Lingering Echoes (21 page)

“The police stopped by two days ago.” Damien’s low voice broke the silence.
I was bursting with questions but managed to contain myself. Damien shut the door behind him.

“
They needed information—information that I could give them, but I chose not to. I didn’t tell them because I’ve spent years putting that past behind me. And I didn’t tell them because it puts me in danger, and risks the lives of anyone I love. And the truth is, Allie...I’m in love with you.”

My breath caught in my
throat, and my eyes ran across his face. He stared right back at me, cupping my face with his hands.

“I
love you,” he said again. He tried to suppress it, but I detected the fear in his eyes. “And you will be their number-one target.”

I furrowed my bro
w, overwhelmed by my emotions.

“Who
are they?” I asked, my hands reaching up to hold onto his wrists. I didn’t want to let him go—couldn’t allow him to leave me, especially not now. “Please tell me—talk to me.”

“It’s a long story,” he warned.

“I’ll listen.”

Damien took my hand and led me to the couch. I sank into th
e leather. Sitting down beside me, he looked down at his hands. He wrung them together, over and over, as he prepared for what he was going to reveal.

I waited.

“It started about two years ago.”

When I was seventeen, my s
enior year began at a new school. My father received a promotion that summer, so we moved to Oakland Hills, just twenty minutes from our hometown in Hayward. My family always had money, as did our new neighbors, and all the spoiled rich kids I had to associate with. Of course, I was one of them in that sense, but I was new, and that put me on a whole new playing field.

H
igh school was a joke. It wasn’t about gaining an education. It was about how far you could raise your social status. Anyone who was anyone aspired to be among the top tier of the social tower.

Me—
I was somewhere in the middle. I was nobody special—just another countless number in the mix of judgmental teenagers. I sat in class, did my work when I was supposed to, and when the bell rang, I’d throw my bag over my shoulder and walk up the hill to my house.

Jenna was always at my side, talking my ear off.

“Meet anybody interesting today?” she asked one day. It was a couple weeks into the new school year. “I did. I made a friend with a girl just around the corner from us. Her brother is your age, you know. His name’s Kevin Ramsey. Do you know him?”

Ten year olds
. They never shut up, but I happened to like this one.

“
I don’t know. Probably not.”

She peered at me. “Why
don’t you like people?

“I never said that.”

“Well, you don’t have to say it. But that’s how it seems to me. Do you even have any friends?”

I threw my arm around her shoulder and rubbed my knuckles against the top of her head. “Anyone ever tell you
that you talk too much?”

She grinned at me
, exposing the dimples in her cheek that marked us as siblings. “Someone’s got to do the talking around here.” She waited for me to respond. When thirty seconds passed, she was at it again.

“You didn’t answer my question.
Do you have friends yet?”

There was no stopping her inquisitiveness.

“I talk to a couple people. Why do you care?”

“
Well,” Jenna said, pulling on my backpack to slow me down. She leaned on her knees to catch her breath. The steepness of the hill always required a short break. “You never invite anyone over to play. Don’t you get lonely?”

“Lonely?” I let out a laugh, tugging her along. “No one could ever get lonely with you around.”
That was the truth. At ten, Jenna was outgoing and kind to everyone. She was also like a puppy dog that never left you alone.

She smiled at me, leaning on my arm for support. “Well, I’
ll always be here for you when you get bored. That’s what sisters are for, right?”

I chuckled again.
“Right. I can’t wait to play with your Barbie dolls again.”

“As if I still play with those baby toys!”
she huffed. She spun her head around to see if anyone had heard my ludicrous accusation.

I continu
ed to laugh in surprise. Since when did she get too old for Barbies? I watched Jenna rake her fingers through her long, dark hair. Stringy strands fell across her face, and she brushed them away with the back of her hand.

When we reached our home, Jenna pushed through the
double-wide doors, announcing our return.

“Mom!
I made a new friend today!” She ran off down the hall on her way to the kitchen.

I
, on the other hand, retreated to my bedroom. Throwing my backpack on the ground, I grabbed my headphones and iPod from off my desk. Then I lay down on my queen-size bed and sank into the thick mattress, content to keep to myself.

Halfway
into the semester is when the trouble began. My old friend, Conner Hamilton, from my previous neighborhood, was throwing a party at his house. His parents were away for the weekend, and we had big plans for Friday night. By the time I arrived, the music was blaring and the house was full of friends and acquaintances from my old high school.

“Damien!
How you doin’, man?” Conner threw an arm over my shoulder, careful not to spill the beer in his other hand. “Good to see you! Yo, everybody!” he hollered over the stereo system. “Look who it is!”

I nodded my head at the crowd of teenagers
, some who turned around and waved, and others who were too absorbed with being the center of attention themselves to even notice. A couple of buddies yelled from their corner, signaling me to come over. I didn’t recognize everybody, and I was sure Conner didn’t either. But that’s just how he rolled. He was hosting, and he didn’t care how many people showed up, so long as they didn’t bring the cops.

But late into the night, some unexpected visitors showed up at his door, barging their way in. They were
large, and they were loud. Three massive figures pushed their way through the door.

“Hey, hey.
WASSUP!” one of them called out in a deep voice.

All eyes turn
ed their way and stared. Their dark brown skin stood out among the sea of comparatively skinny, white flesh. You’d almost have to tape two of us together, standing side by side, to stand a chance against their broad build. Their legs were walking tree trunks, covered in jeans and hanging chains. A couple of them wore cut-off white shirts, exposing their biceps. From shoulder to elbow, they were decorated in tattoos—pictures and words inked into their skin. One of them wore his afro long, pulled back into a ponytail, while the others sported cornrows. I knew enough about ethnic California to gather they were Polynesian of some sort.

