The Islanders (22 page)

CHRISTOPHER WAITED OUTSIDE THE SCHOOL
for the final bell to ring. He kept out of sight across the street in a recessed doorway and hoped for a good opportunity.

Zoey and Lucas, Aisha and Nina emerged together, which was unfortunate.

But then Aisha and Nina went off in one direction and Zoey and Lucas headed down Mainsail toward the dock and the home-bound ferry. Almost perfect. It would have been nice if Lucas was out of the picture, but the important thing was that Aisha wasn't around. When he was sure Nina and Aisha were gone, he fell into step behind Zoey and Lucas.

The day, which had started out unusually brutal, had warmed up nicely, and the oppressive cloud cover had broken up a little, letting in rays of slanting afternoon sun. Christopher caught up with Zoey after a couple of blocks. She saw him and gave him a guarded but still friendly smile. He pretended to have just noticed her.

“Oh, hi, Zoey. Hey, Lucas. School's out, huh? I guess I lost track of time.”

“Yeah, we busted outta that joint,” Lucas said, doing a tough-guy gangster voice. “They couldn't hold us.”

“Right.” Christopher forced a laugh. “Cool. So, uh, heading on down to the ferry, huh?”

“More or less,” Lucas said. “What's up with you?”

Christopher shrugged. “Oh, not much. I have a couple hours off. Killing time.” He looked at Zoey, then looked away.

“My old man would love you, Christopher,” Lucas said. “He thinks people should work twenty-four hours a day.”

“Yeah.” Again Christopher gave Zoey what he felt was a pretty obvious look.

“Um, Lucas, I think Christopher wants to talk to me about something,” Zoey said.

“I'm not stopping him,” Lucas said. Then he made eye contact with Zoey. “Oh, you mean like something private.”

Zoey smiled and Christopher made a point of staring up at a building, like he was counting the floors.

“Fine. I can take a hint. I'll just . . . I'll just go down to the Green Mountain and get a cup of coffee.” He started to walk away. “All by myself.”

Christopher realized he hadn't exactly handled everything with the subtlety he'd hoped to pull off. “I was just wondering,
Zoey. You know, what we were talking about at work last night. You know.”

“Aisha?”

“Yeah, that's it.”

Zoey drew him out of the traffic on the sidewalk into the mouth of an alleyway. “I can't be the middleman—or middlewoman—between you two, Christopher,” she said sternly. “But she did say she doesn't
hate
you. She's just very disappointed in you. She thought you were better than that, that you meant more to each other than that.”

Christopher cringed. Guilt trip. That's what it was, a guilt trip Aisha was laying on him. And he had no reason to feel guilty. No reason.

On the other hand, Aisha had not left his thoughts as easily as he'd hoped. In fact, she kept reappearing frequently. Through the night. While he was trying to get work done. Very frequently. Not that he was ever going to buy into her whole one-on-one-only thing.

But he did miss her. And he wasn't starting to miss her any less.

And it was just barely possible that he really had hurt her feelings and her sense of pride when he'd gotten that Angela girl to come to his room.

“I can't give you advice, all right?” Zoey said. “But it
probably wouldn't kill you to say you're sorry.”

“Sorry.” He tried the word out experimentally.

“What do you think you're doing, boy?”

Christopher froze. He registered a look of shock on Zoey's face. He turned around.

The blow was staggering. He fell straight back, collided with Zoey, then hit the hard concrete of the alley. The second blow he saw coming, a steel-buckled boot that slammed into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He gasped for air.

He heard Zoey scream. He heard a harsh voice laughing and taunting him.
Black boy's got a white girl in the alley.
A blow to his kidneys. Searing pain. His vision all red.

“Get the girl,” a voice said.

“Let her go,” a second voice countered. “Let's take care of nappy here.”

Christopher tried to wipe the blood out of his eyes and get a look at his tormentors, but there was yet another blow. He vomited.

A sound of running feet.

A girl's voice, sobbing. His head being lifted and pressed against softness.
I wish I could just pass out
, he thought. And then he did.

“DOWN, TWENTY-ONE, FOURTEEN, HUP, HUP!”

