Leaving Paradise (12 page)

twenty-three

Caleb

Y
ou ignore me, and I’ll ignore you
. Maggie, like every other girl in my life, is trying to control me. I’m sick of the games, I’m sick of feeling like a jerk. And most of all I’m sick of people gawking at me because I went to jail.

I know she’s staring at me, I can feel her eyes on me like little pin pricks poking into my back. Out of frustration, I pound the next nail into the two-by-four harder than I normally would and whack my forefinger with the hammer.

I glare at Maggie.

The girl is sitting on the ground wearing torn and stained overalls. “I . . . I wasn’t staring at you,” she stutters.

“The hell you weren’t,” I bark back. I hold my arms out wide. “You want to gawk at the ex-con, you got it. Just answer one thing for me, will ya? You like it when people stare at
you
when you limp around like you’re gonna topple over any second?”

Maggie sucks in a breath, then covers her nose and mouth with her hand as she hobbles inside the house.

Oh crap.

My finger is throbbing, my head is pounding, and I insulted a crippled girl—a girl I’m responsible for crippling. I should just go to hell right now because the deal with the devil is probably signed anyway.

Mrs. Reynolds has no clue what’s happening, her head is slumped in the chair and she’s snoring.

I throw down the hammer and go into the house to find Maggie. I hear sniffling sounds coming from the kitchen. Maggie is standing at the counter, taking vegetables out of the refrigerator. She pulls out a cutting board and starts cutting them with a huge butcher knife.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s fine.”

“Obviously it’s not or you wouldn’t be crying.”

“I’m not crying.”

I lean my hip against the counter. “There’s tears running down your face.” Plain as day I can see ’em.

She picks up an onion and holds it out to me. “My eyes tear when I cut onions.”

My fists clench together, because I can’t shake her and make her yell at me. This time I deserve to be yelled at. “Say something.”

Instead of responding, she chops the onion in two. I imagine she’s pretending that onion is my head . . . or some other part of my body.

“Fine, have it your way,” I say, then leave her. If she wants to live in silence, that’s her choice.

I clench my teeth so much they hurt, and the rest of the afternoon I work outside on the gazebo. It feels good to create something useful, something to finally make someone proud of me for a change. Because the rest of my life I’ve totally fucked up.

Maggie abandoned her post in the yard. She hasn’t been outside since I went off on her.

At seven I inform a waking Mrs. Reynolds I’m leaving for the day and head for the bus stop. Maggie’s not far behind.

I’m standing on the corner of Jarvis and Lake Streets, backpack flung over my shoulder, when a car screeches beside me.

“What are you doing slumming on this side of town, rich boy?”

Oh, man. It’s Vic Medonia. And some other guys on the Fremont High wrestling team.

“None of your fucking business,” I say.

Vic laughs, bitterness dripping off the cackling sound. “Your friends in jail taught you how to stand on the street corner and pimp yourself? How much you charging for that used booty of yours, anyway?”

The other guys in the car laugh, then Vic gets out. He looks to my right and says, “Is this your new girlfriend?”

I turn to see Maggie not far away, limping toward us as she heads for the bus stop.

“Maggie, go back to the house,” I warn her. I’ve seen enough fights to know that Vic is looking for one. Hoping to redirect Vic, I say, “This is between you and me, man. Leave her out of it.”

Vic laughs, the high pitched sound making my skin crawl. “Check her out, guys. Jeez, Becker, you really are scraping the bottom of the barrel. Does it turn you on when she struts around like a retard like that?”

I drop my backpack and charge him. We both land on the ground, but one of his friends grabs me from behind and pins my hands back. Before I can free my arms, Vic clocks me right on the jaw and the ribs.

Before I know what’s happening, Maggie is in the middle of us, swinging her book bag and hitting Vic. The chick has more in her than she lets on.

Through all the commotion, I break free and push the prick who’d been holding me, then I grab Maggie and act as her shield before she gets herself killed. “Run,” I order her as I tackle one of the guys.

