Girls Love Travis Walker (4 page)

And can I see you again?

Sincerely,

Travis Walker

Under my name, I wrote my cell number. "Thanks a lot for helping me," I said to the blonde girl.

She didn’t answer.

"Hey, I'm Travis. What's your name?"

"Zoey." She took the sealed envelope from me without another word and walked off.

Zoey clearly didn’t party under the banner of “Let’s Have Fun Tonight.” No big deal. She would give Kat my note, which was all I needed.

Bad Seed

When I came home from work that night, I avoided the kitchen counter with its growing stack of unopened mail from the power and phone companies, the bank, and all the other people we’d managed to piss off. It was totally Dad’s fault, of course. He’d played poker for years—as a hobby, we thought. We didn't know he had drained our savings and then borrowed from a guy in Vegas whose non-payers tended to end up as body parts sprinkled across the Nevada desert. It was to pay back this guy that Dad had tried his hand at armed robbery and ended up in prison.

I headed for the shower, where caked dirt fell away from my back and legs, turning the water at the bottom to a chocolate color and clogging the drain. Some nights I had to plunge the shower drain, there was so much dirt in it.

What if we had to live in our car? Benny paid well, but how could I work for him without a shower?  Despair sideswiped me, making my eyes sting. I tried to remind myself that, for now, I had a place to live.

I pulled on some clean gym shorts and knocked on the bedroom door.

"C'm in." Mom sat cross-legged on the bed, her hair streaming in tangled knots down past her elbows, like she hadn't combed it in a week. "Hi." She reached over for a sweater and pulled it around her shoulders.

I sat on the edge of the bed, the only piece of furniture in the room. "How you feeling?"

Her freckles, standing out against her pale skin, and her long wavy brown hair made her look really young, although her hands were old, burned and callused from all the years of kitchen work.

"Okay, I guess...." She shook her head. "I miss Modesto. Don’t you?"

“Yeah.”

During our two years in Modesto, we’d lived in a real house, not an apartment. Dad got some construction work, and Mom had a really good job managing the Freddy's Fried Chicken franchise. She was allowed to bring food home, and we would all three of us eat dinner in front of the TV, Mom sitting straight-backed at a TV table, eating properly with a fork and knife, Dad kicked back in his recliner.

"I paid part of the August rent," I told Mom. "But Mrs. M wants all of it by tomorrow, and I don't have it." Looking at her scared face, I started to get a bad feeling.

"Tomorrow!" Mom’s hands fluttered on the sheets as she looked around her. "What was it I read? I’m trying to remember.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Three days’ notice! When they serve the Notice of Eviction. You have three days’ notice to vacate.”

“That’s not very much.” My nerves were playing a game of cat and mouse up and down my spine.

“No.” She faltered and laid back on the bed. "I'm really tired right now. I’m going to rest a little." Mom curled up in bed with a pillow over her face.

I stood there for a long moment, thinking she would have to come out from under that pillow. But she didn't.

“Mom?”

No answer. Her rhythmic breathing said she was asleep.

My stomach twisted up. Was it too much to ask for a mother who stepped up to the plate and did her job? What did it say about my prospects, that I was raised by not one, but two, parents who couldn't cut it in the race of life? I’d probably been doomed from birth.

Feeling sick, I left the room.

Wild

While Mom slept, I paced the living room, swore a few times, then, still thinking back to the days in Modesto, grabbed my cell and called Jenny Taylor. I hadn’t spoken to her in six or seven months.

“Yo, Jenny, it’s Travis!”

“Hey!” Some complex emotion came at me through the phone line, some recognition of our intense and wild history together, combined with the fact that it was over. Shuffling noises and a male voice in the background. “Hold on a sec,” she said.

I waited. Jenny had lived next door to me in Modesto. We were both fourteen and had discovered the benefits of having parents who were gone from home all day.

Mine made a show of caring about what I did. “Travis, I want you at home
alone
studying after school,” Dad would say, not that he would ever actually stick around to monitor what I was doing. That was fine with me.

“I am, Dad, don’t worry.”

