Hurricane Power (3 page)

“And?” she asked.

“Let me tell you the short story,” I said. The long story was something I didn't really want anyone to know. “My dad's a doctor.
He decided he wanted to spend some time helping people who couldn't afford medical care. So he took a two-year leave of absence from his job in Canada and moved us down here so he could work in an inner-city clinic.”

She thought about that for a moment. Then she said, “I'll bet the long story is interesting.”

Interesting? How about scary and sad? How about something that nearly tore our family apart? And nearly put my dad in jail. But I wasn't going to tell her about that.

“Let's stick with the short story,” I said.

I could tell from the look on her face that she wasn't going to give up. So I changed the subject.

“What about you?” I asked. “Your dad...”

“My dad.” Her smile got smaller. “He's great. He's taught here and coached the McKinley Hurricanes track team for more than twenty years. When he joined the staff, this was a nice neighborhood. He'd really like to work in a better school now, but people in the school system think he's a loser. Which
really hurts. I mean, he cares more about kids than about winning. Around here, though, a track coach needs a winning team to get noticed. And, as you can imagine, this school doesn't attract a lot of star athletes. It's been a long time since we've won a track meet.”

She clutched her books to her chest as if she were hugging the slightest chance to help her father.

“That's why I wanted you to join the team as soon as I saw how fast you can run,” she said. “Dad's getting close to retirement, and I'd love him to have a winning season. Maybe then he could get a job in a safer school for his last few years of teaching.”

“Oh,” I said.

Before I could say anything else, Jason caught up to us.

“Jennifer,” he said, “your dad wants to talk to you.”

Jason smiled at me—a fake-looking smile that we both knew he didn't mean. “Nice run today.”

For a second, I felt like knocking his teeth in. But I thought of all I had learned in the
last few years because of what my dad had gone through. I knew that Jason and I could be friends or enemies. And it would be a lot easier on both of us if we weren't enemies.

“Look,” I said, “in Canada, I played hockey and—”

“You trying to impress me?” he asked.

“No,” I said, “I just wanted you to know that I've been part of a team. And I can see that you're good. Now we're on the same team. Maybe we can work together.”

I stuck out my hand, hoping he would shake it.

He kept his fake smile in place and walked away, ignoring my hand. Jennifer shrugged and followed him back toward the gym.

It made me mad, of course. I stayed mad as I walked. Until something took my mind off Jason.

Halfway down the hall, I walked past an open corridor. I saw someone standing at the far end. He looked just like the kid who had handed over his money the day before.

“Hey!” I shouted.

His head snapped toward me.

I was right. It was the same guy!

But before I could say another word, he turned and ran. He sprinted down another hallway. By the time I got to where he'd stood, there was no sign of him anywhere.

Weird, I thought. What's got him so scared?

“How was your second day of school?” Mom asked me.

We were all sitting at the kitchen table, eating a mushroom, pineapple and tomato pizza.

“Interesting,” I said.

“As interesting as your first day?” Dad sniffed the air. “At least you didn't roll in any—”

“Sweetheart,” my mom said quickly to him, “we're eating.”

“Right,” he said. He grinned at her. As always, I was glad to see them getting along. A year ago, things had been different. A lot different. But seeing them together now was like seeing a pair of newlyweds.

Mom's a redhead, with a few strands of gray starting to show up. She had on a blue T-shirt stained with paint from the work she'd started in a hallway. Dad had not changed from his white dress shirt and tie; he had a paper towel tucked into his shirt to protect it from tomato sauce. He kept his dark hair short, almost a buzz cut. People say that I look a lot like him—not skinny, not chunky, medium height, brown eyes and a chin with a dimple right in the middle.

“So define ‘interesting,'” Mom said. “I mean, in terms of your second day at school.”

“Well—” I stopped myself. Kirk, my six-year-old brother, was about to grab a slice of pizza that had my name all over it.

“Kirk,” I said, “is that an alligator outside?”

Kirk's eyebrows shot up as he turned to
look out the window. He's a little redheaded guy with a grin a mile wide. I like him a lot. But then, I like pizza a lot too. I made a quick grab for the pizza slice.

“Cut it in half and share,” Dad said. “And don't mess with your brother like that.”

Kirk glared at me for tricking him.

“Come on,” I answered. “I'm just trying to help him learn about real life. Some day politicians will be trying to fool him too. Without this kind of lesson, how will he understand democracy?”

“Cut it in half,” Dad said.

“Sure,” I said, not too upset. At least Dad was around the house now and cared about what I did or didn't do.

“Define ‘interesting,'” Mom prompted again.

In between bites of pizza, I told them about Coach Lewis and the short race in the gym and learning how to use blocks. The great thing about the renovation work Mom had started was that she didn't have time to cook. That meant we ate less health food—steamed carrots and broccoli—and more junk food.

My parents thought it was great that I was going to be competing in the track meet on Saturday. I also told them about seeing the kid from the day before.

“The boy you held up at gunpoint?” Dad asked.

“Yeah,” I said, not happy with the way that sounded but unable to deny it.

Dad continued, “The boy you were chasing when the cops showed up and made you roll in the—”

“Sweetheart!” Mom cut him off. “Can't you think about anything else?”

“Actually, no,” he said. “Everyone at work thought it was hilarious.”

“Thanks for sharing it with everyone, Dad,” I said.

“Go on with your story,” Mom urged.

“Well,” I said, “he saw me and ran away.”

I put up my hand to stop Dad from interrupting me. “No, I didn't chase him again. No, I didn't roll in—”

“David!” Mom exclaimed.

I grinned at Dad. He grinned back.

