Yield (2 page)

Chris Thomas and Darius Jones emerge from the emerald green PSU gymnasium doors with several intimidatingly-tall black teens. Standing well over six feet, Chris and the others wear light blue Seattle High School letterman jackets. Their white leather sleeves and cocky expressions are unmistakable.

A full three inches taller than his teammates, Chris pushes past them and walks away, talking heatedly into his cell phone.
“
What
’
s wrong with you?
”
he asks, his voice lowering to an intense whisper. Chris
’
s eyes dart around.

Darius dribbles a ball back and forth through his legs before passing it to a waiting teammate. He glances over at Chris, knowing just from the tone who his best friend is talking to.
“
This can
’
t be good,
”
Darius mutters.

“
You tell me this here?
”
Chris barks. His long strides take him quickly down the stone walkway. The basketball star
’
s square shoulders begin to sink, his head cocking awkwardly.

It
’
s almost like watching a car drift toward oncoming traffic in slow motion. His teammates are all unable to keep from staring at their captain as he gestures angrily throughout the one-sided conversation.
“
What
’
s up with him?
”
one of them asks.

Darius laughs. He elbows the teen
’
s leather sleeve before stripping the basketball from his grip.
“
Girl problems,
”
Darius snickers.
“
You ask me, he
’
s just too soft with
’
em.
”

“
How could you let that happen?!
”
Chris
’
s words echo back.

Darius palms the ball with his long, curving fingers. He stands upright and shakes it high above his head, his own height overshadowing the others.
“
You
’
re whipped, boy!
”

Chris turns and flips him off.
“
You know this ain
’
t right, Liz. You should
’
ve told me.
”
He shakes his head, a low growl tightening the edge of each word.
“
You ain
’
t getting forgiveness. Ever. We
’
re done.
”

He slams his cell phone closed. Chris leans back, screaming up into the raining sky.
“
God!!
”
The single word reverberates back like a gunshot from the brick buildings. The students near him slow and look cautiously back at the furious 6
’
7
”
man. The sharpness of his clenched jaw and flickering eyes are enough to make them redouble their pace.

“
Damn, Chris!
”
Darius yells back.
“
He didn
’
t do it.
”

Chris
’
s legs fly across the commons. Rage pulses just under the surface of his midnight skin.
“
Women are evil, D. They
’
ll pick your pocket. Lie to your face. Then shank you in the back after they
’
re done screwing your friends.
”

“
Don
’
t get bitter on me now,
”
Darius says. He reaches up and puts his arm around Chris
’
s neck in a strained headlock. Struggling against the bigger man, Darius
’
s arms begin to shake as he tries to keep his grip.
“
Women do have their rewards. Deep and plentiful.
”
Darius smiles evilly, using all his strength to flex tighter around his friend
’
s neck.
“
Especially Liz.
”

Chris
’
s eyes go wide.
“
Motherf
…
”

Darius pushes Chris away
and takes
off at a full sprint. Chris misses with a whistling left hook before giving chase into the courtyard. The other players laugh at their team captains, running across the campus through the driving rain
.

*  *  *

6:52 A.M. - CLACKAMAS, OREGON

Haley Bane sits on the back of a passion-red Ninja motorcycle, her pink-streaked blond hair whipping all around her. She leans her body into the turns to watch the maze of suburban streets just outside of Portland race past. One arm is wrapped tightly around her boyfriend
’
s chest. The other holds her burning attempts at maturity.

She huddles against the slender back in front of her and takes a deep hit from the joint shielded in her right hand. The 15-year-old lifts her chin and thunderously exhales out every care still trapped inside. Haley smiles as the tingling touch of wind begins to kiss and tease her skin.

Wincing from the harsh light of the sunrise, she reaches forward and places the joint to her boyfriend
’
s mouth. The roughened stubble around his lips tickles her fingers. Grinning uncontrollably, she wraps her left arm tighter around his hard chest, feeling it expand and fill with addictive bliss.

The upperclassman revs his bike loudly and blows the twisting cloud of smoke behind. His Ninja
’
s front wheel lifts off the ground. The equilibrium of weightlessness makes his eyes go wide before the tire touches down again with a screech.

Haley cranes her head back and screams, closing her eyes in euphoria. Darkened houses surge by. Their colored shadows blur together in the rising light. She glances ahead
,
the smile quickly falling from her face. She taps her boyfriend
’
s shoulder twice. The blows are like a gavel condemning her sentence.

He kills the engine, letting the bike coast slowly up to a two-story house on the corner. Its white picket fence and perfectly manicured lawn might as well be metal bars and asphalt. Returning to the prison of suburbia twists paranoia right through Haley
’
s stomach.

Grudgingly, she gets off the bike, eying the windows for any signs of motion. Her boyfriend
’
s hand shoots up to find hers when she turns without the usual farewell.

