Rush (5 page)

“Thank you.” She sighs and walks toward her house, calls over her shoulder, “I'm not your mom. It was only a question.”

 

I HOP ON MY BIKE and ride out of town. I accelerate past Hanking's Mill and the hundreds of cars parked in the lot. Somewhere in the heart of the building, Dad wanders, staring at his workers. Scottie's with him, I know it. Getting pointers for when the mill will be his, the townspeople will be his.

The road winds around and up into the Sierra Llamos, and two hours later I reach the first peak. Brockton spreads out in the valley beneath like a spider. Here, looking down, I breathe easy, free of the web.

I throw my bike onto the shoulder and hike into the woods. Ten minutes in, trees thin out, and patches of light reach the forest floor. Abruptly the tree line breaks, and I stand, squint, and exhale in brilliant sunshine.

Rusted buses, old bridge trusses, worm-filled railroad ties—the abandoned salvage yard spreads out before me. Acres and acres of castoffs. Treasure gleaming in the sunlight.

I head for the second heap—a giant mountain of metal. Crushed cars, five wide and three tall, form the bulk of the pile. My gaze flits from the takeoff ramp I built to where I'll land. Or wipe out.

I step nearer to a crushed Suburban and touch it. A wave of dark wallops my mind. I peek at the dented lean-to where my dirt bike rests. There's no time to fiddle with the engine. I need a jump now.

I jog toward the bike, pass a rusted water heater, and stop. Height. It's what I need to up the rush. I muscle the tank toward the stack of cars. It's a sweaty job, but I haul the hunk of metal onto a hood, then climb up and pull it higher still.

A throat clears from down below.

“Strangest sculpture I've ever seen. Mom would have liked it.”

I rest the heater against a hood and peek down. Scottie stands, arms folded, legs spread—just like Mr. Ramirez had at the hospital.

“So you're talking to me again, huh?” I position the tank and slowly release my hands. It balances.

“Can you blame me for a little silence? Kyle almost died.”

I stare back at his controlled face. There's no way to see inside him. He has no tell. Years ago, he used that control at the poker table to take my allowance; now he uses it to piss me off.

I jump down and brush the rust from my gloves onto my jeans. “I know. And I don't know how to apologize any bigger. If I knew a way, I would. Because I hurt everybody, again.” I exhale and straighten. “Thing is, he wasn't the only one who almost died that night.”

“But you—”

I straighten and stare. “Deserve it?”

Scottie rolls his eyes, and his gaze travels over the crushed cars. The water tank shifts, and I turn, reach up, and balance it.

“Do you need a hand?” he asks.

I nod, and he takes my place. We lug the heater higher in silence, finally roll it onto the top of the pile. I know he can't stay quiet for long.

“What are we doing?” He wipes his forehead with his shirtsleeve.

“I want this tank sticking up on top. I want to jump from there to there.” I point at my landing ramp. “And go right over the top of this.”

“Impossible.”

“Beautiful. There's the difference between us. You wouldn't see beauty if you were leaping over it.”

He shakes his head. “And you don't see it when she—it—stands right in front of you.”

I frown. There's no tennis match between us. No spoken volley back and forth. All is serve and smash and game over.

“You didn't come up for the conversation. You didn't come up to help or to watch my leap.” I gesture around the dump. “Let's see, that leaves—”

Scottie puffs out air. “I'm here for Dad.”

“No surprise there. The man couldn't wait for tonight? Tell me, favored firstborn, what's our father want now?”

“You have extra time now. He wants you to—”

“Work afternoons at the mill. Dad's told me.”

Scottie stares, waits, throws up his arms. “You could do something responsible. Wake up, Jake! Do you want everyone thinking you're crazy? Do you like it that everyone hates you?”

I bend an antenna with my foot. “You hate me?”

He starts to speak, but I interrupt.

“And that's not why you're here. Just say—”

“Put your name in with the Forest Service. I bet Dad will make some calls. Some crew will pull your cert, and you'll get picked up.” He scowls at the oil on his hands and his polo. “You could be stationed somewhere else and get out of this town. This is me talking, not Dad.”

I shake my head. “I didn't think you'd try to sell me the Brockton dream.”

“Well, start thinking, because fighting fire could save your butt.” Scottie leans over the water heater. “All your wild crap. Those stunts have a place.” He exhales. “There's nothing like it when you're out there, heat scorching your—”

I hold up my hand and stare away from my brother. Scottie exhales hard.

“It's great that you found your thing.” I catch my breath and lower my voice. “But I need it faster than a hand crew. I need it faster and higher . . . Ever felt a rush like twenty roller coasters blow away every ugly thing inside your head?”

“I don't want to be in your head.”

“You think I wake up dreaming of ways to kill myself. I don't. I don't dream at all. I live trying to come up with one clear thought.” I jump off the pile and land soft. “You think you offer choices. Those aren't choices. Here's what I got. Find a rush. Push it to the edge. And for a minute, maybe an instant, I'll feel what you feel every moment of every day.” I stare at the dirt. “Besides, you know Dad thinks I'm a lunatic. He'd never let a crew see my app.”

“I'd put in a word.”

I say nothing.

Scottie tightens his lips and nods. “It was an idea, is all.” He eases off my pile and kicks a car. “A junk pile. Great place to live a life.”

Scottie mutters something about a rip in his shirt and disappears into the woods.

Minutes pass, and the sun's shadow darkens my face.

“Scottie?” I dart after him. “Scottie!” I reach my mountain bike. His truck is gone.

Suddenly, I hate it here. I need to talk to Salome. I strap on my helmet, then bend and check my tires.

