Tangled (5 page)

Twenty minutes later, I was down in the kitchen eating cold pizza and staring at the speech I was supposed to be reading today. I hate public speaking. It’s crazy because I can wear a skintight singlet and wrestle a guy in front of a large crowd without getting nervous. But make me recite an oral report and I’m pissing my pants.

Coach told me that an English teacher offered to help me write this speech.

“Screw English teachers,” I told Coach. It was only supposed to be three or four minutes. Plus, I hate how everyone acts like you’re retarded if you’re not in honors classes and French club. “I’m going to Fredonia in the fall. I know how to put some words together.”

“Good luck, Shakespeare,” Coach said, slapping my back.

It turns out three minutes is a long time. Also, what do you say about a girl you were on the verge of breaking up with when she died? I spent a week typing pathetic attempts, deleting them, and snapping at whoever had the misfortune of talking to me. Finally, I was at work one night, a few days ago. I’d been stocking milk in the dairy section and happened to say a few choice words to the forklift driver, who then went and complained to my boss. When my boss asked me what was up my ass, I told him about the speech for Natalie.

“Use specific examples,” he’d advised. “People like that shit. Oh, and lay off the cursing when you’re on the job.”

Once I’d finished unloading the heavy cream, I’d grabbed an invoice out of a crate and drafted my speech on the back. As soon as I got home, I shoved it in the folder that the principal gave us, with all the information about today’s ceremony, and didn’t look at it again until today.

I should probably practice it once or twice
, I thought as I washed down my pizza with some Coke.
Maybe even time myself
. I glanced at the clock on my phone,
and began reading out loud:

“Natalie Birch and I were going out since fall of junior year. She was a great girl and a talented cheerleader. Everyone who met Natalie loved her. She was really funny and she always made people laugh. Also, she wasn’t scared to say what was on her mind, especially to guys like me. And she’d kill you if you called her Nat, so don’t even try.

“Natalie was always the one to decorate your locker on your birthday and bake you cookies and text you all day. Sometimes she’d get mad at me if I forgot our anniversaries, but then she’d make me buy her something expensive. That was something else about Natalie. She liked shopping and she definitely liked nice things.

“Another thing about Natalie is that she once told me she wanted to be remembered forever. By putting up this plaque today, I guess that’s going to happen.”

As soon as I was done reading, I checked the time. One measly minute. Fuck.

My cell phone rang. I glanced at the name and then quickly grabbed it before it woke up my dad again.

“What’s up, Mom?”

“Hey, Dakota. Are you awake yet?”

“Uh, no. I’m fast asleep.”

“But it’s seven-oh-five!” she said. “School starts in half an hour.”

“I’m joking, Mom. I’m about to leave.”

She was quiet, stewing. I couldn’t think of anything to say. Yet another bonding moment in our relationship.

“I wanted to remind you to call Pauline,” she said after a moment. “It’s her birthday.”

I forgot that my grandmother and Natalie had the same birthday. When we discovered that at some point, Natalie had acted like it was an earth-shattering coincidence, a sign that things were meant to be. “Meant to be
what
?” I’d asked. My mom’s mother is a bitch. No big prize to share a birthday with her.

“You didn’t call her on Mother’s Day,” my mom added. “She’s still upset about that.”

Typical Pauline. She’s never shown interest in me, actively despises my father, and has forbidden my brother and me to call her Grandma. And then she’d be in a huff because I didn’t celebrate Mother’s Day with her.

“She’s not even
my
mom,” I said. “Isn’t it your job to call her on Mother’s Day?”

“Dakota,”
my mom said. “Please just wish her happy birthday. Please.”

“Fine,” I said.

“Do you have her number in Knolls Landing?”

I tried to remember the last time I called my grandparents at their lake house. It’s two hours from here, but I hadn’t been there since early high school.

My mom began reciting the number. I copied it down on the paper next to my speech.

“Have a nice day at school,” she said when she was done. “Do you have anything fun planned?”