Jake saw the center move the ball back between his legs to the quarterback. Jake lunged forward, knocking Tony DeSantos aside, and began to run downfield. He ran ten paces and cut sharply left, turning to see the ball flying through the air. A good, rifled pass, a little high but within easy reach. Jake reached.

The ball flew through his outstretched fingers and hit the dirt five yards away.

“Dammit, McRoyan!”

Jake heard the sound of his coach's voice on the sidelines, an angry whine like a hornet. The practice was not going well.

He headed back toward the line of scrimmage. The quarter­back, a fellow senior named Fitzhugh, shook his head. “You want me to just walk down-field and hand it to you next time, McRoyan?”

“You overthrew.” Jake pulled off his helmet to wipe the sweat from his brow.

“Bull. Try paying attention next time. I'm not throwing passes just for my own entertainment. I was thinking we'd try to actually win our homecoming game for the first time this century.”

Jake put the helmet back on and entered the huddle.

“Okay, third and four,” Fitzhugh said. “Let's see if we can run against our own defense. Second chance, big Jake. Get us a first down and we'll all forget that last play.”

“Eat me, Fitz,” Jake said.

“Break!”

They formed up on the line, facing their fellow teammates, a defense that was known to be weaker than the threat they'd be facing the next night. The team from Bangor was reputed to have several players over two hundred and fifty pounds.

“Down, twenty-one, hup, hup, hup!”

Jake dropped back, spun, ran to meet Fitzhugh, grabbed the ball from his outstretched hand. His foot caught on something. He took two staggering steps, trying to regain his balance, then the express train hit him.

When the laughing defensive lineman finally let him up, he was face to face with the coach. “You want to explain to me what that move was, McRoyan?”

“I tripped.”

“No kidding. You tripped. Swell. Are you in this practice, McRoyan?”

“Y'sir, Coach,” Jake muttered.

“Because I don't think your mind is on football, son. You got your mind on something else? You got your mind on some girl, or what? Because this is a game for people who only have their minds on football. Am I clear on this?”

“Y'sir, Coach.”

“We are going to win that game tomorrow night, because I am not going to spend the rest of the season taking crap off every butthole with an opinion in this town, do you read me? Do you
all
read me, loud and clear?”

“Yes, sir,” a chorus of masculine voices rang out.

The coach softened just a bit. “Well, they say
bad practice, good game
. By those lights we'll have one hell of a game tomorrow night, because this is one sorry practice. All right, give me some laps and hit the showers.”

Jake trotted around the field five times and headed for the locker room, feeling sour and tired. He ignored the good-natured and not-so-good-natured jibes from teammates, showered, and dressed quickly.

Lars Ehrlich fell into step beside him as he made his way across the gym floor and outside into the cool evening. An
ambulance was blaring past at high speed in front of the school, red lights flashing crazily off the windows of the buildings.

“You want to bust my ass, too, Lars?” Jake asked without much interest.

Lars shrugged. “Nah. But you did suck out there.”

“Yeah, well, you can eat me, too.”

“You're hung over, man, that's the problem.”

“You know something, Lars, I don't remember when it was you became my mother.”

Lars laughed. “I don't give a rat's ass what you do, man. I'm just thinking about the game. We can't win without you.”

“Probably can't win
with
me,” Jake said. But the mention of the team did strike home. Lars was right. He was part of a team, not just one guy. He couldn't let the team down. Even Fitz, who was a certified jerk. “You heard Coach. Bad practice, good game. We'll do all right.”

“Well, maybe tonight would not be a good night to be boozing. Not that I'm your mom.”

Jake gave him a good-natured shove. “I'll be a real Boy Scout.”

“Here.” Lars held out his hand, palm down.

“What's that?”

“Just take it,” Lars insisted.

Jake held out his hand and a small glass vial dropped into
his palm. “Lars, what is this?”

“It's just a little blow, man. No biggie. Do a couple lines before first half, then a couple more for the second half. Instant concentration. You can owe me for it.”

“Coke?”

“Oh, don't go all virginal on me, dude. You were sweating like a pig out there. You're out of shape and you're not focusing and I don't want us to lose this game just because you're all screwed up over Claire Geiger.”

Jake bristled. “I don't need this crap, Lars.”

A police car raced past, apparently following the ambulance toward downtown.

