Cornered (33 page)

“I don't think I had my phone on me, I was, uh out doin' some stuff.” I throw out the first lie that pops into my head. Trying to say it as normal as I can. As normal as a person can after thinkin' they were gonna die. I don't look Dixon in the eyes; it's hard to look anyone in the eyes after you've just been jacked by a couple of eighth graders.

“You missed a great service, awesome message and the band was kickin'.”

“That's good,” I answer, my normal voice sounding pretty shaky to my own ears.

“Where you comin' from?” Dixon asked, reaching into a bag of chips but keeping his eyes glued to the TV. Both of us, plopped down on his couch. The cushions were worn-down so much their new color could just be called, “faded.”

“I was out runnin' some errands for Mumma.”

“Cool,” Dixon says. Luckily he's paying more attention to what's on TV than to what I'm saying.

• • •

Dixon's apartment is quiet. Quiet, except for me and him and the low rumble of the TV. I look over at him, and he's out. Sound asleep on the couch next to me. His Coke bottle glasses half off his face, lookin' like a special-needs Harry Potter.
Dag, that's messed up.
I feel guilty even thinkin' it, but everyone knows Dixon's about as smart as they come. Knows the answer before the teacher asks the question. Dixon's “good people,” as Daddy used to say. That one phrase that stuck to my mind like
superglue.
Good
people. Too bad there's way more
bad
people than good ones.

I grab a pillow and make myself up a place on the floor next to the couch. Even though it's only around seven, I'm wiped out, and as soon as I stretch my legs out, I start to drift off too. I let my body relax and let go. Slowly, I start to come down from the high-alert stage that I'd been in since my “incident.” I can feel the first twitches of almost-sleep begin to take me over. My left leg kicks out, then my right hand. Then, I'm gone.

• • •

We are walkin' down the hall, and all of a sudden she just starts kissin' me. I mean she's goin for it. And the cool thing is, nobody else notices. All the students and teachers just walk by like we're invisible. It's like we're on our own island of love and sloppy French kisses. Then one kiss takes the cake. A slow-motion kiss that seems like it's gonna last forever. It's like the longest kiss in the history of kisses. That is until Dixon's stale breath makes me cough, which then wakes me up so I'm face to face with his face and not Marketta Barrett's—numero uno—babe of all babes in the Junior class. Dag, that was a good dream.

“What?” I manage to say back, trying to stagger to my feet, pushing Dixon's face away from mine. I'm pissed off I'm with Dixon and not Marketta, and to add insult to injury, the blood rushing to my head makes me feel like I'm going to pass out and fall right back down on the floor.

“It's almost ten. Your mom's been blowin' up your phone. Now she's blowin' up mine. You gotta get home, dude.”

• • •

My stomach feels like it's down to my knees as I start my death march from Dixon's apartment to mine. It's not like it's that far, but I'm walkin' so slow it might as well be twenty miles away. We both live on the same side of town: the messed-up side. Don't matter that Dixon's white. Race ain't got a thing to do with it. If you're poor this is where you live—period. Regardless of race, color, or creed, we got thugs that will jack you for whatever you got in your pockets. Equal opportunity gangsters, for sure.

It's not like I live in a major city. I don't even live in a
minor
city, just this little spit-drop of a place some
genius
decided to call
Helzburg
. Folks think because I'm in Ohio I'm supposed to be in the country, out in the cornfields somewhere, but they don't know. There's craziness everywhere and Helzburg is as bad as any
real
big city can get and that's a true story.

Luckily by the time I get home, my apartment is empty. No signs of Mumma or Randy at all.
Who knows where they are and who cares.
I caught a break this time. If they're not here, odds are they went to Mickey's Bar, and when they get home, Mumma won't even remember what day it is, let alone that she sent me to the store all those hours ago.

I settle into my bed and pull the covers up to my chin. Ready to pull them over my head if I hear someone coming.
Yeah, I know, a real punk way to live.
Real cool
for a fifteen-year-old sophomore in high school to act. Just like a little kid, still afraid of his
mommy
, still afraid.

Always afraid . . .

• • •

The alley, the wannabes.
It all comes back fast. Shocking my brain into waking up, just like someone threw me into a cold pool.

Mumma.
I sit bolt-upright in bed and glance over at the clock. “Six thirty-seven.” I whisper to myself, straining to hear any stirring or movement on the other side of my bedroom door.
They have to be home.
But I don't hear a thing. Just the comforting sounds of silence. It would be the break of all breaks if they weren't here, if it was just me. It's happened before. They stay out all night,
drinking
,
or doing whatever they do
then crash at one of their friends' places. Right now it would be perfect timing.

I try to walk carefully out into the living room, but I almost trip over the coffee table.
I hate that stupid thing.
Peeking into their bedroom, I see the bed's still a mess, just like it always is, just like it was since yesterday morning. Nothing's changed. No sign of a return trip.

“Yes,” I shout it out loud into Mumma's bedroom, almost dancing back out into the living room and into our tiny kitchen. “Thank you, God,” I shout out loud again.
Today might not be a bad day after all.

• • •

The bus screeches to a stop, and everyone goes flying forward. We're herded outside and up the stairs to the entrance of the building. I look for a cattle prod, but so far I haven't been able to find one.
There's still time.

Helzburg High, is just that: Hell. At least it is for me. I'm small; I'm not white; I'm not black; and I'm not in a gang. Just like I said,
Hell.
Fifteen hundred kids, or delinquents, are more like it. Welcome to the Jungle, right here in the cornfields of Ohio.