I was studying all right. I was studying the tender skin on Jenny’s neck, the shape of her breasts, the way she responded when I traced my finger along the inside of her leg.

“Travis?” Jenny sounded muffled. “I can’t talk right now. I’m in the closet. But how are you?”

“Good. Is that the quarterback?”

“Yeah. He wouldn’t like it if he knew I was talking to you.” She giggled.

“No problem. I’m going out anyway. Let me know if you ever need me to kick his ass for you, okay?”

“I will.” Another giggle. “I’ll call you soon.”

“Great.”  I knew she wouldn’t, and that was okay.

Jenny was my first. My first everything. But eventually Dad made some dumb-ass  mistake at work and got fired, and we had to move to Los Angeles, where our lives fell apart.

So Jenny and I said goodbye. I didn’t have a clue who I would be if I hadn’t spent two years on the wild side with my friend Jenny Taylor. We had done just about everything together that two lovers can do, yet toward the end, I would see her looking at other guys at school, ready to move on. And so was I.

I’d only talked to her a few times after I left. I’d said nothing about my family’s downhill slide into oblivion. I never would.

##

Later that evening I fled to Chick’s with DJ, where I made myself stay on a single drink for an hour and a half, since DJ was paying. Then, like a bad omen, Suki showed up around ten.

“Let me buy you a drink,” she said, putting in an order for a round of shots.

“No thanks. I’ve got to turn in early,” I told her. “Big day tomorrow.” She probably thought I was totally lying, but in fact I was going to the open house at the fire station.

“Aaww!” she said, her voice starting low and scaling upward to a high note. She pouted and put her head on my shoulder, which just made me want to shove her off me. I slowly, carefully slid away from her.

“Sorry, Suki.”

Her eyes went vacant. “I thought you had fun with me last night.”

“I did, but I gotta go now.” I looked around for DJ, spotted him, and jerked my head toward the door. He shook his head; glommed to his side was a girl with thick, straight hair and thin, curvy legs.

I had to give it to DJ. He was only five foot nine and had a nose that kind of wandered across his face, but he had major game.

  Suki was sulking. “It’s Friday night! Live a little!”

“Thanks for the invite, but I can’t.” I tried to look sorry.

She smelled of alcohol and swayed a little on her feet. “Aw, c’mon, Tyler, don’t be like that.”  Her voice rose, causing a few people to look over at us.

Standing where Suki couldn’t see him, DJs eyebrows rose, while his mouth opened in a huge grin.
“Tyler?”
he mouthed to me, obviously finding my new name hilarious.

 Not bothering to correct her, I steered her over to an empty barstool. “Sit here. You’ll feel better in a minute.”

She circled her arms around me and laid her head on my shoulder again. “You smell good.”

Even more people were watching us now. I squirmed out of her grip, propping her up against the counter and nodding to DJ that it was time to exit. “Goodnight, Suki.”

She suddenly got it. In a split second, she morphed from annoying to rabid. It was like watching time-lapse photography or something. Her face hardened, her eyes glared, and her teeth took on this sharp, weasel-like look.

“Screw you, Tyler! You’re a total asshole, you know that?”

I stepped back, thinking maybe she had a point. I hadn’t expected this to turn into such a big deal. Before I could answer, she threw her drink in my face. The blast of icy cold against my eyelids and cheeks hurt like a hard punch. I gasped, trying to catch my breath.

“Oh!”
Groans from the spectators, which by now was basically every person in the bar.

DJ and I ran for it, me half-blind, but feeling my way out of there.

“Sorry to drag you outta there,” I told DJ in the car going home.

“It’s okay. I got her number.”  He stopped at a red light.

“Good thing you set that girl free,” he added.
“Tyler.”
And he burst out laughing.

“Very funny, DJ.”

I was into avoiding drama, not creating it. But I guessed Suki didn’t know that.

Spoiler

The fire station was a two-story red brick building near downtown Santa Alicia, a few blocks from the Community Center. “Good to see you! I’ll show you around.” Chief Perkins grinned and motioned me through the door. “We do these open houses every six months or so, as a community service.”