I whip the bike around, face toward Brockton. Between us, there's a ten-foot drop off the side of the road and thousands of trees. If I hit it just right, if I weave and cut and hurdle blind like a bat straight down the mountain, I'll be home in twenty minutes. Or I can spend an hour on the road.

“Join the Forest Service,” I mutter, and shake my head hard and feel a flutter in my stomach.

I push off the road's shoulder, and for a second I free-fall. The moment is perfect; I'm perfect. Suspended, I have no decisions, feel no pain. In this instant, I can do nothing wrong.

I land hard in brush; my back wheel kicks right, and I carom left, off my normal track.

Faster, faster. I whip by pines, nerves on heavenly fire. I fly down the mountain and start to pedal. Life. It's mine again.

A shadowy trunk reaches out and catches my shoulder. My shirt rips; the bark sandpapers flesh. Tires chatter, lose their line, and I recover at a diagonal. I race too fast to change course. If I pop out of this forest alive, it won't be on the grassy slope gliding into Brockton.

Leg muscles sear. Hair flaps. I hear nothing but the wind tunneling in my ears, and every sense works at maximum. There is this or working at the mill. This deathly life, or a life of death.

“Yah!”

My arm throbs, and I squint back sweat. A hundred microcorrections later, I fly off the mountain's steep top half and rocket across I-10.

Lights flash, and a deep horn blares. A fire truck narrowly misses me and speeds into town. But I'll beat it.

Two more minutes. Trees break, and I veer right. I catch my bearings, pedal perpendicular to the slope, and sweep gently down toward town. My heartbeat slows.

I reach Lydell Street and brake. I imagine the street in front of me up in flames. I feel the heat, see myself on a crew racing hell-bent to kick the burning monster in the teeth. Inside, a flutter.

Maybe Scottie's not so dumb after all.

TWO WEEKS LATER, OUR
doorbell rings. Once, twice. Scottie's not getting it, and I answer.

Kyle.

He's whiter than usual, his face a pasty sheet crisscrossed with scars and dotted with scabs. He stands stiff, like there's a lot of casting holding him together.

“Is Scottie here?” he asks.

“Upstairs. Hey, what I did to you was really—”

Kyle waves his hand and pushes by me. He walks slowly, as if his legs weigh a ton.

“—stupid.”

He pauses at the bottom of the stairs. My gaze is glued to his back, to the gold
I
across the shoulders of his brown leather flight jacket.

“Say, Kyle, is that your jacket? Or is it Carter's old one? Your brother belonged to the Immortals, right? I mean, before his crash—”

Kyle whips around, his face furious. “None of your business, freak. No questions.” He slumps into the banister. “In the spin, is all. I'm in the spin.”

That jacket plods up our steps. I've seen the jackets walk around town before, but they're different now that I've held one. Usually they swagger. But not the one in the gorge, not Drew's when we found it, and not Kyle's now.

I wait an hour for him to come down. To finish my pathetic apology. To tell him I never meant to hurt him. And to grab him. I want to squeeze his shoulders until he tells me how to join and how to get my brown leather. I need to know what “in the spin” means, because rumor says they're just like me. Crazy. Without fear and without a future in this world.

But Kyle doesn't leave and I'm late for my first day back at the YMCA and I can't wait to see little Maddie. I've missed all the kids from climbing class, especially her, and wonder how high she's climbed.

I STROLL THROUGH THE Y'S
glass doors and into the lobby. I pause and blink. A wave of black floats across my thoughts.
Not now.
I shake my head hard, but the clouds don't break, and my feet shuffle on autopilot. They carry me into the empty gym.

I slap blue mats onto the floor beneath the climbing wall and rub my hands across the rough rock face. It's fake, just like Ms. Jameson's enthusiasm when she agreed to let me teach again, but that's fine. I'm here, and soon Mads will be, too.

My feet test the wall, and I throw myself against it, scamper to the top. I climb up and across, hang and flop onto my back. I am Spider-Man, and when my feet hit the mats and I check the time, I wish I had a mask.

Not one of seven kids shows up. Not even Mads.

I plunk onto the blue, make a mat angel, and stare at buzzing gym lights high overhead.

“Lying down on the job?” Ms. Jameson's heels click across the gym floor. Brooke is at her side.

I hop up. “Yeah, well, no. Nobody showed up today.”

“And they won't show up next week either. I just got off the phone with Maddie's mother. She pulled her daughter along with the rest. You no longer have a class.”

“Why?” I kick at the mat. “I'm good at this.”

“Which is why I agreed to let Brooke take a private lesson from you today. I know she'll be in good hands.” Ms. Jameson turns to Brooke. “I'll leave you with your instructor.”

Heeled shoes clop toward the door, which closes with a slam.

Brooke slips out of her warm-up pants, tosses them against the far wall. “I'm ready.”

I don't move.

“Hey, I paid plenty for this.” She runs her fingers over one shoulder and gently stretches her legs. Standing in that halter top and those shorts, she knows what she's doing.

She walks to the wall and strokes its surface. “What do you hold on to?”

I sigh, knowing she won't give up. “If you're gonna climb, you wear the harness.” I size her, adjust it to her body, clip the clasp in front, and tie the rope. “I'll spot you from below. You can't fall. Reach with your hands, thrust upward with your legs.”

“Reach. Thrust. Got it.” She winks, and I chuckle.

Brooke steps up, slips. She re-places her foot, but falls awkwardly onto her rear.

“Can't fall, huh? I see why you like doing this.” She stands and winces and stares at me like it's my fault her coordination is crap. “Maybe you could help me a little?”

I reach my hands around her waist, feel her stomach tense and relax, and lift her onto the face. I press into her, pin her body while I stretch her hand to a solid grip. “You should be able to hold yourself up, now.”