“Somebody
mention a party?” another said. Their boisterous laughter filled the room, and their bass voices rumbled above the music.

“Hey,
Afano! Grab us a few beers, yeah?” One guy led the rest of the group into the living room. He sunk into the couch, followed by his buddies. He looked around the quiet room. Somebody had turned down the music, creating an uncomfortable pocket of silence in the air.

“What’s everyone looking at?” the
Polynesian growled, throwing up his large arms. “Haven’t you ever seen a brown man before? Turn that music back up!”

Heads turned away, whispering to each other and edg
ing away from them. Anxious girls clung to their boyfriends, their eyes looking the Polynesians up and down. The music returned to its booming volume, but not loud enough to deafen the tension in the room.

The two
on the couch started talking to each other in a choppy, tonal language. They looked around at their audience, all of whom tried their best to appear at ease. Everyone was failing miserably. One of them caught me looking at them.

“Hey
,
Palagi
—come here.” He motioned with his fingers.

I
gnoring the girl who pulled on my shirt, I sat on the edge of the coffee table in the center of the room. I leaned my elbows onto my knees, watching them carefully. If they were trying to intimidate me, it wasn’t working. I was not going to be toyed with for their party entertainment.

“So, what’s your name?” one of them asked.
The gold chains around his neck gleamed under the ceiling bulb.

“Damien.”

“Dam-i-en.” He tested the sound of my name on his tongue. “You afraid of us, Damien?”

I made eye contact with each
of them, including the other one who joined us with the beers in his massive hands.

I was never small growing up. At seventeen, I had already reached six feet,
and was thick across my chest and arms. I could thank my father for those genes. Despite my dislike for the man, he allowed me to inherit his build, as well as his temper. I could hold my own. I had proved it on more than a few occasions.

“No,” I answered.

The Polynesian in front of me leaned forward, placing his face close to mine. His breath smelled of alcohol and cigarettes. He paused, not moving for a moment. “Why not?”

I opened my hands and sat back against the table. “I’m just here for a good time, man.”

Nobody spoke while they continued to scrutinize me.

“Good,” he said. He broke into a wide smile, exposing a
missing molar. “That’s good, bro. Afano! Toss him a beer.” He turned to look at me again. “The name’s Fanua. You got Afano right there, and Iona.” Fanua nodded at me. “If you want a good time, you can hang with us tonight.”

That was the first nig
ht I hung out with the Samoans. We went from party to party, drinking and growing louder with each party we crashed. I was sure they brought me along just for their own amusement, but once I was with them, they seemed to enjoy my laidback nature. Soaking up the excitement of something new, I felt grateful to be away from the trimmed lawns and the flawless neighbors of Oakland Hills.

“
Yeah, this guy knows how to chill,” the group of Samoans kept saying. Their threatening size diminished in effect as I spent time with them. Constantly messing with each other, they often broke into heavy laughter, slapping each other on the back good-naturedly.

I continued to meet up with them
every weekend, following them wherever they suggested we party. Before long, I slipped out of the house on school nights, too. With the amount of time I spent in my room, it was more than easy to sneak out my window. Nobody noticed because nobody cared.

My mother and father
had dismissed all the brooding I had offered when we first moved to Oakland Hills. My father didn’t care that I had to spend my senior year away from the friends I had grown up with. He didn’t care that I escaped to my room every night, making my brief appearance during dinner to appease them. They accused me of playing the martyr for a dying cause.

“It’s all about taking advantage of your opportunities in life,”
my father said one night, as he chomped on a pork chop. “My job offers a great opportunity. Son, someday, when you’ve graduated from Stanford and have a family and a real job, you’ll understand. You have to do what’s best for your whole family, not just for one individual and his high school social life.”

I hated him for not understanding.
He was too caught up in excelling at work to realize he wasn’t winning any awards as a father. Sure, he maintained his strict enforcement of dinner together every night as a family. Curfews were always in place, and he made sure his kids were dressed presentably at all times. Michaels were not sloppy dressers, but that’s as far as his fatherly role extended—with me, anyway.

Jenna was
a different story. She could win over an angry bull without even trying—which, at times, was the precise metaphor for describing my father. When that man was upset, which generally was my fault as of late, it was difficult to rein him in, but Jenna’s uncanny ability to calm heated situations saved a brawl between us more than once.

As for my mother, s
he was good at playing her part, too—the dutiful and beautiful wife of Jonathon Michaels. Primping throughout the day, her makeup and hair remained flawless from sunup to sundown. She didn’t have a life of her own. She was manipulated into anything he wanted to do, and she didn’t even know it.

So I hung out with my new friends
who accepted me, despite our differences. Sometimes we drove around listening to music, or played ball in the city parks at night. Every so often, we set up harmless pranks inside ritzy neighborhoods, tossing fireworks and cherry bombs inside windows or unlocked doors. We’d hide and watch the reactions of the irate residents storming outside and threatening to call the police. That further egged us on to decorate their gated walls with spray-paint when we thought we could get away with it. And we did.

The Samoans
introduced me to a whole new night life. Sometimes they asked for money to fund the evening, and I did so without complaint. I was happy to contribute. I found ways to swindle the money from home, stealing small amounts from my father’s wallet, or telling my mother pitiful stories of the things I needed to buy. No one knew the difference. Everyone was so caught up in their own lives that they didn’t bother paying attention to mine.

Except for one.

“Damien,” Jenna said to me one day, standing in the doorway of my bedroom.