North Fork (19 page)

“That's part of why I'm here, Corey. It looks like you're passing all of your classes. You've been doing your homework and have surprised some of the teachers. Congratulations.”

I invite him in and get him to sit down in my dad's chair, then turn down the music. I notice he's wearing blue jeans and hiking shoes instead of the usual khakis and polo.

“It's kind of weird, huh. But besides you, the only other person who's been nice to me is the school lady at Juvie. She said I could get enough credits to graduate by the end of next year. It's not like I really believe it matters, graduation, I mean, but the school work passes the time, like getting high, only it doesn't make me as hungry. Pretty ironic, huh?”

“Corey, remember what I said about being a short-timer and how it makes me want to cut through the bull?”

“You were right about there being different ways to be trapped. I'm going crazy here, Mr. Smith. I've got nothing to do. I do homework because sometimes it takes my mind off things,
and I guess it's good to hear that they noticed and it messes with their heads a little. But sometimes I need to get high. I don't smoke much.”

He's looking at me like he's not so sure.

“I saw that it was you out the window and knew you could hear the music. I knew you'd smell it too, so I wasn't going to answer the door. Yeah, I remember what you said about the bull. That's why I let you in. You were straight with me. Try to understand. Remember what you said you felt sometimes about wishing the uncertainty was over? Sometimes I think I'm going to blow, like I know what those guys in the Middle East are feeling when they strap on the bombs. I just want to end it. I'm not there yet, like I'm not ready to kill myself today or anything, but sometimes I get close. In the hospital they put you out so you don't feel so much pain. I don't see how this is all that different.”

I'm on the couch, across the room from him. The light from the window is reflecting off his glasses so I can't tell from his eyes what he's thinking. He's smaller than my dad and doesn't have a potbelly. When my dad and I watch TV together, although we rarely do, this is where we sit, so sitting here with Mr. Smith feels a little odd.

“I'm not here to judge you, Corey. You're in a tough spot, and you have to find your own way through it. But I worry about you. You're in enough trouble without this, and will probably need a clear head to see a way out. You might get too comfortable in the ozone. Even with doctors around, medication can be dangerous. When pain doesn't make you give up, it can make you fight harder.”

I guess it's lecture time, but since it's Smith and he's the closest thing to a friend I've got now, I'm being polite.

“Look,” he says, “I'll tell you something the doctor told me, back in the beginning when I asked him what my odds were. He told me to live like I was going to win, then make adjustments
only when it became absolutely necessary. What I took it to mean was that I shouldn't give up and act like I was beaten until I truly was. That as long as I could walk, talk, eat and breathe, it was a good day. But mainly, even on bad days, as long as there was hope that I could get some good days again, I should fight for them.”

“You've got something to fight for, Mr. Smith. Everyone likes you. The whole world thinks I'm a pervert. Even my sister. If Kristen showed up alive tomorrow, I still couldn't go back to that fucking school. I didn't do it, and I hate those bastards for believing I did. I'm trying, Mr. Smith, but there isn't much to hope for. Smoking a little and listening to music is as close to a good day as it gets for me. I want out of this stinking place so fucking bad.”

“Where would you go if you could leave?”

“I dream about camping on the beach in Mexico, but I don't have any money and I don't speak Spanish.”

“Is there anyone, a relative, you could go stay with where you could get a fresh start?”

“Come on. Would you let a pervert stay at your house?”

“What if you were cleared?”

“Fat chance. Besides, I'm not that close to anyone. They all thought I was trouble before.”

“Well, they don't have enough evidence to charge you. Once you turn eighteen and you deal with the drug charge, they can't make you stay around here. When will you be eighteen?”

“Not until next February.”

“If you knew you could leave in February, do you think you could last?”

“I don't know. It would be hard. I feel like I'm going to pop.”

“Mexico's a good thought, but like you said, it would take money and Spanish. Let's come up with a plan that could work. If you had three thousand dollars to get started on a new life, where
would you go?”

“Where am I going to get that kind of money?”

“You've been dreaming about Mexico. Just shift the dream a little. Work out real details. Figure out bus fare or plane fare, or if you hitched, food and a place to stay. You feel like you're going to pop. That's real, and fair enough. You're in a trap. So, plan an escape. Like a prison break. Remember Huck Finn. He was trapped and he ran. It's a big world out there. If you stay and go over the edge, you lose. If you attempt to build a new life and fail, at least you tried. One of my high school friends left home after graduation with a tooth brush and seventy-eight cents. He's teaching at a community college in California now. I have another high school friend who took off like that and drank himself to death in Florida. So you can lose too, but sometimes people win. So, where would you go if you had some money?”

“I'd have to rob a bank. I have seventy-eight cents and a tooth brush, and I've thought about it a lot, and I might disappear if I don't come unglued first. But to me the result seems about the same. I'm a loser either way.”

“I'm going to make you an offer.”

“Why do you care what happens to me?

“Maybe you remind me a little of myself. My offer is a loan, and there are strings, but nothing that should compromise your integrity. Listen for a minute. I just sold a boat. It wasn't worth a lot, but it might be enough. I was going to use the money as a down payment on a better pickup, but I'm willing to gamble on you. I'm offering to loan you the three thousand dollars I got for my boat so you can get away from here and make a new start in life. I expect you to pay it back someday when you have a job and can afford payments. You don't have to sign a paper, and if you don't pay it back, I won't send a collection agency.”

“You'd loan me money? I don't get it.”

 “If you really think you're about to go off the deep end, take
the money and go away somewhere. Start over. You're young. You can. Seeing you get through this is more important to me now than driving a new truck. I can live with my old one. It still works fine. You decide if and when you need the money, and if and when you can pay it back. It's a way out. But you can't just draw on it for spending money.”

