More Than Good Enough (12 page)

“We didn’t know.”

“Well, that doesn’t make it okay. Does it?”

He actually waited for an answer.

“Does it?”

“No,” Pippa said in a small voice.

I wanted to smash the guy’s teeth out. All thirty-two of them.

My dad was waiting for us, hunched in a metal chair, the kind that wreak havoc on your joints no matter which way you sit. Just looking at his face, I could tell he was wasted.

“This is how you treat your old man?” he said. “You go and pull a fucked-up stunt like this?”

I got a whiff of beer as he stumbled out of the chair. “Let’s talk about it later, okay?”

“You’re not running the show around here, boy. We’ll talk when I damn well please.” I’d seen him out of control, but never like this.

We had to sit there, listening to this garbage, while the rangers filled out their stupid papers. When they finally let us go, Dad marched to the Jeep at full speed. There was no stopping him.

“Come on, Dad,” I said. “Pass the keys. I’m driving.”

“The hell you are.”

“Seriously. Let me have the keys.”

He opened the door. “You,” he said. “Get in.”

Pippa scrambled into the back. I couldn’t guess what she was thinking.

Actually, I could.

On the ride home, she didn’t say one word. Dad was blabbing so much, nobody had a chance. He’d hitched the Kawasaki to the rack, hopped into the driver’s seat, and gunned it down the road.

We swerved onto the highway, cutting off a minivan. When the guy behind us honked, Dad rolled down the window and flipped him off. I half-expected bullets to start flying. Road rage or whatever. The guy blasted his horn again: a thin, watery note that lost an octave the farther we raced ahead.

“Don’t even start,” Dad muttered.

Was he venting at me or the pissed-off driver?

Dad switched back to his favorite subject: no-good sons. He jerked the wheel and pulled into the next lane. Billboards whizzed past, screaming shit about legal fireworks and gator meat.

“Watch it,” I said, twisting around to check on Pippa in the backseat. It killed me just imagining how she must feel. Her face was against the glass, her neck wet with tears.

Dad punched the breaks and I slammed into the dashboard. I shifted my gaze to the road. All the trees beside the canal looked scorched, as if lightning had struck them one by one.

We turned the corner for the Rez. In the dark, our neighbor’s chickee hut reminded me of a monster, the kind that scared me as a kid staying up and watching late-night horror movies on TV. Then I got a little bigger and wondered what the hell was so scary in the first place.

As we rattled over the driveway, Dad chugged the rest of his Big Gulp. He pitched the cup out the window.

I knew what came next. This is when Angry Dad morphed into Pathetic Dad. If I waited long enough, he’d be sobbing on the couch. Eventually, the sobs faded into snores. The next morning, the stuttery noise of the blender would drill through the house. I’d find him in the garage, pumping iron like nothing ever happened.

Dad wasn’t crying now. He got out of the car, marched to the opposite side, and flung open the passenger door. Before I could pry him off, he dragged me onto the pavement. I skidded on my knees, tasted dirt and blood.

“So what’s the deal?” he said, lurching toward the Jeep. “This your girlfriend?”

I lifted my head. “Leave her alone.”

Dad tugged the handle, but Pippa must’ve locked it. He pounded on the window. “Hey missy. It’s time you got a few things straight,” he said, trying the door again. “My son? See, he’s screwing this little cha-cha.”

“Shut up, Dad. Nobody wants to hear it.”

“Comes and goes whenever he likes. Sleeps all day. Leaves a mess all over the house. He’s even got the balls to steal my beer. So tell me, missy. Do I look like a fool to you?”

“That’s enough. I said shut up. You’re drunk.”

He spun around. “Don’t you ever talk to me like that.”

Dad swung his fist. White heat tunneled through my ribs. I rolled face-down in the grass, tried to shield myself with my arms. Kicks came from all directions. No muscle that didn’t burn. Even the space inside was swollen.

I squeezed my eyes open. Headlights raked the backyard. In the driveway, there was the Jeep, a hulking metal thing. Pippa watched from the front seat. Her silent face floated behind the windshield.