I’m punching and grasping at shirt collars as much as I can in a three-against-one fight. Odds are against me and it’s not a pretty sight. All mayhem freezes when I hear a siren, attached to a cruiser with red and blue lights flashing. An officer flies out of the car and has us kneel on the ground with our hands over our heads. “What’s going on here, boys?”

I don’t see Maggie.

“Nothing,” Vic says. “We were just playing around. Right, Becker?”

I stare straight at Vic and say, “Right.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing to me.” The cop holds his hand out to me, palm up. “Let me see some ID.”

Since my driver’s license was revoked, I only have my community service ID tag from the DOC. I’m not about to pull it out and have him call Damon. I’ll be locked up again before you can say “hit-and-run.”

“I don’t have any,” I say.

“What are you doing in Hampton?”

“Visiting a friend.”

The guy does a great cop stance from the movies, with his feet apart and his hands on his hips positioned right above his gun belt. “Let me give you a piece of advice. We don’t take kindly to strangers coming into our town and causing trouble.” He turns to Vic. “I suggest you meet your friend on his turf or I’ll have to get your parents involved. Got it?”

This should be about the time I tell the cop the truth: that I’m in Hampton by the order of the Illinois Juvenile Department of Corrections. But I won’t.

“Got it,” Vic says.

The officer gets back in his squad car and orders Vic and his friends to move on. He follows Vic’s car. I watch until both cars are out of sight.

When I look around for my backpack, I quickly realize it’s gone. One of Vic’s friends probably snatched it. But that’s the least of my worries.

My jaw is starting to protest Vic’s punch, and I put my hand up to my face to feel if it’s bleeding. When I do, Maggie reveals herself.

Our eyes lock.

The bus to Paradise comes rumbling down the street and we both get on it. I sit at my usual spot in back and she follows, sitting right next to me. I’m surprised until I notice her fingers shaking.

She’s scared.

It’s demented and strange after all that’s happened, but she feels safe with me right now. I don’t dare touch her, ’cause that would mean this is something more than it is. And I know this . . . this feeling of friendship is a fleeting, temporary thing. What scares me to fucking death is that some part of my brain has decided this insignificant act of Maggie sitting next to me is the first step in fixing all that’s gone wrong in my life.

Which makes it all the more significant.

twenty-four

Maggie

I saw Caleb today at school. Rumors are running rampant about the bruises on his face.

None of the rumors are true.

After school I get on the bus to go to Mrs. Reynolds’ house. I walk down the aisle to where Caleb is sitting. He doesn’t look up. I take the seat next to him like I did yesterday.

This time he doesn’t walk behind me after we’re dropped off at the bus stop by Mrs. Reynolds’ house. We walk side by side, as if there’s an unspoken understanding between the two of us. I’m the only one (besides Vic and his thug friends) who knows how Caleb got his bruises. The fight yesterday scared me. Did Caleb get caught up in the fight because Vic insulted me? Whatever the reasons were, it was us against them. Caleb and I were on the same team and we didn’t have a chance of winning.

That’s why I ran behind a tree and called 911 from my cell, to protect him/us, because he would never be able to fight off three guys by himself, and God knows my cheap book bag couldn’t take much more. I’ve never been able to stomach a fight anyway. The fight is over, but its aftereffects have lingered.

So now it’s another day at Mrs. Reynolds’ house working together, but not.

Caleb still follows my conditions: he doesn’t talk to me as he works on the gazebo and I plant more daffodils.

I hum songs as I work. Sometimes Mrs. Reynolds hums along with me, until she starts belting out words to the songs so loud that I stop working and blink my eyes at this old lady who doesn’t care what people think about her. It’s really mind-boggling.

When Mrs. Reynolds starts nodding off, I walk inside the house and pour myself a glass of water. Before I leave the kitchen, I pour one for Caleb too. Quietly, I set it down on one of the wooden planks beside him.

Heading back inside to prepare a small snack, I remember I forgot to bring the cookie plate down from the attic last week. I go up the two flights of stairs to the attic and pick up the plate.