“Why are you doing this? People don't care about other people without a reason. You're not gay or anything, are you? I mean if you're here because you want me to give you a blowjob, I won't do it.”

“No, Corey. That's not it.”

“So why? I guess I can believe you think I didn't kill her, because I didn't, and someone should believe the truth. But people don't go around offering money. I mean that's just stupid. You don't seem stupid.”

“It would be a deal between two people on the edge, trying to hang on. A matter of trust. You're right. When something is true, someone, someplace, should believe it. That's why I'm offering. Maybe I am stupid. I believe you have integrity. If you take the money, it becomes a responsibility, a connection. You're stuck with what it represents—someone believes in you enough to take a three-thousand-dollar chance. It will become part of your baggage like it became part of mine.”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone believed in me once when I thought no one did. I had burned some bridges and had some bad luck. Part of it was about a girl and part of it was about my parents. I felt like I didn't have much to live for and I was pretty mad at the world. I was a little older than you, but the person who believed in me was a teacher. It changed my life. So maybe my offer is a way to repay a debt.”

“You'd actually hand me three thousand dollars cash?”

“I'd probably give you a check, just to make you go to the
bank. It depends on the circumstances. If you truly needed cash, I would get you cash. To do it right, you should open an account, maybe get a debit card, keep track of the money, use it carefully.”

“What if I used it to buy drugs or a gun, or stuff to make a bomb?”

“Then I might be in trouble. At best I'd feel really stupid. I know I'm taking a chance. This is about trust. Trust is one of those important abstract things I talk about in class. For it to be real, someone needs to believe in it enough to risk it, put their money where their mouth is. I'm willing to bet three thousand dollars on you. In the big picture, it's not very much. It could backfire. If you take it and don't use it in good faith, it will make you feel guilty, give you one more reason to get stoned, to feel like a loser, to quit. If you're not willing to bet on yourself, you shouldn't take it.”

He gets up. I can tell it's hard for him to get out of the chair, like his back hurts or something. He moves toward the door.

“You don't need to decide now,” he says. “You may not need it. But it's there. It's part of your reality now, your baggage, one of the things you'll carry with you. I hope it helps. I can listen too. So if you find yourself ready to let go, even if you don't want the money, call me.”

And he left. Just like that. And I'm sitting there, not quite sure what just happened, even more confused than the last time I saw him. I turn the music back up loud, but don't smoke any more that day.

Courage is a funny thing. It took a lot of courage for me to stand up to Grant. But I think bravery is really desperation, and when you choose the thing that may appear bold to other people, you know inside that there's really more danger in the other choices. Even though I couldn't have said it at the time, I had to escape Bonnie and Sterling because I couldn't stand trading my honesty for comfort. I couldn't face my life the way it was. I ended up in the same situation with Grant, like I was drawn there because it was familiar, and I knew how to act because I had been there before. It was easier to believe his talk and pretend it was true than to face the real truth. There were rewards for pretending. But when I let myself see him for what he is, I didn't feel very good about myself.

I guess I learned I'm sick of pretending. I think it costs too much and I don't want to do it any more. I got the truth from Grant. He's a creep, and even though I'm trying to handle it like an adult, I'm really scared. If Grant doesn't get me first, I have to go back. Both things scare me. The idea of going back feels right and it also terrifies me. But I know it's the only way I can have the kind of life I want.

When I imagine it, dialing the phone or just showing up, my heart starts beating fast and I get just as scared as I do when I lie awake at night imagining Grant lurking outside my window. I play out the possibilities in my head: if it was just Bonnie, I could have done it already, easily. The scariest thing about Bonnie is that you can't touch her. For me, the valve of her attention seems
shut tight. But I also know there is a bond between us, even if I don't understand completely how it got there.

Bonnie isn't just Bonnie. I can't remember when she was just Bonnie. She's Bonnie and Sterling. She's connected herself to him and she hides behind him. When I imagine returning to her, imagine the moment when the door opens for me at their house, it's always Sterling who opens it, and it's his anger I face while Bonnie remains in the shadows.

So I've been putting it off. With Grant, I know what I'm scared of, although it seemed to be changing. He hasn't been to the restaurant for several days and I hadn't seen his car, so I'd been hoping that he'd lost interest in me and I could take my time planning my return. Except for the business with Grant, I've liked Victoria, and it will be hard to leave.

At about four this afternoon, the restaurant was nearly empty, so I took advantage of the lull and rode home on the bike to get some different clothes. I planned to go straight from the restaurant to meet Ian and Char at a pub. I rounded the corner onto our street and there it was. That white SUV was parked directly across the street from the house.

I stopped the bike to see if Grant was in it, but I couldn't tell. Other parked cars blocked my view. I waited, heart racing, wondering if he'd already seen me. Then I made up my mind. I assumed he was in the car and that he had seen me, so I decided I would ride past him and look him in the eye, but I wouldn't stop. Maybe it was a crazy idea, but I had learned from cutting myself that what you imagine is sometimes worse than the actual experience, so I wanted to look in his eyes and get that sharp, clean rush of adrenaline that I get when the blade breaks the skin. Since his car was facing me, he couldn't pull out and turn around before I got to the corner. If he got out and chased me on foot, I could outrun him on the bike.

The car was empty. I could see that before I got to it, so I
looked for him in our yard. If he was snooping around, he was in the back or, worse, inside. There was no dust on the Escalade. He must take it through the car wash every day. As I rode past, I looked in and saw a pair of binoculars on the passenger seat, and wondered if they had night vision.

I rode as fast as I could back to the restaurant. Business was still slow and Leigh saw me come in. I was sweating and out of breath, so I went into the restroom to straighten up. When I came out, he was waiting.