I thought about Natalie’s ceremony. I’d mentioned it to my dad, but I hadn’t told my mom about it. I just assumed she knew, like maybe my dad would have told her. After Natalie died, my dad had called my mom to talk about whether I needed to see a therapist. In the end, my mom decided it made more sense to take my little brother and me to a fancy resort in the Caribbean, to help get my mind off things. The problem is, I can’t spend seven consecutive hours around my mom. Forget seven days. My mom and I argued the whole time and my brother completely checked out, as usual, and I hooked up with some girl and then blew her off for her friend, who turned out to be a bitch. All around, the trip was a mighty success.

“Not really, Mom,” I said after a long pause. “It’s just a regular day.”

After my mom and I hung up, I headed back upstairs. I rubbed some gel in my hair, straightened my tie, and then, at the last minute, poured a few inches of Jack Daniel’s in my Blue Devils sports bottle.

On my way back through the kitchen, I scooped up the folder with the ceremony information and the hall pass to get us out of class. There, in the folder, was a photocopy of the news article from the day after the car accident. I don’t know why the principal included it in the packet. Maybe to remind us. Like we’re going to forget.

I didn’t read any articles about the crash when it happened. I knew Natalie was dead. What more did I have to learn? I was one of the first kids to find out because, that night, my dad’s patrol car pulled into the driveway. It was around eleven thirty and I was in bed. I heard my dad’s shoes clomp up the stairs and pause outside my room. He’d sat on the edge of my mattress and told me how his lieutenant heard it over the air and called him because he knew I went to the same high school. When my dad found out it was Natalie, he drove home to tell me.

Now, standing in the kitchen, I pulled the article out of the packet. It was the cover story in the
Democrat and Chronicle
.

Goddamn.

I crumpled the article, filled the rest of my sports bottle with Coke, and walked out to my car.

There were rumors.

Back in February, in the days following Natalie’s death, everyone was whispering about what she was doing in Jake’s car. He was a junior and didn’t even play basketball. I’d seen him at parties, but had no idea Natalie hung around with him.

Two weeks after the accident, the superintendent summoned me to his office to ask if I knew why Natalie wasn’t on the cheerleading bus that night.

“All I know is that she was at the game,” I said. “We hadn’t talked since that afternoon.”

“Anything else, son?”

I shook my head.

The superintendent jotted something on his yellow pad and then said, “I’m sorry about your loss. It’s a
loss for all of us.”

When I left the superintendent’s office, I stood in the icy field between the administrative building and the high school. My coat was in my locker, so the wind was whipping onto my neck. I stood there, shivering, wondering if I should go back inside and tell the superintendent about the fight. I hadn’t told anyone about it and, honestly, I wasn’t planning to. It was wrecking my life enough already. I’d been having stomach pain all week and I even saw blood when I took a shit. It was probably another ulcer, like the one I had after my parents split up.

Finally, I got in my car, cranked the heat, and ditched school for the rest of the day. But I couldn’t stop thinking about how Natalie and I had fought on the afternoon of the Penfield game. We were walking to my car, out in the student parking lot. Natalie was wearing her cheering uniform. She had her jacket on, but her short skirt showed off her legs, which were covered in goose bumps.

We were planning to drive to Taco Bell and grab a salad before her game. The bus was leaving for Penfield at four and Natalie was hell-bent on getting me to follow behind in my car and watch her cheer. I hadn’t been to any of her games that season and it was pissing her
off. Most days I had wrestling, or a bunch of us stayed after to lift in the weight room. But Coach had given us the afternoon off and the janitors were disinfecting the equipment. I was planning to go home and chill out, but Natalie kept bugging me about the game. When I said I wasn’t in the mood, she took it as a personal attack.

“I come to your meets,” she said as we approached my car. “I even go to those stupid tournaments. Do you think I like wrestling? Do you have any idea how bad it smells in there?”

I clicked the button to unlock the doors. “If you don’t like it, don’t come.”

Natalie planted her hands on her hips. “You should be more interested in what I do. You should be more supportive of me. I’m your
girlfriend
, after all.”

“I’m interested,” I said even though, at the moment, I was tempted to tell her that cheering is a lame excuse for a sport. I know cheerleaders can jump high and scream loud, but other than checking out their asses when they’re lunging into the air, no one really cares about them.

