Falling From the Sky (7 page)

Hey, didn’t want to wake you up. You’re the only one here, so make yourself at home. Is it weird that you’re reading this and I’m sorta talking to you but I’m not there? Totally weird, right? Anyway, I had to go to the mall. Work issue. Text me when you wake up. – Micah

I stumble across Micah’s room like I’m intoxicated and walk through the house. It’s eerily quiet. I wonder where his parents are. He hasn’t mentioned his mom or dad, but there’s no way he lives here alone. No one was at the fish fry either.

I return to Micah’s bedroom, text him that I’m going to take a shower, and tell him I’ll see him soon.

A handwritten “Out of Order” sign is taped over the carousel’s token booth when I get to the mall. I try to blend in with the shoppers as I search the food court for Micah. He sits alone at a table behind the game machines.

“What’s up with that?” I ask, sitting across from him and nodding toward the broken carousel.

I see the problem before he speaks. One of the horses is detached from the top of the spinning machine. It’s Simple Gray Horse. He leans diagonally like he’s going to topple over and face-plant onto the wooden floor. I don’t see what’s so special about him. He’s simple, boring, and has a gray mane. He looks like the other twenty horses hidden behind Micah’s special ten.

“I’m waiting for Terry,” Micah says. He props his elbow on the table and rests his chin against his fist. “He’s the repair guy. No telling when he’ll show up. He’s always stoned out of his mind. I call him Scary Terry. He’s weird as hell.”

“What happened to the horse?” I ask.

Micah shrugs. “I don’t even know. My guess is someone wasn’t paying attention to the weight limits, something in the machinery clicked, and next thing you know, I’m walking in to a broken horse.”

A guy carrying a tool kit walks in our direction. He doesn’t look much older than us. He wears a tan blazer, blue jeans, and an oversized white cap that looks more like one of those stupid French berets that Samantha likes. He comes directly to our table.

“Micah Youngblood,” he says. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you around.”

His eyes are bloodshot, and there are gaps in between his teeth. He could’ve been a decent looking guy if he hadn’t opened his mouth and smiled the Grand Canyon back at me.

Micah ignores his attempt at small talk and points to the carousel. “Fix the horse, Terry.”

Scary Terry walks over the carousel and draws more attention to himself when he spills his tool kit across the mall’s tile floor. After a few minutes of clinking, clanging, and a lot of cursing, Scary Terry walks back over to us, dragging Simple Gray Horse along with him. The golden pole scrapes the tile, sending a piercing sound through the air. Micah stands up to receive the verdict.

“It needs some work,” Scary Terry says. “You’re going to be out of service today.”

“Well, looks like you’re going to be
in
service then,” Micah shoots back. “I’ll let someone know you’re working on it.”

Micah walks off and pulls his cell phone out of his pocket. Scary Terry stands next to the table, rocking back and forth on the heels of his tennis shoes. He holds Simple Gray Horse upright next to him. He pulls his cell phone from the inside pocket of his blazer, dials a number, and reschedules a time to meet. Then he explains what size bags he has and how much he charges per size. He isn’t discreet. In fact, I think he’s proud of his side business.

Micah walks back to the table as Scary Terry ends his phone call.

“Alright, I’m out,” Micah tells him. “If you get it fixed, leave the sign up. I’m not coming back.”

“Alright then,” Scary Terry says.

He props his elbow on Simple Gray Horse’s saddle and leans on it, but his suave attempt fails when the horse wobbles under him. He quickly drops his arm over the side of the horse and hugs it against him before it can crash to the floor.

“I got this,” he says.

“You break my horse, and you die, got it?” Micah asks.

Scary Terry smiles his gap-toothed grin once more. I stand to leave with Micah, who circles around the carousel. I cross behind the black railing and follow him. He has decided on our plans for the day, and that always makes me nervous. The last two horses haven’t been so bad, but my gut tells me that this is eventually going to crash and burn, just like my dad.

Today’s horse is draped with a lavender blanket under its saddle, which is trimmed in blue and dark purple. An eagle rests on the back of the saddle, and royal emblems hang from the neck piece with leaves serving as tassels. A large purple stone is encrusted in the bridle. It’s definitely fit for royalty.

“Any fun thoughts on this one?” Micah asks.