“Okay, then flush it down the toilet. Whatever. But you know, a lot of alumni come back for homecoming, and in case it slipped your mind, the assistant coach from BU is probably going to be at the game. He might take notice of a couple of real hotshot players from his old alma mater. I know your folks are well-off, but my dad's been unemployed for a year, dude. Some athletic scholarship money would help. You hear what I'm saying?”

Jake nodded. “I hear.”

“Cool. Later, man.”

“Yeah, later.”

“YOU KNOW WHAT, AISHA? MAYBE
you should ask Jake to take you to homecoming,” Nina suggested. “I mean, he's not taking Claire . . .”

Aisha shook her head. “Nina, you just love to cause trouble, don't you?”

Nina grinned over the top of her Orange Julius. “I like life to be entertaining.”

Aisha looked around her at the mostly empty mall food court. She wasn't about to take up Nina's mischievous suggestion, but it was a reminder that if she wanted to go to homecoming, she had almost no time left to find a date. There was a guy in her calculus class she'd thought about, but when the moment had come to approach him, she'd put it off.

Maybe it was some lingering hope that things would work out with Christopher at the last moment. A hope based on the fact that Zoey said he was asking about her. He wouldn't be
asking if he weren't still interested.

“Well, I'm basically done,” Nina said, tossing her paper cup toward the trash bin.

“With your drink, or with shopping?”

“Both. I've made a final, irrevocable decision. I'm just going to wear the same dress I wore when Benjamin and I went down to that concert in Portland.”

Aisha rolled her eyes. “In other words, we've just wasted all the time we spent here.”

“I bought this,” Nina said, holding up a
Rolling Stone
magazine.
“And”
—she fished in a bag and produced a pair of very dark shades—“I got these. Now Benjamin and I will be sort of making a joint fashion statement.”

Aisha smiled. “And I got a three-pack of all-cotton underwear. So, I guess this shopping trip was a major success.”

Nina started to say something, but Aisha held up her hand. “Shh. Listen.”

“To what?”

“The P.A.—shh.”

“Oh my God. They're paging
you
,” Nina said. “Unless there's another Aisha Gray.”

Aisha felt a shiver of fear. It had to be an emergency. She had never heard anyone be paged in the mall before. Her mom had been hurt! Or her dad had had a heart attack! She jumped
up. “Where do I go? Where am I supposed to go?”

“Um, um, the um, the information place! That round thing where they give out strollers.”

Aisha took off at a near run. Kalif, it could be her brother. Her heart was pounding.

“Eesh, it could be nothing,” Nina said hopefully. “Maybe you dropped your wallet and they found it or something.”

Aisha spotted the information kiosk and broke into a run. “I'm Aisha Gray, I'm Aisha Gray.”

The old woman behind the counter stared at her in annoyance. “Yes, there's a telephone call for you.” She punched a button and handed the receiver to Aisha.

“Who is this?”

“Aisha?” Zoey's voice, strained and edgy.

“Zoey? What's the matter? Is it my mom?”

“Listen, Aisha, it's Christopher.”

Aisha's heart thumped and seemed about ready to stop beating. “Oh my God.”

“He's hurt, Aisha.” Aisha heard the sob in Zoey's voice and almost dropped the receiver. “We're at County Hospital.”

“Is he okay?”

“I don't know yet.” A long silence. “There was a lot of blood. I don't know.”

Nina slammed on the brakes, and her father's seventy-thousand-dollar Mercedes came to a stop with the front grille just millimeters from the car in front of her.

Aisha was out of the car before it had completely stopped, leaving the door open behind her, running to the big glass doors that opened electronically. She dashed into the crowded emergency room, a cacophony of crying children, Oprah's theme song on the TV, computer printer chatter, and repeated chime tones over the p.a.

She spotted Zoey. Lucas was just beyond her, but what held Aisha's gaze was the drying bloody stain smeared across the front of Zoey's sweater.

“Is he okay? Is he okay?”

Zoey ran to meet her, nodding vigorously and saying, “He's going to be fine, the doctor just came out and said he's going to be fine.” Then Zoey was hugging her and Aisha felt like she might faint.

“They said it looked worse than it was. There was all this blood, but he just broke a couple of ribs and he's all swollen and bruised, but he's okay.”

