project” and would be back for dinner. If I was still conscious. I didn't get off my bike, and I didn't let Mom get too close, since the client's dead-rat substitute was starting to stink outside the box.

Next I rode over to the Windy Terrace neighborhood. I wandered up and down the narrow streets filled with mobile homes, looking for the address that Lisa had given me. I finally found it, a small rectangular house with a neat flower bed in front—a perfect place to lay my body to rest once Duke was through with me.

As I unstrapped the gift box and left my bike on the front lawn, my hands were shaking.
Professionalism
, I told myself.
Just doing my job. For fifty bucks.

I took a deep breath, cleared my throat, and knocked on the hollow wooden door with a trembling fist. A woman's voice called out, “'Round back.”

I walked past the corner of the trailer and found a back porch. A woman with scraggly pepper gray hair sat on the stairs. Lines hung under her eyes and she looked a lot older than my mom. She wore a uniform, maybe from a hospital or a restaurant, and a glowing cigarette dangled from her fingers.

The woman glanced up at me with tired eyes. “You looking for my Duke?” she asked.

I nodded, fingering the stinky gift box nervously. The woman shoved her cigarette into a flowerpot full of sand and brown butts, and then grabbed the stair railing and carefully hoisted herself up. She opened the back door. “Duke, someone looking for you,” she called out in a husky voice. She gave me a last glance, and then slipped into the house.

The door opened a minute later and a head with auburn hair poked out. Duke stepped onto the small wooden porch, an almost-smile on his face. “Hey. Did you bring my new cleats?” His voice was deep and resonated like a bear's voice might, if it wore shoulder pads and was a senior in high school.

I shook my head, a little tongue-tied. Duke was immense. At least six-foot-eight and … well, who knows. Big. Refrigerator big. The stainless-steel Maytag kind with two doors that open side-by-side. The pink gift box felt slippery in my sweaty hands.

Duke nodded, as though showing me he understood something perfectly. “Well, okay, but let's do it quick. I've got some math homework tonight that's killing me.”

Huh?

Did he know I was coming? Had he known his girlfriend was going to dump him? Using a seventh-grader? Was he almost-smiling because he knew, as a consolation, he would at least get to practice tearing someone apart limb from limb?

“You know why I'm here?” I croaked, readying myself for the first blow.

“Well, yeah. Same reason the other kids come.”

I kind of doubted that.

“Um, Mr. Ripling…”

“Call me Duke.” He pulled a Sharpie from his pocket and reached toward me, gesturing to the gift box. I yanked it away but his whole muscular body seemed to keep extending until I couldn't pull it away any farther. He took the box and looked at it for a moment. “A gift, huh? A superstar autograph will add a nice touch.” He pulled the cap off his pen with his teeth and signed the box lid with a flourish that seemed carefully practiced. He shoved the box back into my hands and capped his pen. “You can tell her that'll be worth a ton when I'm named an NFL MVP. Anyway, seeya, champ.”

My target turned and headed back up the narrow stairs, pausing for a moment to glance at the soles of his shoes.

“Whoa, Duke, uh, hold on a minute. Please.” The words tumbled out. I caught my breath, afraid that I might sound a little too chummy. His head swung back around on his telephone-pole neck and he looked at me. His almost-smile was gone.

I pushed through the lump in my throat and kept going. “Uh, the autograph's really great, and, I mean, thanks a lot. But I'm here to talk with you about something.”

He didn't move. As motionless as a rock. Seriously. He eyed me the same way he might stare at the other linebacker, or whatever you call the dead duck on the other side of the line of scrimmage.

I am about to die.

I cleared my throat. “I have a message for you. From Lisa.”

His hand fell to his side. The door slammed shut. He turned slowly, no longer looking at me like I was just some little kid.

“You're him, aren't you?” The bearlike resonance was gone. His voice was hollow.

It was the same hopeless look Goat Girl had given me, with just a little more violence behind it. “You're the Heartbreak Messenger. And Lisa sent you.”