Haley laughs. He pulls her back to him, pushing his mouth up to hers.
“
Don
’
t start that again,
”
she says.
“
My parents are going to be up soon.
”

“
Don
’
t go yet,
”
he pleads. Just like they always do. Haley pushes her toned body into him, rubbing it suggestively over his torn jeans and Metallica t-shirt. Her hands move slowly up his leg, her supple lips leaning close. Suddenly, she pecks his cheek and steps back, smiling wickedly.

“
God, I hate it when you do that,
”
he breathes out. He adjusts his stance to take the pressure off his curiously tighter jeans.

“
Oh, I know,
”
Haley grins, batting her alluring blue eyes back at him. Their fingers slide reluctantly away from one another.

Haley
’
s attention darts up to the blinds on one of the upstairs windows. Her stomach sinks. Silhouetted fingers pry them open. Haley turns and blows her boyfriend a quick kiss. Moving backward up the side walkway, her feet drag towards reality and away from the happiness of last night.

Haley pauses for just a moment to wave then takes a timid step back into captivity. The 15-year-old watches out the window as her boyfriend pushes his motorcycle up the street. He fires up the Japanese engine with a high-pitched whine before roaring away to freedom.

*  *  *

Katherine Bane flips the flat-panel television on in her picturesque kitchen to Fox News and the start of another Monday routine. Mid-thirties, with a natural beauty that could still stop men in their tracks even without makeup, Katherine angrily sets down the remote. She heads for the coffee pot in her tight American Eagle tank top and navy blue sweatpants, tying her chin-length blond hair back into a bun. The mother of two pushes several wooden blinds aside and glares out the front window. An escaping rumble from a motorcycle somewhere down the street rattles the copper-bottomed pans hanging from her island
’
s iron ceiling rack.

Hearing the side door faintly squeak, Katherine turns. Her maternal eyes are filled with a mixture of criticism and disappointment. She sees her daughter
’
s pink streaks sneak past the kitchen doorway, moving out of sight with a silent grace.

Katherine sighs. She sets her coffee cup down on the granite counter. The deep greens of her hazel eyes flicker while she stares into the speckled surface. The new rebellious life her daughter leads and the growing secrecy of recent weeks fire like an alarm in her soul.

Years of conditioning and naivety begin reasoning the fear away with her usual trust of Haley
’
s judgment. Happy memories soon replace doubts with a disbelief that her kids could ever stray too far from the example she has set. Finally, the desire to remain her daughter
’
s part-time confidante overpowers the warning signs of her mothering instincts.

Katherine
’
s eyes again turn to the distracting comfort of the television.

“
Over the weekend,
”
a news anchor says over video of squabbling politicians,
“
disarmament talks again broke down at the U.N. security council. Delegates from Russia and China declined to comment on the impasse. This is the fourth meeting by nuclear nations without an accepted resolution
…
”

6:12 A.M. - PORTLAND, OREGON

Abd Al-Aziiz plunges his hands into the cool water basin, wringing them three times as he prays quietly to his God. He splashes the purifying liquid up onto his face. Harsh lines cut across its shadows, creating heavy sockets with only hints of white. Abd blinks back the tears in his eyes before closing them tightly again. Arabic words roll mechanically from his lips, the creases around his eyes deepening in concentrated peace.

Candles burn all around his kneeling body. Their black smoke curls up along walls stained by years of the uncaring and busy. Behind him, in the living room of his bleak downtown apartment, a television is on professing truth to an empty room. The news anchor
’
s lilting foreign accent somehow makes the tragic events on screen seem cheerful.

“
International support for the U.S. anti-terrorism initiative has been diminishing in recent years,
”
she states,
“
with
fewer
countries to help strengthen the U.S.-led effort militarily.
”

Hand-held video shows a frightened journalist cowering behind two soldiers. The image suddenly lights up when the group is obliterated by mortar fire. One of the Marines
’
blackened helmets shatters the camera lens, throwing the photographer backward onto the bloody sand. The silhouettes of the dead fade to more explosions. Huge clouds of fire and dust are launched into the sky.

“
French and German troops are now among a growing list of those who have left the Mideast, with several other countries also approaching their time frames for total withdrawal. Additional U.S. peace-keeping forces are still being deployed throughout the region, dramatically shrinking the available reserves of every military branch.

“
Our talk-back question for today
…
With U.S. armed forces still overextended and military budgets on the chopping block, do you think America
’
s security is at risk? Post your response now at CNN.com
…
”

Abd cocks his head toward the TV. He smiles at the loaded question with a mouth full of crooked and decaying teeth. Letting the water drip freely from his face, the Arab man
’
s closely-groomed beard glistens in the candlelight. He lowers his head to the floor, eyes shut fast.