Rogue (11 page)

CHAPTER 23

ANTONIO DROPS HIS CAN. “WHAT THE . . . ?”

Soda spills out and soaks into the ground, leaving a puff of foam.

Chad lights into me. “You're supposed to be by the track, Kiara. Recording us.”

“No one was riding. You were all eating.” I glance at him, confused.

A muscular boy with short dark hair and a black College Park High School T-shirt jogs up to Chad and slaps his back. “Yeah, Raggy, what's with your girlfriend not recording you?”

Two boys and two girls join them. My watch tells me we only have forty minutes until I have to leave. The growing crowd and gloom of dusk tell me I may have lost my last chance to talk any more to Antonio.

“Know what you need, Little Man? Muscles like that dude. Then she'd want to take your picture.” The kid with the black T-shirt pokes Chad in the chest. Chad only comes up to his shoulder, and he stumbles backward, arms flailing. The big kid laughs.

“Lay off him, Josh,” a girl says. Her tight red T-shirt reads College Park Girls' Basketball. She musses Chad's hair.

“Check out those pencil arms,” another boy says. He lifts Chad's unbandaged arm and squeezes his bicep.

Chad shakes loose from his group and stalks toward me. He spits to the side, inches from Antonio's feet.

“She's retarded, Wheezer. She lives for those stupid X-Men.”

Antonio steps backward. “Chill, Raggy.”

“Yeah, that's cold, calling her that,” says the boy who squeezed Chad's arm. “No way to treat your girlfriend.”

Tell him, College Park kid. It's mean to call someone retarded.
I want to shout it myself, but I'm afraid of how my voice will sound. And if the others will call me Crybaby Kiara when they hear me.

“X-Men are sorta cool,” someone says from the now-larger crowd.

“Not the way she's into them. And you . . .” Chad points a shaking finger at Antonio. “That's messed up, taking her away from what she's supposed to be doing to talk about comic books.”

“Ooh, Little Man's the jealous type,” another kid says.

“Gonna fight him for your girl?” The kid in the black T-shirt edges Chad forward, as if to get him to punch Antonio.

The others step back and form a semicircle around us. They want a fight. Or maybe they want Antonio to teach Chad a lesson. Not to call me retarded or act like he's the boss of me. Antonio was my brother's friend and now my friend. I have a right to talk to him. And he acted like he wanted me to tell him about the X-Men.

Instead of going for Antonio, Chad pushes himself up into my face. I recoil from his sour beer breath. His face is flushed and glistening with sweat. “Chad, you're drunk. How much have you had already?”

He puffs out his chest. “Not as much as I'm gonna have.”

The big kid in the black T-shirt, the one they call Josh, laughs. “This little guy can put it away. And still walk a straight line. Show her.”

Chad turns from me and glares at Antonio, like he still wants to fight a kid six years older and nearly a foot taller. Another boy yells, “Yeah, show her, Raggy,” and the other kids chant, “Raggy, Raggy, Raggy.”

Chad whirls around and marches in a straight line, back to the pit. Antonio was right: I shouldn't have brought Chad to the trails in the first place.

Antonio grips my shoulder. “Take him home now. This isn't going to turn out well.”

I frown at the thought of leaving Antonio. “Chad doesn't listen to me.”

At the edge of the pit, Veg, Kevin, Brian, and some girls are passing around a thirty-two-ounce Gatorade bottle filled with a pink liquid. Chad slips into the group and snatches the Gatorade out of a girl's hand. He pinches his nose shut, tips his head back, and drains the bottle.

Then he shoves his way past the group and heads back to Antonio and me. “I hate you both!” he screams, and hurls the bottle straight at Antonio's head.

Antonio ducks, and the bottle flies over his head.

“Whoa,” Veg says.

“How much was in the bottle?” Antonio asks.

“A quarter. Maybe a third.” Veg shrugs. “Almost pure vodka.”

“Someone should stick a finger down his throat. Before he croaks or something,” Brian says.

But Chad is already running toward the bike track. All four of us take off after him. My pack with the camera thumps my shoulder blades. I don't know what Brian's talking about. Croaking. Like a frog.

Chad, now weaving and stumbling a bit, grabs the first bike. Not his beater but a shiny silver one. He climbs on, bounces on the seat, and pumps the pedals.

He has no helmet. He rides faster and faster around the perimeter of the pit. I stop at the grassy border, close enough to feel a musty breeze as he passes below and in front of me.