“If you’re not interested,” Natalie said, “maybe I’ll find someone who is.”

I climbed into my car. “Be sure to send me a wedding invitation.”

“Fuck you,” Natalie said. Then she turned and stomped toward the school.

I tore out of the parking lot. When I got home, I watched TV, getting up only to microwave some chicken. Natalie didn’t call my cell all evening and I didn’t try her either. I figured we were headed toward another breakup and, to be perfectly honest, I was fine with it.

By the time I went to bed, I was actually thinking that maybe this time it’d be for good. Maybe I’d find a younger girl, someone who looked up to me. Natalie was always treating me like an idiot, yelling at me and expecting me to take it.

The next thing I knew my dad was sitting on my bed, telling me she was dead. That she’d died with some other guy.
Jake Kulowski
, my dad said.
Did you know him?

That whole night, after my dad told me about the accident, I kept thinking that if I’d gone to the Penfield game, Natalie wouldn’t have run off with Jake. She would have taken the bus. Or maybe I would have driven her home. The girls’ cheerleading coach liked me, so she probably would have let me do it. I never would have attempted to pass on that stretch of Penfield Road. I definitely never would have crashed into a cement truck.

As I crossed the lawn into school, I loosened my tie around my neck. It was a warm spring morning, too hot for a suit. Too hot for school, actually, for being cramped up at a desk, acting like I’m paying attention. I reminded myself that there’s only five weeks left until graduation. Hopefully summer will fly. By the end of August, I’m off to Fredonia and away from all this.

“Dakota!”

I turned around. Gina Robinson was waving and calling my name.

“Nice suit,” she said as she caught up with me.

“Thanks.”

Gina was a cheerleader friend of Natalie’s and one of the girls who was going to speak at the ceremony today. I always had the feeling Gina wanted to hook
up with me, even back when Natalie was alive. She wasn’t my type, though. She had bulging eyes, almost like someone was strangling her. Also, Gina was a notorious gossip. Get together with her and the next day the whole school will be blabbing about the size of your dick.

“How’re you feeling about today?” Gina asked as she fell into stride next to me.

I shrugged.

“Have you heard about the poem?” Gina asked.

“What poem?”

“Supposedly Natalie used to write poetry,” Gina said. “I didn’t know that about her, did you?”

I shook my head.

Gina continued. “I guess Jake’s mom found this poem in his stuff that Natalie wrote for him. It was from the week before they died. She gave it to Natalie’s family. Supposedly it’s really deep. Natalie’s brother is going to read it today.”

I stared at Gina.

“I know,” Gina said, leveling her bug eyes at me. “I thought you’d want to know about that.”

I skipped homeroom. I shoved my bag into my locker, grabbed my iPod and the folder with the hall pass,
and headed to the locker room. No one was around, so I sat on a long bench and lowered my face in my hands. I could hear the principal reciting the Pledge. I reached for my sports bottle and took a quick taste. Next came the girls’ and boys’ baseball scores from yesterday’s game. We creamed Rush-Henrietta six to nothing. My buddies and I were riding high at Burger King last night, everyone slapping my back because I batted in two runs.

The principal downshifted to his soberest tone. “The ceremony for Natalie Birch will commence in the auditorium at nine o’clock,” he said. “Attendance is mandatory. Students, come directly to the auditorium after first period. Anyone participating in the program should report to the auditorium at eight forty-five.”

I clutched my gut. I could feel the pain ripping into my stomach. I took another sip of Jack and Coke, changed into shorts, and headed downstairs.

When I stepped into the weight room, I spotted Coach Ritter at his desk. He’s been my wrestling coach for the past four years. Even though it’s baseball season, he’s still Coach to me. Anyone who doesn’t do wrestling doesn’t get it. It’s not like the other sports where you’ve got a whole team to back you up. With wrestling, it’s
one-on-one, so there’s this instant camaraderie, a brotherhood of wrestlers. Only another wrestler will understand the pain you go through, how much you hate dropping weight, and how, as much as the sport sucks, you keep coming back for more.

