Motorcycle Roadkill Page 4

  A cinder block maze of hallways leads me to the back of the school and a set of double doors leads outside. I burst through the doors, practically gasping for air. It all sings around me: blue sky, soft sunlight, and the scent of pine needles in the breeze. It's a moment of utter joy, freedom, if only for a brief second.

  It's just me, with my hands pressed to my knees, unaware of other students, sniffing around like stray dogs, as they find their way through the double doors and down the sidewalk. The sidewalk hugs a service road that connects the parking lot to the football field. As if following a familiar scent, each stray eventually makes his way around the corner to the stadium, where row upon row of silver bleachers are stacked into the sky. It's hard to believe that Crenshaw's Creek has enough people to fill them. The scoreboard hovers just beyond the bleachers, with its huge rust streak and missing bulbs.

  The heaviness in my chest begins to ease, as I try not to think about how much this place sucks. My eyes wander down the service road, and for a moment I can see myself trudging along, with my pack slung over my shoulder and a bus ticket in my pocket. A meandering trail of bus connections and train-stops plays in my mind like a montage from a movie: “The Journey,” starring Caleb Calloway.

  The sound of deep voices, shouting plays snaps me back to reality. A handful of jocks take to the field, wearing their practice jerseys. Grant's right in the middle of them, like a tick that feeds on attention. He glances back toward the school. He's not looking at me directly, but for some reason he's sporting a face that ranchers save for horse thieves: wary and waiting.

  For a moment, I simmer in my stew, with all of this fear and doubt brewing inside me. The wind changes and I'm standing in a cloud of smoke. “Need a little fresh air?” It's the Motorcycle Dude from last night. He emerges seemingly out of nowhere, splayed against the wall. A Pall Mall dangles from his lips. As he exhales, the smoke lingers for a moment. He blows, making a smoke ring rise in the air in a way that reminds me of James Dean. It's quite clear that smoking isn't allowed on school grounds, but it's also clear that he isn't too invested in the policy.

  He smiles, half-laughing, as if he has just heard the funniest story. Despite the cigarette, he seems pretty clean cut. He's well-built, like he knows his way around the weight room, but there's something about him that makes me think he's not one of the jocks. He has a swagger about him that says he's a real wise-ass, hellbent on pushing the envelope as far as possible. He's probably trouble, but I don't mind.

  “By the way, I'm Josh...Josh Carrie.” His voice is low and raspy. I don't detect much of the local accent.

  “Caleb Calloway.”

  He extends a handshake. His grip is firm, but he's hardly a crusher.

  He blinks and a question in his laughing blue eyes tells me he's spotted an outsider. “You're new here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sucks to be you. You're gonna hate it.”

  He has no idea how much I hate it already.

  He makes a hushed lean-closer motion with his finger. “Look at these rejects,” he says beneath his breath. “A bunch of apes. Barely half a step from swinging from trees and flinging their own feces at each other.”

  "Feces?" He's an expressive vocabulary.

  "Seriously, have you ever seen such a socially awkward group of people in your life?" He speaks as if he's come to realize that all the teachers and most of the students are profoundly stupid. We may be the only sane ones in the whole joint.

  “Can't say I have.” It's hard not to laugh, but it's important not to agree too quickly. Don't wanna dig a hole too deep to climb out of.

  He looks me over carefully. “Anyone ever tell you that you look like Davy Jones?"

  "Who?"

  "That guy from the Monkees."

  “No, I don't think so.”.

  He smiles coyly. “It's cool, bro.”

  He stares out at the field, like he's about to give me the run-down on the team and exhales a cloud of smoke. “The goons all follow the pack rules. I think it's a throw-back to caveman days, when people survived by starting clans. Ya have to know who your allies are in case war breaks out.”

  “Goons?”

  “Uh, like a neanderthal. A jock. Someone with a forehead three inches thick.”

  It becomes clear that I'm joining a game already in motion. These kids already know the rules of engagement.

  In the middle of the football field, Grant makes his way to the goal line. “Are they as good as Rooster says they are?”

  “Rooster?” He shakes his head, as confusion spreads across his face.

  “Uh, Principal Manson. Doesn't he just remind you of Rooster Cogburn from...”

  He laughs, as he holds up his hand in a say-no-more. “I know... From the old John Wayne movie. You're a freakin' riot.”

  “So, they're good then?”

  He shakes his head and makes an I-don't-know face. “Crenshaw's Creek's a one-trick show. We got football goin' on and that's about it. Goons run the school and Growers run the town.”