Behind me, someone says, “You have to get this one, Camera Girl. He's going to pull off the world's sickest stunt or die trying.”

I drop my pack. None of the College Park kids called me retarded. They took my side. They want me to make their videos, and they want to be my friends.

Chad was supposed to be my tutor, but he acted mean and now he did something he shouldn't have done. If I tell him to stop riding—or at least to put on a helmet—he won't listen to me.

I scoop the camera out and set its aperture to its widest setting. Having filmed concerts, I get great images in dim light.

“Blaze of glory, you jerks,” Chad yells. I train the camera on the circling bike. If I loop the footage, it'll make people as dizzy as Chad must be feeling right now. I smile at my brainstorm.

Going full speed, Chad zips up the mound closest to me and launches himself vertically into the air. The setting sun illuminates half his body, with the other half cast in darkness.
Hey, thanks for giving me the best shot,
I think. On his way up, he lets go of the bike. It sails forward. Chad keeps rising, spinning like a corkscrew—
light, dark, light, dark, light, dark.
His hair flies outward the way it flew when he spun with his feet on the ground in the park.

The bike crashes into the lip of the next mound and bounces into the pit between them. A boy curses behind me.

Chad levels out, arms and legs askew. As he dives, I zoom into the center of his body, focus on his T-shirt-covered belly full of vodka and beer, pizza and McDonald's. He flips and hits the top of the mound on his butt. He bounces a few feet into the air. Then he flops onto his stomach and rolls facedown, headfirst to the bottom of the mound. Dirt flies around him. He comes to a stop on his back, a quarter turn away from where the bike came to rest.

“What a wipeout!”

“Classic.”

At least ten thousand hits,
I think. The camera continues recording. Holding my hand steady, I walk slowly toward him.

For a long moment Chad doesn't move. Dirt sticks to his hair, mouth, and cheeks. One cheek is rubbed raw, specked with blood and dirt.

I feel the crowd gather behind me but keep my eye on the screen. Chad rocks back and forth, trying to get onto his side. After a few tries, he rolls onto his left side and touches his hand to his scuffed cheek.

Through the screen I see a thin line of liquid in the dirt next to his hip. The line becomes a river that puddles next to his thigh. The top part of his jeans is soaked.

“Peed his pants,” someone says.

Chad lifts his head. His eyes are wide open and unfocused. He rolls onto his stomach and lifts himself onto his hands and knees. Pushing off from one knee, he struggles to his feet. He sways and staggers forward.

“Can't feel my legs,” he says, the words running together.

“How was the ride?” I ask, camera still recording, setting sun to my side. I put on my interviewer tone, the way Antonio did when he tried to interview me.

Eyes shiny and rimmed with dirt, Chad thrusts his face toward the camera. “Haven't stopped.”

He stumbles toward the fallen bike. I scoot in front of him, keeping the focus on his face but for a moment cutting to his wet and dirt-caked jeans. The image is too dark, but I can fix it later. “You wiped out. What was that like?”

“Din't . . . wipe . . . out.” He hiccups. “In . . . air.” He stretches out his arms. “Flying.”

He hiccups again, licks his lips, and swallows. A groan rises from deep inside him, and he claps his hand to his mouth the moment before he crashes into the bike.

Pink liquid gushes from his mouth, followed by what looks like oatmeal and stinks like rotting garbage. I take a couple of steps back. Slime drips from the silver bike's frame and tires and pools underneath.

“That's my bro's bike you puked on!” The boy with the black T-shirt, Josh, sticks his palm in front of my camera. “I'm gonna kill that kid.”

Chad straightens up. I hit the stop button.

“Kill me.” He staggers toward Josh. “Don't . . . want . . . to . . . live.” He drops onto his knees as if kneeling to pray.

CHAPTER 24

JOSH WAVES HIS HAND IN FRONT OF HIS FACE. “MAN, YOU
stink,” he says.

“Hey, Camera Girl,” someone else calls out. “Why'd you turn it off?”

“Don't you know people like watching stupid drunks?”

“Extra points if you catch 'em puking.”

I do what they ask even though I already have the extra points—raise the camera and get Chad and Josh on my screen. I hit the record button right before Josh puts his hand on Chad's shoulder and pushes him hard into the ground. Chad cries out. I can't make out his words because of all the talking behind me.

My hand trembles. I fight to hold the camera steady. Chad sprawls on his side. Josh steps up to him. “Raggy, you are
banned
from here.”