“Anyway,” I said, “now I know he goes to
McKinley. So if I'm lucky, I'll be able to find him again. I really want to give him his money back—and tell him it wasn't a real gun.”

I took a short time-out to gulp down some milk. “What I can't figure out,” I said, “is why he hasn't called the police. Or why he didn't at least give me a chance to talk to him today.”

“Do you think the fact that you threatened him with a gun might have something to do with his not wanting to talk to you?”

“Dad,” I said, “yesterday, when he was running away, he had to see that the police stopped me and cuffed me. And today, he could have called the school security guards. I couldn't have done anything to him. But he didn't ask for their help. It's like he's afraid of them.”

I stopped, listening to what I had just said:
It's like he's afraid of them
.

“That's not good,” Dad said. His smile was suddenly gone. “Only people who have something to hide work hard to avoid the police. And if he has something to hide...”

He didn't need to finish his thought.
Whatever this kid was hiding couldn't be good. He thought I had robbed him. And now he knew we went to the same school.

Mom's smile had disappeared too. “David,” she said, “you be careful.”

“Of course,” I said. “There's nothing to worry about. Really.”

Naturally, the next morning it took all of three hours to bump into him. And his two friends. Two big, mean-looking friends with nose rings and tattoos.

We were in the hallway during the mad rush of kids pushing to get to their classes at the 11:00
AM
break. I was on my way from my American history class to math class. I was thinking about the lesson I'd just had on the War of 1812. I had learned about it in Canada too. The short version of it is that
the Americans lost to their neighbors north of the border. Of course the history teacher here had taught about it differently. She said that the Americans had not succeeded in winning.

Still, it was interesting, the way history can be when you look at the stories instead of just memorizing dates. Like how British warships were so close to destroying Washington, DC, that when night fell, a lot of Americans wondered if the White House would still be standing in the morning.

Of course back then it wasn't called the White House. It got that name after it had to be painted with whitewash; the outside had been scorched by a fire that almost destroyed it. And when the sun rose the morning after the battle, the Americans could still see the flag. It waved in the shrouds of cannon smoke that hung in the air like fog. That inspired Francis Scott Key to write a little poem that started, “Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, what so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?”

I guess, if you're an American, that little poem can give you the shivers. But when I hear it as a Canadian, I remember that the Americans definitely did not win the War of 1812. And I've noticed they haven't tried to fight us since. Of course that wasn't something I was going to bring up on my third day of school in Florida.

I was thinking all of this and smiling to myself when I nearly bumped into the kid from the water pistol stickup. He had been walking toward me with his head down.

I stopped. He stopped. He brought his head up. Our eyes met.

I put my hands up to stop him getting past me.

“Look,” I said. “I want to talk to you about—”

“You leave me alone,” he said. “I don't want to talk. I don't want nothing to do with you.”

“I just want a chance to explain,” I said. I dug around in my pocket to get out some money. I hadn't forgotten that I still owed him twelve dollars.

That's when the two big guys stepped in front of him. I hadn't noticed them in the crowd of people talking, laughing and hurrying to get to their next classes.

One of the guys grabbed my arm and squeezed hard. It felt like a lion had gripped my arm in its jaws. “Don't try nothing,” he said.

“But—”

Students flowed around us, ignoring us, like rushing water around boulders in a stream.

“Back off, Jack,” the other one said. He wore a black T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off. There was a tattoo of a black rose on his left bicep.

A black rose? Hadn't this kid said something about a black rose when I had held him up with the water pistol?

“If Carlos says he don't want to talk,” the other tattooed guy said, “then he don't want to talk.”

Math was not my best subject, but I could count. Three against one. This was probably not the best time to argue.

“Sure,” I said. “No problem.”

I held my breath, wondering what would happen next.

Nothing. The first guy let go of my arm. The second guy pushed me aside. And all three of them walked away and melted into the crowd.

Being born with more stubbornness than brains, I couldn't quite leave it at that. First, it really bugged me that this kid thought I was a thief. Second, I wanted to give him his money back. Third, if he had friends like that, I didn't want him as an enemy. And fourth, I was curious. After all, it was strange that he didn't seem to care that I had pulled a pistol on him. It was even stranger that he hadn't told his buddies to do something to me once I was caught.

All I wanted was to know who he was. Maybe I could find him later, when he was alone, and give him his money back. Just so I wouldn't have to keep worrying about it.

I decided to follow them.

That part was easy. There were so many students in the narrow hallway that all I had
to do was stay a couple of steps back. Not once did any of them turn around.

I stayed with them until I saw the kid walk into a classroom.

I wrote his name and the room number down on a piece of paper:
Carlos, Room 225—Wednesday, 11:00.

I knew his first name as well as the room number, day and time of one of his classes. The information I had just written was almost enough to track him down—without his buddies. But for the rest of my plan to work, I would have to wait until I could talk to Jennifer at the end of math class, which was my next class, and I was already late.

“Um, Jennifer,” I said. “Could you do me a favor?”

Math class had just ended. I got to her desk as she stood up. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

“What do you need?” she asked.

“Remember the dumb thing I did a few days ago? You know, with the water pistol?”

She started to laugh. “Yeah. And I remember that you asked me not to tell anyone in school
about it. And I haven't, if that's what you're worried about.”

I shook my head. “No, I didn't think you would break a promise.”

Students squeezed past us in the narrow aisle between the desks. They were all in a hurry. There wasn't much time before the next class.

“He goes to McKinley,” I said. “The guy that I robbed...I mean, the guy who gave me his money because he thought—”

She laughed again. “He goes to school here? Is he going to call the cops and have you tackled in the hallway? Of course, if he did, you wouldn't have to worry about landing in—”