I try to think of something that I know will humor him, but I can’t really twist this one up as much as some of the others. I just shrug.

“We’re flying to England to meet the Queen?” I ask.

“You’re getting better,” he says. “But we’re not going to England. And we’re not meeting the Queen but you’re close.”

I look back as Micah and I head toward the exit. Terry is still by the carousel, still holding Simple Gray Horse under his arm, still smiling. No wonder Micah calls him Scary Terry.

“Is he a carousel repair guy slash drug dealer on the side?” I ask as I slide into Micah’s passenger seat.

“Vice versa,” he answers. He cranks up his truck and pulls out of the mall’s parking lot. “He’s a drug dealer slash repairman on the side. He fixes a lot of little things at the mall, sometimes does electrical maintenance. He’s a self-taught repairman, but he’s a notorious dealer.”

“He’s weird enough,” I say.

“Yeah, he’s only here because his friend Tuck is in town for the Pecan Grove Festival,” Micah says. “Terry tags along so he can make some money on the side. We only hired him for repairs as a favor to Tuck because
he
actually is a decent guy.”

At least I won’t have to worry about running into Terry again today. We’ll be…Well. I have no idea where we’ll be.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

We’ve been driving down a dirt road behind the reservation for a few minutes now, and I can’t see anything. Micah looks over and just smiles. I hate when he does that. It makes me more uneasy than it should.

“Micah, seriously, give me something.” I hate begging as much as I hate his stupid smile.

“You’re going to meet some of my kind of royalty,” he says. “And that’s all I’m telling you until we get there.”

The dirt and dust continue to wrap around the truck like a tornado. I think we’ve driven into the great unknown. A two-story building sits in the distance, and it looks abandoned. Great, he’s bringing me to the middle of nowhere to dispose of my body in a building that no one will ever enter again. And his kind of royalty is really a den of bears who rule Bear Creek, and they’ll rip me to shreds while Micah watches.

There’s a maroon SUV and a few other cars parked behind the old warehouse. The windows are busted out, and streaks of spray paint dance along the outside walls.

“This isn’t on the res, but it’s still Jocolnu land,” Micah says.

He parks his truck and gets out, like this is completely safe and he does it all the time. I reluctantly follow as he walks toward the back door.

Eminem’s music plays inside. I wait for the drug lord’s messenger to walk outside and greet us. I imagine Micah banging on the back door with a secret knock and then having to prove his loyalty with a secret handshake. Once we get inside, there’ll be crates of heroin and cocaine, and Scary Terry will emerge from a throne and laugh despicably in my face because I thought he was fixing Simple Gray Horse when really they broke the carousel as part of their plan to lure me here.

Micah looks back over his shoulder. “Are you coming?”

I freeze in my tracks. I’m sure I look like an idiot. But drug dealing isn’t exactly what I want to do with my summer, and I can’t see how that damn purple-jeweled horse can relate to anything other than drug lords. I can get past the casinos and gambling in the modern Native American world, but this crosses the line.

Micah faces me, shielding the sun with his hand. “Will you come on? It’s really hot out here,” he says.

The sun beats down on us, and sweat runs down the back of my neck. Maybe I should’ve gotten that haircut.

“What’s in there?” I ask, looking up at the shattered second-floor windows.

“You’ll see. C’mon. It’s badass,” he says, all smiles.

He continues toward the door, but I don’t follow. I stare upward, hoping a plane will fly over and I’ll have to pray for it so it’ll prolong having to go inside. I walk slowly, staying a few feet behind him at all times. He knocks three times on the back door and invites himself inside. No fancy knock. No messenger to gather a secret password. No secret handshake.

I follow him in.

The top floor has been torn out and is nothing but wooden rafters and a high roof. Paint splatters stain the floor. The entire place is trashed out with spray paint cans. Remnants of graffiti decorate the walls, but a group of teenagers work to cover them with white paint. Except for the back wall. It’s a mixture of blue paints, from deep blue to turquoise, with white waves painted over the top.

Micah holds his arm out and motions around the room.

“Secret headquarters of the Graffiti Kings,” he says.

“You’re going to have to do better than that,” I say.

I watch the floor as not to trip over something as I follow Micah across the room. It’s hot in the warehouse, but at least it’s shaded.