Then he steps forward, pivots, and kicks Chad in the stomach. The thud of impact mixes with the gasps of kids behind me. My own gasps. Chad's breath rushes out in a strangled moan. He curls up in a tight ball. Josh circles him like he's about to kick him again.

Josh . . . no!
I want to scream, but I can't. Josh is big and Chad is small. Josh has friends, and Chad has none. Just a bunch of people watching him do stupid things.

Like me.

Until now, I was glad the kids were picking on someone else and not me. And Chad deserved it for what he called me.
But I can be next.
I don't belong here either. I don't live in College Park or go to the high school. I do stupid things all the time.

My ears fill with the noise of a dozen conversations, Chad whimpering, Josh yelling at Chad. Then Veg and Antonio break through the crowd. They rush at Josh and pull him away, each holding an arm. Josh breaks free from Veg's grip and takes a swing at him.

Antonio . . . saving Chad from getting picked on?

“Fight!”

The heat of the big kids and their odors of cologne and sweat and beer press in on me.

My face burns. My eyes blur. Antonio's Livestrong tattoo appears sharp in my mind. He and Veg are doing what I should have done. “Stop it! All of you!” I yell.

I spin around. Orange light flashes in my screen. I do a reverse quarter turn and record them—all the people who've stood watching.

Except for me.

I'm the invisible one.

Rogue would have thrown fireballs to save Gambit. Didn't matter that they'd just argued with each other because they argued all the time. They came from the same place and were best friends.

How many times did Gambit say he hated Rogue?

How many times did she rescue him anyway?

In the face of my camera, the kids scatter. Brian and Kevin pin Josh's arms behind him and drag him away. He kicks out at them.

But it's too late. Chad's whimpers turn to gurgles and gasps. Then silence.

I stand frozen, my back to Chad, staring into the woods. The low sun has turned the tree trunks golden against a mosaic of greens. I slip the camera's shoulder strap over my head and punch the stop button.

I'm not Rogue. I can't save Chad like she saved Gambit.

“Oof!”

I twist around. Antonio holds Chad upright, one fist atop the other against the smaller boy's stomach. Like he's doing the Heimlich maneuver.

Like he's Wolverine bolting to the rescue.

Color rushes to Chad's ashen face. Chunks of pizza and more liquid pour from his mouth onto his T-shirt and Antonio's bare arms. Onto his own limp arms, soaking the bandage. When he stops, his head droops and his tongue hangs from his mouth. He grabs for his stomach.

“Get his feet,” Antonio says. “We have to take him home.”

Holding my breath, I slide my hands under the rolled-up cuffs of Chad's jeans and grab his bare ankles. Sticky, still-warm puke covers his sneakers and the bottoms of his jeans. His head flops backward over Antonio's tattoo.

“We can't. Not with his parents cooking there,” I say. We start walking, away from the other kids and toward the part of the woods where I left Chad's mountain bike.

“Right.” Antonio shifts the deadweight in his arms. “I can't carry him much farther. We'll have to get the guys to help once Josh calms down. And find a ride because I came on my bike.”

It's getting dark fast. I don't want to stay in the woods any longer with all the wild animals and the party still going on. In the distance, even more kids are arriving, flashlights in hand. We're the only ones leaving.

“Can we take him to your place?” I ask Antonio—even though Chad would mess up the huge, spotless house that I've imagined.

Antonio shakes his head. “No way. My mom's boyfriend is there. And he's . . .”

“He's what?” I'd never imagined anyone else living in Antonio's house. He never talked about his mother.

Antonio lowers his voice. “The dean of the university.” He hitches Chad's shoulders toward him. Chad groans. “Scandal City if we turn up there.”

I have to do something. To keep Antonio from a scandal. To find a place where we can take care of Chad until he sobers up, because Antonio already saved him from choking, and even if Chad acted like a jerk, I don't want him to die. But if I do my part, I'll get into even more trouble than I'm going to get into when Dad finds out I failed my exams on purpose. “I can call Dad at work. But I don't have a phone.”

Antonio sets Chad down next to the bike, wipes his hands on the seat of his cargo pants, and digs his cell phone from the side pocket. It's a much more expensive model than Dad's and it takes me a few seconds to figure it out.

“Hello.”

I take a deep breath. “Dad. It's me. We need your help. We're in College Park. In the woods behind the sledding hill, and Chad . . . he's”—I look down at the grimy, smelly hunched-over boy I thought of as Gambit—“he's hurt bad.”