Coach used to wrestle in high school and college, so he’s more like one of the guys than the other teachers. He teaches chemistry, but he also has a small office in the back of the weight room. Sometimes I go in there and talk with him. He can be tough, but he’s the only adult here who doesn’t treat me like a dumb jock. He was the person who encouraged me to apply to Fredonia. I was thinking I’d go to MCC, do community college for a year, but he said it’d be good for me to get away from home.

“Hey, Ritter,” I called out to him.

Coach looked up from his desk and saluted me.

“Okay if I work out?” I asked.

“Where’re you supposed to be?”

I held up the pass from the principal.

“Go for it,” Coach said. “But easy on the biceps. I heard you batted in two runs yesterday.”

I put on my iPod, pumped some heavy metal, and warmed up on the treadmill. I ran for a few minutes at a steady five mph jog and then turned it up to ten.
As my sneakers pounded against the track, I began to forget Natalie, that poem, the ceremony. Whenever she drifted into my mind, I’d hit the arrow to increase my speed.

By the time I moved on to biceps, I was dripping with sweat. Guys won’t admit it, but we’re all obsessed with our biceps. I did three sets of ten reps, thirty-five pounds on each side. I knew I was pushing it, especially since we have practice this afternoon, but what the fuck. That was going to be my motto today. What the fuck.

Now I was ready to start benching. I glanced into Coach’s office. He was on a call, his chair rotated so he was facing the wall. He’d murder me if he knew I was benching without a spotter, but there was no one else in the weight room. And, besides, you’d have to be an idiot to drop the bar on yourself.

I headed over to the bench press. Back in wrestling season, I was in prime shape. I was wrestling at 145 and benching as much as 150. Now I’m a fat slob, my weight probably up to 158 or 159. And the last time I benched, I couldn’t do more than 120. Damn depressing.

I put seventy on both sides. Then, after another glance at Coach’s back, I added another five pounds
each. One-fifty, baby. Time to get serious.

I lay down on the bench, gripped my hands on the bar, and unracked the weights.
Oh, man,
I thought as I brought it down. I was one weak motherfucker. As I heaved it up, my arms were trembling so bad I thought they might buckle. But I kept—
two
—pumping even though—
three
—the blood was rushing to my—
four
—head and I was struggling to—
five
—

“What the hell are you doing, Evans?”

Breathe.

Coach was standing above me. He wrangled the bar out of my fists and fitted it onto the rack. “I said, what the hell are you doing?”

“I’m benching,” I sputtered.

“Without a spotter?” Coach barked. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

I didn’t say anything. Sometimes you just have to wait for Coach to finish. He cools off quickly.

“Listen—” Coach slipped twenty pounds off each side. “You do whatever you want on your time, but you’re not going to injure yourself on my watch. I’ll spot you, but take it easy. You were only doing one-twenty last week.”

Coach had me on 110 now. My pecs were killing and my triceps were strained, but I wasn’t about to tell him
I couldn’t do any more.

I got my hands back in position. Coach unracked the bar again. I pumped out ten and then stared up at the ceiling, panting. I was just lifting my arms to do a final set when Coach said, “Hey, Evans, it’s almost eight thirty. You have to be up at the auditorium in fifteen minutes.”

I didn’t say anything as I gripped the bar. Coach unracked it and I did ten more reps, slower this time. When I was done, I sank my arms onto my chest. Baseball practice was going to be hell this afternoon.

Coach glanced at his watch and then gave me a long look. “You okay about today?”

“Yeah.” I wiped the sweat from my forehead and got up off the bench. “I’ll be fine.”

No one was in the locker room. I stripped down, grabbed a towel from the spare locker in the back, and headed to the showers. I cranked the water and stood under the spray, hoping the heat would ease the pain. I totally overdid it just now. Too much weight, not enough warm-up. I’ve been doing sports my whole life. I should have known better.

As I was drying off, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Gina said. I can’t believe Natalie wrote a poem
for Jake. So that means there was definitely something going on between them when they died. I guess I’m not surprised. Natalie and I were on thin ice anyway. I just don’t understand why she didn’t end it with me before she began composing love sonnets for him.