A guy stands on one side of a folding ladder smoking a cigarette and giving directions. His thuggish apparel is more intimidating than Scary Terry’s blazer, but I don’t get freak vibes from him. Paint is splattered on his arms and clothes, everything but his backward cap.

“Youngblood!” he calls out, once he sees Micah.

He comes down from the ladder, sticks the butt of his cigarette into a cup of water, and walks over to us. He’s a lot shorter off of the ladder. He greets Micah with one of those high-fives turned over-the-shoulder-half-hug. And then he looks at me.

“Who’s your friend?” he asks.

“This is Ridge…McCoy,” Micah says.

“McCoy,” the guy repeats. “Cool enough.”

Micah looks back at me. “This is Tucker Livingston. He’s the leader of the Graffiti Kings.”

“Just Tuck,” the guy confirms, reaching over to shake my hand.

Pax runs over to us upon hearing Micah’s voice. He drags Micah off to a corner of the large room to show him some kind of graffiti shark he’s working on. Any intimidation these guys might’ve had is now gone. If Pax is one of them, I have nothing to worry about.

Tuck readjusts his cap, shaking his brown hair. He needs a haircut as badly as I do.

“Pax has no manners. Come with me. I’ll show you around,” he says. He lights another cigarette, and I follow him to the blue wall.

There’s a tall black guy with huge biceps painting the adjoining wall white. He tilts his head back, that nod of acknowledgment that all guys recognize as a universal symbol for “What’s up?” I’d do it back, but I know I won’t look half as cool as he did.

“This is Micah’s friend, Ridge,” Tuck says to him.

He lays his paint roller back in the tray and extends a hand. “Damien.”

“We played football together in high school,” Tuck tells me.

“Defense?” I ask.

Damien smiles. “How’d you know? I was a defensive lineman. Tuck was our running back.”

I wouldn’t have taken Tuck as the football type. He’s short and thin, and it would only take one swipe to knock him out for a season. But then again, if they ever put Damien in to block for him, I don’t think Tuck would have to worry about anyone taking a swipe at him.

“I play basketball. Point guard,” I say.

Tuck’s eyes size me up before he speaks. “Didn’t take you as the basketball type.”

Damien laughs. “Well he probably took you for the drug dealing type, so be nice.”

He has no idea how right he is. Damien returns to coating the wall with white paint, and I follow Tuck’s smoke cloud along the blue wall.

“I was into graffiti in high school, early high school anyway,” he explains. “My mom found out, and she brought home a bag full of spray paint and told me I had free reign over my bedroom walls as long as I didn’t vandalize anything in public.”

We walk down to the far end of the wall where two girls are painting. Tuck introduces them as Emilia, Pax’s sister, and Heidi, Emilia’s best friend. Heidi’s bleached blonde hair stands out like that one last light bulb above the bathroom mirror that you hope shines forever so you don’t have to crawl on top of the counter to change them.

Tuck points out an angel fish on the wall, talking about how it started off as a swirl of colors. It looks like a huge knot with multi-colored scarves waving out of it.

A hand falls on my shoulder, and I jump. Then Micah leans around me to see what I’m looking at. He doesn’t interrupt Tuck’s one-sided conversation about what the Graffiti Kings do.

“We do a lot of small canvases, but every summer we all meet up here and work on one of those larger than life paintings, the type you see on the side of a building,” Tuck explains.

“Last year we did a big city scene,” Pax says as he stands next to Micah. “Like New York – skyscrapers and streetlights. It was Micah’s idea.”

I remember the picture above his bed. The city with the sunset. The initials TRL in the bottom corner. Tucker Livingston. He must’ve painted it for Micah.

“This year we’re going for a shipwreck approach,” Tuck says. “We were going to do an ‘Under the Sea’ kind of thing, but I wanted something edgier.”

Tuck takes the last drag of his cigarette and drops the butt into a cup of water again.

“I’m thinking sunken ship. Buried treasure. Maybe a skeleton pirate on the ocean floor,” he says. “With the sea life living among the wreckage.”

He takes another cigarette from the box in his pocket and lights it. I can’t believe a ball carrier could be a chain smoker. It’s hard enough getting up and down the court when you’re out of shape, much less when your lungs are black. He motions for Micah and me to follow. We sit away from the others on some coolers.