Dad’s voice dissolved into static. It was true, what he said. Pippa deserved better. I was an idiot to think she’d care.

My backpack was on the ground, just a few feet away. It must’ve fallen when he pulled me from the car. If I could reach it, the gun wouldn’t be hard to dig out.

“You got a smart mouth,” Dad was saying, “and it’s doing you no good. You better sharpen up quick. Because you’re no different than me, boy. Your hear that? No different.”

Me and Dad? We had nothing in common. He was an asshole who wrote bad checks and cheated on my mom, a freak who couldn’t handle a job that required a bigger mental capacity than mowing lawns, a middle-aged loser who got wasted every night just because he couldn’t face the sad reality of his non-existence.

It was just fate and genetics that tied us together. That’s all.

Light slid across the grass. Uncle Seth walked out of his house. He was usually in there watching game shows with his girlfriend.

“Get up,” Dad told me. “Stand like a man.”

I didn’t move.

“Everything okay?” Uncle Seth called out.

“This ain’t your business. Got that? It’s between me and him.”

Uncle Seth flicked his gaze in my direction. “Why don’t you head inside and we’ll talk it out?”

“You heard what I said.”

Dad turned and I made a lunge for the backpack. I tightened my grip around the strap and hauled it closer. My hands shook as I yanked the zipper, felt the gun’s plastic handle wrapped in my sweatshirt. I didn’t plan on doing anything stupid. Like I told Pippa, it wasn’t loaded. I just wanted to scare the shit out of him.

The .357 Mag fit in my palm like it was meant to be there. I looped my finger around the trigger—a major rule-breaker, unless you meant to blow somebody away. Got up on my feet. Stood like a man. Exactly what Dad had told me to do.

When he saw the gun, his expression shifted. “Give me that thing. Shit. You don’t even know how to operate it.”

“Yeah? You want proof?”

Man, it felt good telling him off. And I wasn’t done yet. There was a lot Dad needed to hear. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the chance.

He clamped onto my arm, wrenching so tight I groaned. We staggered around the yard. I shoved all my weight into him. He wobbled against me, crushing down on my shoulder.
But he was still drunk, and I was the stronger one. I knew that now.

An explosion of noise rocked through my fist. I was so freaked out I tossed the gun. It skittered across the driveway. The smell of metal sharpened the air. My ears were ringing and I’d forgotten how to breathe.

I gawked at the Mag, the way it glinted on the pavement. Why the hell was it loaded? Dad was always grilling me on the Ten Commandments of Fire Arms Safety. Rule
numero uno
: Keep nothing in the chamber.

Smoke draped the trees like gauze. I stood there, breathing in slow-motion, trying to decide what to do. If Dad caught me moving toward the gun, he’d see where it had landed and grab it first. I thought about Pippa, trapped in the car. No way could I ditch her. She was the one shining thing in the void I called my life.

I had to choose.

Stay or go.

I was stuck on pause, unable to move or make a decision, until a siren tugged me back to consciousness. It sounded so fake—a TV sound effect. A pair of spinning halos swooped over the house, shifting back and forth, red to blue. I squinted in the brightness.

Then I ran.

ten

Houses zoomed past me, one after another, all facing north. Each came with a chickee hut, a satellite dish, and at least two SUVs—the basic necessities of life. Everybody on the Rez planted little backyard gardens for the Green Corn Dance in summer. You’re supposed to plant the seed and take care of it. There’s a big celebration, lots of dancing and singing, and the boys get new names.

It was all about letting go of mistakes and starting over again.

This was supposed to be my home, but I didn’t have a freaking clue where to go. I hadn’t done much exploring since moving to the Rez. It was just another neighborhood, twenty miles outside Miami.

Why was I running like a criminal? My dad was the one who’d fucked up. You could say he’d made a career out of it. Now I was dealing with his garbage on top of everything else, as if I needed an excuse to hate myself. That was the easy part.