Suddenly his face flushed red. His jaw trembled. His fists clenched. An ugly cry came from his throat, something barbaric and animal. His eyes fell on the large ashtray flowerpot sitting at the top of the stairs. He picked it up like a pebble and hefted it above his head. I stumbled backward as it crashed down a few feet in front of me on the cement driveway. Dirt and cigarette butts and shards of pottery poured across my shoes. Adrenaline pumped through my veins and I scrambled, ready to tear around the corner of the house and put some distance between us.

I glanced at him once more, expecting to see him lunging for my neck. And just as my eyes met his, the anger drained from his face and he collapsed. Like his muscles had given out. He crumpled onto the top step, his arms on his knees and his forehead on his arms.

And then Duke Ripling, a grizzly bear from the turf of manly men, cried like a baby.

Heaving sobs. And big, wet, slobbery sniffs. His body shook as he cried. He didn't hold back—maybe he couldn't. I'm sure the neighbors must have heard something. But he went on and on, like a storm.

My job was finished. Message delivered. The result may have even surprised my client. She probably would have liked to hear about it. All I had to do was place the autographed gift box at his feet and say, “Tough game, champ. Better luck next season.”

But I couldn't. Just like with Goat Girl. I simply couldn't walk away from someone that was, well, blubbering. This was just a little different than Goat Girl, though. She was cute. She was a girl. A damsel in distress. This was an ogre.

I took a few steps toward him and waited for a reaction. When none came, I walked carefully up to Duke and sat next to him on the stairs. The storm was tapering off now. More snotty sniffles and less sobs. I put the gift box on the stairs, off to the side, and waited. I didn't think the situation really called for a hug. Footballers were probably more into head butting or something, anyway.

Finally he lifted his head. His eyes were puffy and glistening. He wiped the tears from his cheeks. He took a few shaky breaths. He wiped his nose with his shirt collar.

“Sorry you had to see that, Heartbreaker,” he finally said. “I guess you're probably used to it by now.”

I nodded vaguely. “It's all right, man. You gotta let it out.”

He sighed, and then spoke some more, his voice still weak. “I saw this coming, you know? I tried to stop her, to make her understand, but she just wouldn't listen. She thinks I'm two-timing her, but that ain't the case. It's something I had to do.”

I seemed to remember Lisa saying something about that offense.

“If I don't get my math grades up, I can't play. Coach told me that. The principal's not giving any exceptions. So I'm working on it, you know? I find a tutor, a junior girl, a nice kid that's real smart. Of course I have to spend some time with her. How else am I going to get my grades up, man? But it wasn't anything, she's a friend, she's helping me out. That's it. End of story.”

“Have you talked with Lisa about it?” I asked.

Duke looked up at the stars, which seemed especially bright. “Lisa won't listen. She only sees what she wants. Not what's in here.” He tapped his chest. “In here, it's all about her. No one else.”

The neighborhood was silent, as if everyone was mourning in honor of Duke the Ripper. I looked over at that giant on the stairs next to me. He looked sincere. He looked like he was in pain. I wondered if his story was true, if he really did only have feelings for Lisa, and if she just blew off a guy that was completely and totally devoted to her.

“I'm sorry,” I said. And I was. Not sorry that I'd delivered the message. That was just business, after all. Right? But I did feel sorry for him, that it all had to happen. Seemed like a little communication could have cleared things up. A different kind of communication.

Duke wiped his eyes again. “It's all good, dude. Thanks for listening. You're all right, Messenger.” He held out his fist. I tapped my fist down on his, and he did the same to mine. He looked up at the stars again, and then sniffed like he was smelling something and scrunched his eyebrows.

“Hey, kid, I think you must have dog poo on the bottom of your shoe.”

 

Chapter 23

When I left Duke's house later that evening, I was still carrying the gift box full of dog crud. I didn't have the heart to leave it with Duke. Instead, I tossed it into the neighborhood Dumpster before hitting the road.

