Trigger (29 page)

The police brought lots of cars with flashing lights, an ambulance, and a fire truck. Maybe two fire trucks. Lots of noise and lots of people. Lights, noise, and lights.

They brought a big man in a uniform who crawled over the fence and fell down on the other side. Lights and noise. He got up and kept coming until he got his hands on my shoulders and said, “Son, are you all right?”

He didn’t let me go. He helped me get back to the fence, get back through, get to the benches on the other side. As I stumbled toward the lights and noise, noise and lights, I saw him. He was standing with some policemen with his hands in his pockets. He was looking at me.

Todd.

A policeman brought me water and a blanket, and the guys in the fire engine ran out to check me over. They started putting something white and cool and nice all over my nose and my cheeks and my stupid-marks.

“Todd,” I called, but my voice was too quiet. Besides, he was turning around. Getting in a police car. Then he was riding away, away. I wanted to run and catch the car and tell him about the gun, about how I threw it away and how I threw away dying forever until it was my time to die. I threw it into the lake, the gun and the nothing and the dying. But
Todd couldn’t see me waving and I’d never be able to catch that police car.

Maybe I could tell him later. I’d tell him later. Maybe he’d listen.

It was afternoon, the police said. I’d been gone almost a day. And Todd helped them find me. Noise. Lights. Nose. Only my nose was white now, and it wasn’t burning. Then another car came, and I could see who was driving.

My dad.

When the police let him through, he ran straight to me and grabbed me off the bench, blanket and all, and started hugging me.

“Nose,” I said.

Dad didn’t stop hugging me.

“I threw it away, okay?” I hoped he wasn’t too mad at me. “Nose. I threw it in the lake. Bullets, too. The gun. I threw it away forever.”

Dad still didn’t stop hugging me.

He didn’t stop for a long time, but that was okay. That was just fine.

I didn’t mind at all.

chapter 25

“Did you talk to Leza?” Mama Rush sat across from me at our outside Palace table, only my clay ashtray wasn’t in front of her. She had a plastic tube stuck in her nose and an oxygen tank beside her and a sucker crammed in her mouth.

“Yes,” I said. “Sucker. A bunch of times.”

I didn’t have a sucker because I didn’t want to drool. Mama Rush’s sucker was sour apple. Drool. Probably why her face looked all puckered up and way past mad. And she was wearing a green robe sort of the same color as the oxygen tank and the sucker. Mama Rush was having a green day on her purple scooter. Drool. Sucker.

“Quit staring at me, boy,” she growled around her sucker stick. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Green drool,” I said. It was nice to talk without my face hurting. My sunburn was finally gone after three weeks. Three weeks since the gun took its last swim. Three weeks of being with happy Dad who got us breakfast from fast-food
places and restaurants and promised no more oatmeal ever. And now, Mama Rush was out of the hospital and better and taking visitors. Taking me, at least.

“Drool.” I sighed and didn’t stare at her oxygen tank. No staring. Don’t say tank. “Sucker. Green drool.”

With her right hand, Mama Rush tugged at the pocket where her cigarettes used to be. The pocket was ripped all the way down one side, but she tugged at it, anyway. “Don’t talk about drool, Jersey. It’s disgusting. Talk about socks or shoelaces or something.”

“Frog farts.”

She glared at me and bit on her sucker and ripped at her pocket. “Kids. I swear. You’ll be shouting about farts in public—somewhere you shouldn’t. Mark my words.”

“Frog farts,” I said. “I do. Shout it, I mean. Frog farts. A lot. Mr. Sabon sent me to the office for frog farts.”

“Yeah, well, old Sabon needs to get the stick out from up his ass. Anyway, I’m glad Leza talked it out with you. I was worried she wouldn’t tell you what she went through that day, hearing everything, and calling your mom instead of the police. She still has bad dreams, and I think she still blames herself for your mom being—well, like she is now.”

“Told her no,” I muttered, wondering if I should try a sucker. “Leza. That it’s my fault. I told her I was sorry until she made me shut up.”

Mama Rush grunted and chewed through her sucker with a loud crack. “Tell her some more tomorrow. And next week. Keep telling her.”

“Drool. I mean, frog farts. I mean, I will.”

More sucker crunching. More tugging on her pocket.
Then, “You got it all figured out now? About why you pulled the trigger?”