I ran until my lungs burned. When I couldn’t gulp another breath, I doubled over and puked in the grass. The sickness came in waves. At first I’d think it was done, then my stomach made other plans.

As I wiped my mouth, I glanced at the concrete valley surrounding me. Somehow I’d landed in a skate park. Who knew the Rez had an awesome spot like this? Man, if I’d lived here as a kid, I’d have been skating here every damn minute, popping ollies off those sweet-looking ramps. Maybe I’d actually have mastered the art of kickflipping. I wasn’t learning any new tricks now. I was seventeen. In other words, old.

Seventeen used to sound light-years away. What would I be doing then? Touring the world and partying with my band in true rock-star fashion? I didn’t have a band. I hardly picked up my Gibson. It was scratched to hell. The E string was busted and I needed a new amp. Of course, Dad had promised to get this stuff for me. Like most of his endless promises, it never happened.

I walked up the half-pipe and crouched at the top, dangling my feet over the edge. My ribs ached. All of a sudden, I was sweating like crazy. It felt like I was suffocating. I unlaced my sneakers and peeled them off. Tossed them in a pile next to a Red Bull can that somebody had crushed on the pavement.

The street lamp clicked on and off, as if it couldn’t decide what to do: light up the peach-colored concrete, or fold the park in a darkness so thick it almost had a taste. I sat there, feeling sorry for myself. Thinking about Pippa, telling her all kinds of embarrassing shit I’d never say out loud. Take sex, for example. I should’ve waited instead of rushing into it. At the time, it was just something to get over with. No use lying.

Would she ever talk to me again?

Everybody at school used to make fun of us. They called her my girlfriend back in fifth grade. Whatever. They were idiots. And it’s weird because I wouldn’t even touch her whenever we said goodbye. It became this big joke. She’d grab me and I’d back away, fake coughing like her hugs were a cloud of Black Death.

Right now, there was nothing I wanted more.

I needed to hold her so bad.

In my mind, I was screaming. I couldn’t go back to the house. But I felt like a coward for leaving her there, alone with Dad and the cops. They probably arrested his drunk ass. Where was I supposed to go now? Maybe I could hunt down my grandma’s number in Fort Myers. Yeah right. The patron saint of greyhounds—I was so unworthy of her time. She sent cards every Christmas, along with 8x10 glossies of her fur babies.

Who was I kidding? I mean, honestly. Why would Pippa want to be with me? She was this amazing girl with all kinds of stuff going on. Not to mention the cutest smile ever.

If Pippa knew the crap I thought about, she’d bolt in the other direction, like I was a zombie or something. I’d eat her brains out. That’s what I’d do. If you stayed with me long enough, this is what happened. The world turned to ashes like in my favorite video game,
Silent Hill
. Even Pyramid Head, the ultimate bad guy, didn’t stand a chance against it.

I destroyed everything I touched.

That’s all I could think about, contemplating the evil nature of my universe from that damn half-pipe. Then a bunch of skaters showed up—little badasses, all thugged out in their gold chains and tie-dyed shirts. They were taking turns slurping a gallon-sized jug of iced tea and spitting it at each other. This skinny kid with a mouthful of metal was laughing hardcore. I couldn’t remember when I’d laughed like that.

“Nice hat.” He saluted me.

I returned the salute. “Thanks.”

“You got a big cut on your face,” he said.

I got the feeling he wasn’t judging me. Just stating the obvious, the way twelve-year-olds do. “Yeah,” I told him. “That’s what I figured.”

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

“Only when I smile.”

He nodded as if this made perfect sense. “Try not to smile, then.”

“Good advice.”

The others stayed back. They were blabbing in that slippery language, Hitchiti, the tribe’s native tongue. Except it didn’t really belong to us. It was a mix of Creek and Choctaw. That much I’d learned from Wikipedia. My uncle only spoke Hitchiti in front of tourists.

The skinny kid rolled off with his buddies. One of them glanced over his shoulder and said a word that made me sick all over again: “
Hatki
.”