With Perkins was a guy maybe two years younger than me. He was one of those types who manages to look soft and non-threatening despite being six foot four and big boned. Pale-skinned with light brown hair, he wore wire-rimmed glasses and looked around him with an almost weary expression.

“Travis, this is Brandon,” Perkins said. “He’ll be starting our Discoverers program next week.”

Brandon brightened up at the sight of me. “Hey, I’ve seen you around Perdido High!”

High school. It seemed like a million years ago. I didn’t miss it. “Oh yeah, what year are you?”

“Sophomore.”

Perkins showed us into the Truck Bay, where the big fire engines stayed. Excitement ran through me as I took in the huge high-ceilinged room full of gleaming machinery. An enormous stainless steel pole stood riveted to the floor, reaching up through a hole way above in the ceiling.

“You really slide down those poles?” I asked, itching to try it.

“Yep,” Perkins said. “I bet Brandon’s done it, haven’t you, son?”

Brandon shuddered. “I tried it over at La Canada Station, where my dad and brothers work. Once was enough.”

The Day Room was large, with sofas and a flat screen TV, and adjoined a roomy kitchen and dining area. On a wall a large sign read “Firefighter Code of Ethics.” I skimmed it while Perkins talked.

* Accept responsibility for my actions ....

* Be truthful and honest at all times ...

* Recognize that I serve in a position of public trust....

Perkins saw me looking at it. “Sounds cornball, doesn’t it?”

“Cornball? No.”

“Some people think it is. Ethics and honesty. They’re old fashioned.” He stopped walking and fastened a stern eye on us. “Does the public have to know they can trust us?” He barked out the words.

“Uh, yes sir!” we both replied.

 “And here at the station, do we have to be able to trust each other?”

“Yes, sir!”

“You bet your banana we do. Our lives depend upon it.”

I’d never heard the phrase “bet your banana.” I wondered if it was unique to Perkins, or maybe something firefighters said.

 He took us out to the training area. “We do Discoverer training on Saturday mornings,” he said to me. “That’s a program for kids up to age nineteen who are interested in firefighting.”

It sounded cool. I glanced over at Brandon, who watched the training silently, as if it were the executioner and he, the guy on Death Row.

About a dozen guys sweated it out in the training yard, practicing getting in and out of the firefighter equipment. They ranged from maybe fifteen to my age. Some of them sneaked curious glances over at me and Brandon.

Perkins had moved to the front of the class to speak to the trainer. Both wore their station uniforms, consisting of navy short-sleeved shirts, navy pants, a black leather belt, and black shoes. Even from this distance, their shoes and belt buckles shone, their pants were ironed and creased, their shirts neatly tucked in. Their clothes were like their fire trucks—immaculate and perfect.

“Hey, Travis,” Brandon said in my ear, “you dating Brittany Sanders? I’ve seen you around school with her.”

“I know her.”

“What about Morgan James or that Susanna girl?  Man, how do you do it? You always hang out with the most amazing women.”  The guy was practically drooling.

“I dunno. I just meet them.” 

Perkins returned to us. “Watch this.”

The trainer was about to give a demonstration. “I’m going to show you a turn-out drill.” It was Garret, the other firefighter I’d met that day on the Ridge. He gave me a nod, recognizing me. “Okay, ready to start the timer? And go!”

I watched, fascinated, as he yanked a hood over his neck, stepped into the boots and pants, and pulled the pants suspenders straight up and over his shoulders. Next the breathing mask. Smoothed the hood up over this head, slid his arms into the jacket and zipped it, then slipped the air tanks over his shoulders, like a back pack. Helmet, followed by gloves.

“Forty seven seconds!” called the timekeeper.

Garret was completely gone from sight, his neck covered by the turned up collar of the jacket, his head and face now insect-like in the weird breathing mask and helmet. Before he’d put on his gloves, he’d zipped up and buckled every possible opening in those clothes. I wondered how hot it was in there.

Now he was taking it all off, while the trainees prepared to try it themselves. Each guy had a set of full gear arranged in a line, starting with the boots. The pant legs were draped over them, so you stepped directly into the pants and boots at the same time.

“You wanna join in?” Perkins asked us.