There was one more stop I had to make, even though it was well past dinnertime. A few blocks from my apartment, I parked my bike in the driveway of a one-story house with a tidy yard. I knocked on the door.

I heard the scurry of feet and then a curtain was whisked aside behind a glass panel in the door. The round black eyes of Katie, Abby's little sister, peered out at me for a brief second.

“Abby!” her muffled voice echoed. “There's a boy here for you. The one that's
not
your boyfriend.”

I glanced up, pretending a sudden interest in the current phase of the moon.

The door opened a moment later. Abby peaked her head around the edge of the door. “Yes?” she asked with thin lips.

“Hey, Abby. Um, how's it going?”

“How's it going? Oh, fine. Just fine. Despite the fact that I beat my head against a picnic table all afternoon trying to get through my English homework alone.”

“Yeah. Hey, we're really sorry about that. We got caught up in a project that took us all the way out to Jorge's Scrap Yard.” I mentally braced myself for the cross-examination headed my way.

“Mmm-hmm. A project. What kind of project?” Somehow the question sounded like an accusation.

Tread carefully, man.
“It was a … research project.”

“Mmm-hmm. A research project. Did you find what you needed?”

“Yeah, but it took us awhile. Obviously.”

Abby studied my eyes. Scrutinized them. I felt like a blob of gunk in a petri dish. “You know,” she said, “the whole time I was sitting at that table—
alone
—I told myself that if you had stood me up to go off and break somebody's heart, that I wouldn't talk to you for a very, very long time. At least 'til next Presidents' Day. You weren't doing Heartbreak Messenger stuff, were you?”

Don't answer! Avoid the question.
“Abby, we went to the scrap yard, just me and Rob. There aren't many hearts out there that need breaking. Just rats and junkyard dogs. All right?”

She scrutinized me some more.

“Hey,” I said, “I'm here now, aren't I? I came straight to your house. I haven't even had dinner yet.”

Abby turned off her scrutinizing rays, although she seemed reluctant to do it. “I know. Which is why, if you and Rob are lucky, I may grace you with my presence later this week.”

I gave her a mock bow. “We would be honored.”

“I'm doing some stuff with Justin, and I have my photography class tomorrow … so hopefully I don't get caught up in any
projects
. Good night, Mr. Chinetti.” I saw her dimple flash just before she closed the door.

As I turned away, I felt pretty lucky. It's not every night you face both a bear and a wildcat—and come away without a scratch.

Now that the day was over, I rode slowly to Mick's, weaving my bike on and off the sidewalk under the streetlights. The experience with Duke Ripling kept replaying in my mind. I tried to push it aside, but it nagged at me, like a piece of popcorn stuck in my teeth. It had been a good job. Fifty bucks, minus the five for Rob and the extra two-fifty I loaned him that I'd probably never get back. I had come away without a black eye, with all my bones still intact, and with just a little cigarette ash dusting my shoe.

And yet, for the first time since starting my brilliant entrepreneurial scheme, I felt something I'd worked hard to avoid. Guilt.

I'd told myself a hundred times since leaving Duke's back porch that nothing was my fault. It wasn't my fault Duke was failing math. It wasn't my fault Duke had chosen a cute junior girl as a math tutor instead of some pimply nerd from the trigonometry club. It wasn't my fault his girlfriend was being unreasonable and had chosen to coldheartedly end their relationship through some kid who was quickly becoming a legend. Not my fault in the least.

But there was the guilt, hanging around as if looking for a buddy. And I couldn't figure out why.

I pulled up to the garage bays at Mick's and popped the kickstand. Across the bay I could see Mom scrubbing her hands with the orange pumice soap. It was her early night, and she was getting ready to leave. She didn't notice me. I hung back, just watching, thinking about how starved I was.

Then, next to the stainless steel sink, she did something that I'd seen only once—maybe twice—before. And a few pieces of my mental puzzle clicked together.