“Trigger.” I sat up a little straighter, and I didn’t say “drool.” “Too much pressure. Too much perfect. I got all flat and dead inside, and I made little things too big. I made nothing too much.”

“And you got depressed,” Mama Rush added.

“Depressed. Yeah.” I nodded. “Frog farts.”

My stomach hurt just thinking about it, but I figured I deserved that. Trigger. Trigger drool.

Mama Rush told me she’d gotten a “condensed version” of what happened at the hospital, so I told her about the gun and throwing it away, and how it was gone forever. I told her how I’d never pull the trigger again, how I wouldn’t die until I died. I promised her. After that, I said I was sorry until she told me to shut up just like Leza had.

Then I said, “I thought there would be a big reason, you know? Drool. One big reason. Some huge secret. All simple. All neat. Just one reason. Socks.”

“Yeah. Socks.” Mama Rush stopped talking and started a new sucker. It was quiet outside, except for that cool little breeze and her oxygen and loud breathing and sucker-crunching.

Finally, she put her sucker stick on the table. “Thinking about all this upset you, Jersey?”

I nodded.

“Good. You should be upset. But you promised you’d never hurt yourself again, upset or not.”

I nodded my head hard.

“Good boy. That’s a start. Now walk me back to my room. I have something for you.”

Before I could even stand up, Mama Rush picked up her oxygen tank and swung her scooter away from the table—all at the same time. She dropped a bunch of suckers and they crunched under the wheels.

As she motored toward the door, Attila the Red came out and had to jump to the side.

Mama Rush gave her a wicked glare.

As I lurched past Meki Shansu, I swear I heard her say, “Same to you, old woman.”

But I probably imagined that. I didn’t imagine how fast Mama Rush was driving. I nearly fell trying to keep up. And I nearly fell on top of her when she stopped even faster near her room to flip off Romeo man and mumble a bunch of stuff I was glad I couldn’t hear. Romeo man—who must have gotten a little smarter since I saw him the first time—turned around and sort of ran away down another hall.

“I really should move back home,” Mama Rush said as she found her key and opened her door. “Seeing that man just pisses me off. Even teenagers aren’t worse than he is.”

She whizzed in.

Drool. The door almost shut in my face before I caught it, but I caught it and got in and followed Mama Rush back to her bedroom.

Right away, I saw a wrapped box. Wrapped with green paper with a green bow. Mama Rush’s green day, I swear. Drool. Next to the present was the ashtray—she’d put safety pins in it. And next to that, the trivet and ceramic flowerpot, and the funny-looking piggy bank. All the other mess was gone. Cleaned off nice and neat. Drool. Guess there were some things she couldn’t fix.

She leaned back and nudged me just as I finished thinking that, and pointed to her window.

There was a mobile hanging there. Lots of little colored bottles. Tiny bottles on metal hangers, all floating around. Green and blue and yellow and red. Lots of green, too. Lots. Floating. They had dust inside. Only, I knew it wasn’t really dust. It was clay. Bits and pieces and piles of clay dust. The rest of the presents, drifting back and forth in little colored bottles.

“See? I told you.” Mama Rush motored a little ways toward the mobile and gazed up at it. The colors danced around the room. Bottles. They danced around her. “Lots of ways to look at stuff. And you can always make something out of something—if you try.”

She gave me a look over her shoulder. “Go on. Open your present.”

I had another present? Other than the floating bottles full of clay? Bottles. Green day. Good day. Bottles. So pretty. I had to make myself look away, make myself pick up the package and tear the paper.

Mama Rush motored back over. Inside the paper I found a box, and inside the box, I found the coolest notebook ever.

Camouflage green cloth on the outside, with a black leather binding and leather edges, and my name wasn’t on the outside. I opened the cover. Written in Mama Rush’s squiggly printing on the inside cover was my name, telephone number, and address. Right under that, she had written,
If you aren’t Jersey, that’s all you need to know. Stay the hell out of his notebook and give it back to him before
I have to hurt you
. Then she had signed her name and put her phone number underneath that.

“Green day,” I said. “Good day. Bottles. This—this is great. It’s great.”

“There’s a pen holder in the back. I put in some black and blue ballpoints, and a couple of red ones.” She leaned back. “I don’t want you to start thinking everything’s simple and neat again, but you need a new memory book. Been looking naked without one.”