Aisha realized she was weeping, letting her tears moisten
Zoey's hair. “God. What happened? Was he riding his bike?”

Aisha could feel Zoey take a deep, steadying breath. “It wasn't an accident.”

Aisha backed away to look at Zoey. “What do you mean? What was it?”

“Some guys beat him up. I think there were three of them.” Zoey looked away. “Three white guys.”

“Well . . . what . . . I mean, what, why did they beat him up?”

“They—they were skinheads or something.”

Aisha felt a cold calm settle over her, blanking out her worry. “You mean they beat him up because he's black?”

“I think so,” Zoey said. “We were talking, just the two of us. Lucas was down the street. I think they thought we were together. A black guy and a white girl.”

Aisha nodded slowly. “I see.”

“There wasn't any warning or anything. It all happened so fast. One second we were talking, then Christopher was on the ground and these guys were kicking him, calling him . . . you know.”

Two uniformed policemen stepped out of a room, looking bored. They stopped and surveyed the four of them. “You two are new,” the older of the two cops said, indicating Aisha and Nina. “Did either of you witness the incident?”

“No,” Nina said. “We were at the mall.”

The policeman nodded. “Well, anyone thinks of anything, give us a call. You may be contacted by detectives.”

“Are you going to be able to catch the guys?” Zoey asked.

“There's no way to be sure. We don't have a lot of evidence yet. The victim says he never got a clear look at the guys who jumped him. And all you've been able to tell us is that they were white, young skinhead types. But we'll probably catch them sooner or later. These types of perpetrators aren't usually real smart. Sooner or later we'll get them.”

Aisha was barely listening after the first few words. She had gone to the door of Christopher's room and was hesitating, her hand on the doorknob. She might be the last person Christopher wanted to see right now.

But then again, he had no one else to look after him.

She opened the door and stifled a gasp. Christopher was lying flat on his back. White bandages were wrapped around his chest, around his left leg and both arms. His head was bandaged, too, and those bandages were stained with seeping blood. There was a needle stuck into his arm at the elbow, attached by a long plastic tube to a clear pouch that hung overhead.

She moved closer and saw that his face was a mass of swelling. His left eye was swollen completely shut and the lid bristled with stitches. There were more stitches above his lips and just around the bottom of his ear.

When he spoke, his voice was a hoarse whisper, barely intelligible. “I look like hell, don't I?”

Aisha shook her head and fought unsuccessfully to hold back the tears. She sought a place where she could touch him, make some sort of physical contact, and found an undamaged patch on his shoulder.

“Does it hurt a lot?”

“Mmm. They were . . . stoned on all kinds of stuff. Doesn't hurt. Later, yeah.”

“The doctor told Zoey you're going to be all right.”

“Until . . . the bill,” he said, trying feebly to laugh.

“Oh, God, Christopher.”

“I'm fine, Eesh . . . cry. Don't cry.”

“I'm sorry, I can't help it.”

“Look, nurse will . . . kick you out, so I need you to . . .”

Aisha leaned closer so he wouldn't have to strain as much to make himself heard. He smelled of antiseptic and Vaseline. “Anything. I'll do anything.”

“Make sure . . . Mr. Passmore knows . . . can't work tonight. Also, school . . . tell Coach. And the papers . . . Oh, damn . . .”

Aisha almost laughed. Typical Christopher. She'd been expecting something personal, and what he was worried about was his work. “I could deliver your papers,” she said.

“No—”

“Sure I can. Do you have some kind of a list somewhere? In your apartment?”

“Late.”

“I know. I'll just sleep through some classes.”

He tried to nod, but the effort obviously hurt.

“Don't move. And don't worry, I'll take care of everything for you. And when they let you go, you can come stay at my house. We have plenty of rooms and they're all vacant, no customers. You could have your own Jacuzzi and silk sheets and all.”

His eyelids drifted down. “That . . . last shot . . . made me kind of sleepy.”

“Go ahead and sleep. Sleep as much as you can.” She stroked his shoulder tentatively.

“Aisha?”

“Yes, I'm still here.”

“Sorry.”

“It's not your fault you're in here,” Aisha blazed.

“No.” He tried his fractured smile again. “Sorry. You know.”

“Go to sleep,” she whispered.