The door closes and I shriek. Caleb is standing in the attic with me, the glass of water in his hand. “Oh my God!”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Maggie. I just wanted to say thanks for the water and . . . well, and I know it’s not easy working together, but I do appreciate you not kicking me out.”

“You can’t leave,” I say.

“Why not?”

“Because that door locks automatically.”

Caleb eyes the door stopper he just kicked out of the way. “You’re joking, right?”

I shake my head slowly. I’m trying not to panic at the reality of being stuck with Caleb Becker in an attic.
Breathe, Maggie
. In. Out. In. Out.

Caleb tries turning the knob, then tries a turn-doorknob-while-pushing-on-door action. “Shit.” He turns to me. “You and me. In the same room. This is
not
supposed to happen.”

“I know,” I say.

“We could yell for Mrs. Reynolds. She’s sleeping outside, but—”

“She’ll never hear us all the way out there. Her hearing is marginal if you’re ten feet away. When she wakes up we’ll hear her and then yell our heads off.”

“So you’re saying we’re stuck here?”

I nod again.

“Shit.”

“You already said that,” I inform him.

Caleb starts pacing while running his hands over his buzz cut. “Yeah, well, this sucks. Being locked up is getting to be the theme of my life,” he mumbles. “How long before she usually wakes up?”

I shrug. “It could be a half hour, but sometimes she sleeps for an hour or more, like yesterday.”

Taking a deep breath, he sits in the middle of the floor and leans against Mrs. Reynolds’ trunk. “You might as well take a seat,” he says.

“I’m kind of afraid of spiders.”

“Still?”

“You remember that about me?”

“How could I forget? You and Leah used to make me your personal spider killer,” he says.

I look at him strangely.

“Sit,” he orders. “I’m giving the old lady two hours to free us and then I’m breaking that door down.”

Neither of us say anything for a long time. The only sound is our breathing and the eerie bangs and creaks of the old house.

“Was it scary in jail?” I ask, breaking the silence.

“Sometimes.”

“Like when? What did they do to you?”

I turn and look at him. His expression is wary. “You know, you’re the first one who’s asked for details.”

“I’ll admit I’ve heard the rumors. I suspect most of them aren’t true.”

“What’d you hear?”

I curl my lip, nervous to be the one to tell him. “Let’s see . . . you had a boyfriend in jail . . . you joined a gang . . . you attempted to escape and got solitary confinement . . . you beat up a guy who afterward needed to be hospitalized . . . should I continue?”

“You believe any of it?”

“No. Why? Are they true?”

He leans his head back against the trunk and lets out a long breath. “I was in a fight and got thrown in solitary for it.” He puts his palms over his eyes. “I was in solitary for thirty-six hours. God, I can’t believe I’m talking to you, of all people, about this.”

“Did they give you food and water?”

He laughs. “Yeah, you still get meals. But you’re sleeping on a slab of cement and a one-inch foam mattress on top of that. A stainless steel toilet is your only companion.”

“At least you were alone,” I say. “I had to wait for someone to bring a plastic bowl for me to go to the bathroom while I was in the hospital. Then I had to lay there while they wiped me. It was so degrading.”

“Do the doctors say you’ll ever walk without a limp?”

“They don’t know. I have to go to physical therapy twice a week until I go to Spain.”

“Spain?”

I explain why I’m working at Mrs. Reynolds’ house every day and about my dream of leaving Paradise so I can get away from the past.

“I couldn’t wait to get back home,” he admits. “Coming back here meant I was free of being locked up.”

“That’s because you’re Caleb Becker. People will always accept you. The only thing that kept me from being a loser before was tennis and Leah. Now that I’ve lost both, I have nothing except humiliating stares and comments people say but don’t think I hear.”

Caleb stands and paces the attic again. “Coming home has sucked. But leaving Paradise would be a copout.”

“To me,” I tell him, “leaving Paradise means freedom. I feel locked up just living in this town where everybody reminds me what a loser I am now.”

Caleb crouches down, his face right in front of mine. “You are
not
a loser. Hell, Maggie, you always knew what you wanted and went for it.”

I tell him the honest truth. “Not anymore. When you hit me, a part of me died.”