My new memory book had lots of paper, and some dividers. And on the first page, squiggled by Mama Rush, was a list.

1. See Mama Rush and give her all the presents I made her.

2. Talk to Todd and find out why he hates me
.

3. Pass the adaptive driver’s evaluation
.

4. Make decent grades
.

5. Take the ACT
.

6. Get a girlfriend
.

I looked up at her. “Green day. Good day?”

She tugged at her oxygen tube and fiddled with her torn pocket, then smiled. “Well, some things might be a little simple and neat. Besides, it seemed like a good list to tackle next. You better get busy, because that’s a lot to do.”

“I love you,” I said, and I put down the cool new memory book and hugged her.

She hugged me back. “Would you add something for me? To that list?”

“Bottles. Sure.” I stepped back, found the pen holder, took out a pen, and got ready.

Mama Rush’s smile turned kind of wicked. “Put down, ‘Throw Carl into Lake Raven for Mama Rush.’ Can you handle that for me, Jersey?”

Bottles. I wasn’t stupid.

I wrote that down in a hurry.

When I got to my house, Leza was in her yard looking prettier than ever. She came over to the cab and helped me carry in the Chinese food I got for dinner. I didn’t say drool.

We put it on the kitchen table. Dad would be surprised—and happy. He was pretty sick of hamburgers, I figured. Hamburgers. Bottles. Bottles and hamburgers. I was sick of them, too.

Leza and I set up the food, even got out the silverware, and paper napkins instead of paper towels, and I still didn’t say drool.

“Hamburgers.” I looked at the table. “Lots better than hamburgers. Bottles.”

“Yeah. For sure.” Leza dusted off her hands.

I walked her to the door and opened it. She stopped on her way out and gave me a quick hug.

“Thanks,” I said. No drool. No drool.

“Welcome.” She pulled back and stared at me just like Mama Rush does. “Todd’s a little better, I think. If you’ll just give him—”

“Some time. I know. Drool.” I did my best to smile with both sides of my mouth, but it didn’t work. “It’s okay.”

She kissed me on the cheek.

I didn’t pass out. Pretty good, for me.

Then I watched her as she ran home.

She sure was pretty.

Well? I could like her if I wanted to. Bottles. I had to like her. Who wouldn’t?

The phone rang.

I shut the door and went to answer it. Took me a second, but I got there. It was time for Mom. And it was Mom. Mom in her hotel. She called every night, same time. And I talked to her every night, same time.

“How are you?” she asked right away, just like she did every night, same time.

“I’m fine. Green day. Good day. Bottles. Hamburgers. Slow down.” I took a deep breath. “Went … to see Mama Rush. Got dinner for Dad, and stuff. He’ll be glad. No hamburgers.”

“You got dinner?” Definitely surprised, Mom was. Good. Dad would be surprised, too, for sure.

“Leza helped set the table,” I said.

“Taking initiative. I’m proud of you, honey.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. Then I covered my mouth and laughed some more.

Mom went all quiet.

When I finally stopped, I thought I heard Mom laugh, too. “I guess I say that a lot, huh?”

“Yeah. Kind of. Bottles.” I bit my lip to keep from laughing again.

“I’ll try not to say ‘I’m proud of you’ so much.”

“Slow down, slow down.” Deep breath. “It’s okay. Proud is good.”

“I
am
proud of you, you know? Really.” Something rustled, and I imagined Mom sitting back in her chair at the hotel. Bottles. Probably a chair with a desk so she could work but also call me.

“Hamburgers. Thanks. Mama Rush gave me a new memory book. Bottles. It’s green.”

“Better than that white piece of junk?”

“Way better.”

“You won’t throw it away?”

“No.” I touched the memory book. No way was I throwing it away. Too cool. And it had a new list, with stuff already crossed off.

“Is Mama Rush still laying off the cigarettes, Jersey?”

“Yes. Bottles. She is for now, but she eats lots of green suckers. Green apple. Hamburgers. Makes her face pucker all up and stuff. And she wants me to throw Carl in Lake Raven.”

“The guy who fooled around on her. Yeah. I’ll help you. We’ll set a date.”

“Mom—about school. Bottles.” I played with the bottom of the phone, the little places where it sat on the charger. “If I don’t do better by Christmas, what about a G.E.D.? Less pressure. Hamburgers. Dad said ‘maybe.’”