It was five to nine as I crossed the atrium and headed toward the auditorium. There were kids pouring in from everywhere, chatting as they filed through the double doors. Whenever someone spotted me, they stared. That’s how it was after Natalie died, that expression of pity and intrigue and even a little respect.

I wondered how they’d look at me after Natalie’s brother read the poem. Then I’d have to walk up on the stage and, like an idiot, recite my speech about how I was her boyfriend and she was so great.

My stomach began burning. I veered into the bathroom and hunched over the sink. I splashed my face with water and then headed outside again. Just as I was rounding the corner, I practically slammed into Natalie’s brother.

“What’s up?” I said, stepping back. I hadn’t seen Timon Birch since the funeral in February. He was a junior at Dartmouth and a complete prick. It helped that he was away at college the whole time Natalie
and I were together. But whenever he came home, I always got this condescending vibe from him, like he thought I was some low-class cop’s kid. I had the last laugh, though, because when he was backpacking in Europe last summer, Natalie went down on me in his brand-new Prius.

Timon was tall, practically a head above me, with an annoying flop of Ivy League hair. He smirked at me, but didn’t say anything.

I tensed my jaw. “I said
what’s up
?”

Timon muttered something that sounded like
Hmph
.

I was not in the mood for this. “Have you got a problem?”

“I’m just surprised to see you here,” Timon said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“It’s not like you’re going to be reflected in the most positive light.”

“Are you talking about that poem?”

“You want to hear it?” Timon reached into his pants pocket.

I could feel anger radiating through my body. “Are you trying to fuck with me?”

Timon unfolded the paper in his hands. As soon as I saw it, my stomach lurched. That was Natalie’s
stationery, for sure. The same stuff she used when she slipped notes in my locker. I hadn’t thought about that since she died, how they always smelled like vanilla and fresh ink.

“For Jake.” Timon glanced down at me.
“And so, finally, it makes sense. Even on a February night, I can feel flowers, sing songs, soak in sun—”

“Shut the fuck up, okay?” I shouted, pushing him in the shoulder.

A hush fell over the atrium. Kids hurried back from the doors that lead into the auditorium and gathered around us.

“What the hell are you trying to prove?” I asked. “That your sister was cheating on me? Great. Thanks.”

“I’m just saying”—Timon rubbed his shoulder—“that you thought you could treat her like crap and she’d take it. But she didn’t put up with all your shit. She had her own things going on.”

I visualized slamming his head into the wall, felt the satisfying crack of his skull.

Timon continued. “You know that necklace Natalie got you in the Bahamas?”

“What about it?” I asked, clenching my fists. Natalie and I had only been together a few months when she went on a vacation with her family. Things were good
with us back then. We hadn’t even broken up once. We chatted online every day of her trip and, when she got home, she brought me a T-shirt and a white puka-shell necklace. The shirt got wrecked in the dryer, but I still wear the necklace every day.

“Some guy at our resort gave it to her,” Timon said, “to remember the time they spent together. You know, the long walks on the beach, the—”

I shoved Timon in the chest. He went stumbling backward a few steps but then regained his footing, lunged forward, and pushed me hard. I pushed him again. He drew his arm to punch me, but before he could make contact I dropped onto my knee, wrapped my arms around his legs, and drove my shoulder into him.

Timon fell to the ground with me straddling him. I was just getting ready to pound his face when, all of a sudden, I felt intense pain. Someone was gripping my shoulder, yanking me off Timon, shoving me into the wall.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” Coach Ritter shouted. He was breathing fast and I could see veins pulsing in his temples.

I craned my head around Coach. Timon was standing up, shaking out his suit. A couple girls were
fluttering around him, offering to fetch ice from the nurse.

“Come with me,” Coach barked, grabbing my elbow.

Neither of us said a word as he steered me through the halls, down the stairs, and into the weight room. He propelled me into his office and jabbed a finger at his chair.

“I’ll be back,” he said as I slumped down. “Don’t move an inch.”