The morning starts, and we're off. Uncontrolled chaos. The halls choked with kids who shouldn't even be here. They should be at Davis, that special school that takes all the kids that have messed up so badly even
this
school won't take them. Mumma's always sayin' I'm just one step away from Davis. But I know I ain't never done anything close to gettin' me sent there. Mumma probably wishes I would really mess up and get sent to Juvie. Then she'd be rid of me, at least for ninety days.

“Move.” I feel a big hand push my chest as the strong smell of too-sweet body spray hits my nostrils. I get smashed against a locker, held there like a prisoner from the force of the kids rushing through the hall. The voice that belongs to one of the hands that pushed me doesn't have a face. It doesn't need one. It doesn't matter. They're all the same.

“Move shorty.”

“Watch out.”

“Move or get beat down.” It's my morning welcome song, but I'm used to it.

• • •

“Hey, Shell, what happened, I mean, with your moms?” Dixon whispers. Both of us sitting in our fourth-period history class. He sounds worried, kind of looking me up and down to see if I'm okay.

“Dude, she wasn't home. Neither was Randy.”

“Where were they?”

“Who knows and who cares,” I answer, my voice just slightly going above a whisper. I check to see if Ms. Lygant heard me, but she still has her back turned, writing something on the white board.

“What did she say this morning?” Dixon is really looking for all the 411. And I'm just not in the mood.

“I said they weren't home. Didn't come home all night. Maybe they'll never come back,” I answer, this time even louder than before. I'm kinda shocked that I would say something like that, but also kinda excited about the possibility. I mean, I wouldn't want them to get hurt or anything, but maybe they could just leave the state. Or get arrested and sent to jail for a long time. That might not be bad. The thought makes me smile.

• • •

Lunch is like a minefield. It's me and Dixon against, well everyone, or at least that's what it feels like. In this school, in my life—anything can happen.

“Dude, there she is,” Dixon says, sounding like a little kid on Christmas Eve who just can't wait to open his presents.

“Who?”

“Your girl.” Dixon nods his head to point to someone behind me. I turn around slow, trying to be slick. At first I don't see her, but then she comes in crystal clear like a high-definition channel on TV. Marketta Barrett, in all her sixteen-year-old glory, breathing the rarified air that only superbad, upper-class cuties breathe.
If I could get just one breath of that.

Marketta is
all that
, and ain't nobody gonna argue with me on that one. She's biracial like me, except her mom's black and her dad's white.
Yeah, I do my research.
She's actually cool, which is unusual for a girl like her. She's the kind of girl if you sit next to in class, you better be wearin' a long shirt to cover up your growing—uh,
excitement
or you are
busted
, for sure.

“You need to go talk to her.” Dixon is always tryin' to instigate something. He's good at instigating.

“You talk to her,” I say back.

“Dude, she's
your
girl,” he says all matter-of-factly. “I gotta girl, remember?” There he goes again. It's kind of a nerd thing that I guess we both do. Pretending some hottie is
our
girl. For Dixon, that would be Katie Walker, who's basically the white version of Marketta. Pretty face, slammin' body, but couldn't pick Dixon out of a lineup if her life depended on it. Now Marketta, she's different. At least she knows I'm alive. Shoot, we've even had a few conversations. I don't like to talk about it to Dixon though, no need to rub it in his face. What would
I say anyway?
My
pretend girlfriend is more real than
your
pretend girlfriend?
Shoot, we're both pathetic.

“Dude, she's by herself. Now's your chance. Go over there.” Dixon practically stands up.

“Chill, I'll get over there when I'm good and ready,” I tell him. Both of us know I'm too scared to walk over and talk to her; both of us know I'm just stalling for time.

“Better hurry up, she ain't gonna be there forever.”

“Dag, she's leaving,” I say, trying to sound disappointed, even though I'm actually relieved. I watch her walk out of the cafeteria with a group of other superbad cuties.
Why do they always travel in packs?

“Lucky for you, huh?” Dixon tries to give me a jab, but I let it go. I feel like my cheeks are flushed red. I take a swig of my fruit punch and feel the urge to pee. It's been building for the whole lunch period, the urge that I've been trying to ignore, but now. . .

“I gotta go to the bathroom.” The words leave my mouth like a judge handing down a death sentence. Dixon looks at me like,
better you than me.

“You want me to go with you?” Dixon asks softly.

“Dude, I ain't no girl. I can handle mines.” I try to put on my fake,
I got this
gangster voice, but it ain't foolin' no one, most of all me.

I take my long dead-man-walking walk to the bathroom. I look around the hallway, trying to see if I can spy anyone who might want to mess with me.
So far so good.

• • •

Oh no.
I can feel him before I see him. I lift my head up from the sink and feel his breath in my ear. He starts whispering, taunting me in a singsongy voice.

“Hey, little girl with the red dress on, what you doin' in my bathroom?” It's Ben Reeves, but he goes by Benny.
Probably thinks it gives him more street cred.
I hate this dude. Always got to say I'm a girl 'cause of my name. He's only a junior, and he's already declared. Always trying to get me to run with his set. Gave me a good shiner last year. He don't play. . .

“What's wrong, you too good to answer my boy, here?” Another voice coming out of one of the stalls, another thug I didn't even know he was there. That's how they do. They're tricky like that. I should have known. I never should have gone to the bathroom.

“Look, I was just leaving. . . .” I can hear my voice crack and shake, breaking off in midsentence.

“We're not gonna hurt you. We just wanna talk.” The thug from the stall says, moving past me and toward the door, blocking my only way to escape. I know they don't have much time before lunch is over, but I also know these dudes could do a lot of damage in a short period of time.

“I just wanna go back and finish my lunch is all.” I try to sound calm. Try to get them to be calm, but the strange thing is, they already are.