  It occurs to me that football is the only thing Crenshaw's Creek has to offer. “That's kind of sad in a way.”

  “Crenshaw's Creek's sad in a lot of ways, but these guys have been playing together since they were kids. So, uh, they're pretty good.”

  “What about Grant?”

  “For being such a tool, he's actually a decent quarterback. He's got an arm on him and he knows football. Doesn't know much about anything else, but he knows football.”

  “You're right about the major tool part.”

  He smiles dementedly, then twist his face into this mafia movie forget-about-it expression. “What about you? You like it here?”

  Finding my way to the wall and leaning against it, “uh, sure. It's great.”

  He lowers his brow and makes a you-must-be-crazy face. “Really? How does this place get to be so damned great?”

  “What ya want me to say? That this place sucks?”

  He lets out a little laugh, takes another draw from his cigarette. “A little honesty would be refreshing.”

  “Okay, this place sucks like an Australian toilet bowl.” A grin spreads across my face. It's a relief that I can be so frank with him.

  He lets out a cackle and leans forward. “Suck like an Australian toilet bowl?”

  “They say when you flush a toilet in Australia that the water spirals in the opposite direction. It's the Coriolis effect. ”

  He groans, leans his head back against the wall. “I'm dying to find out just how much useless crap you got stored up in that melon of yours”. He laughs, digs out his cigarettes and offers me a smoke.

  “No, it's cool. I quit."

  “Probably best,” he says. “The Surgeon General says they'll shrink your ball sac.”

  “Really?”

  He shrugs. It's clear that he doesn't care. He takes another long drag and peers at the football field, as if he sees the entire situation displayed in front of him. “Life in Crenshaw's Creek's a lot like having butt-hole sex with strangers. It's awkward, it's sloppy, and if you don't fit into it, then they don't have much use for ya.”

  “Butt-hole sex with strangers? Yeah, that sucks.”

  “Soon as I graduate, I'm outta here.”

  “So, you don't have to have butt-hole sex?”

  “Exactly!”

  He's going on about his Life After Crenshaw's Creek plans, when a gray Cadillac rolls around the corner. It tools along, like the driver is sightseeing, or searching for someone. But what kind of weirdo goes sightseeing behind a school? The Cadillac comes to a slow stop.

  "Be right back," he says, as he pushes away from the wall.

  "Where ya going?"

  The driver's window lowers, as Josh approaches.

  "Mornin', Mr. Carrie," A familiar brown fedora pokes out the window. Silver-rimmed glasses hang beneath thick white eye brows.

  "Mornin', Mr. Kennon."

  Mr. Kennon extends a handshake through the window, but it's not a qui
ck one-two-three. He holds and shakes Josh's hand for a good while as he speaks. His lips move, but his words are muted. Josh replies to him with a slow ongoing nod.

  Kennon releases the handshake and Josh digs his hand into his pocket, leaves it there for a moment. Kennon speaks, Josh nods and tosses an occasional glance in my direction. Kennon finishes and Josh. Josh checks over his shoulder.

  A short while later, Kennon's expression seems to say "Well, alright then," as Josh moves away from the car.

  "This evening," Josh calls back as he starts away from the curb.

  Kennon nods, as the window goes up. The car rolls slowly toward the football field.

  Maybe I have one of those faces that says "tell me everything". Maybe that's why Glover thinks I'd be a good reporter. I don't say two words to Josh, but he seems to have a sudden urge to explain.

  “He does business with my mom. An art dealer.”

  “That's cool.”

  Cheers ring out from the football field, as Grant launches a spiral down the field. “So, you said earlier that these 'goons' run the school, but growers... uh...?”

  He chuckles and shakes his head. “Well, it's a small town. Everyone thinks they run it.”

  He stares off at the baseball diamond, and snaps his fingers. “Hey, ya wanna get out of here for a while?”

  If there's one thing I want more than anything, it's to get as far away from here as possible. “Uh, don't we have to get back?”

  “Don't worry. We have plenty of time. Let me show you the Josh Escape.”

  "As long as that's not slang for your butt hole."

  Josh chuckles. "You're an idiot!"

  He starts down the sidewalk toward the baseball diamond. He jogs across the sidewalk and sprints across the service road. “Where are we going?” He hops over the fence onto the baseball diamond, and kicks up dust as he starts across the field. Confident that no one's watching, I hop the fence and hurry along behind him.

  Chapter 8

  Josh pauses in front of a tall brick building, where an unmarked street intersects with Main Street. It's six stories of boarded windows and bird nests. It looks like it could have been a Masonic Lodge in decades past, but--except for a garage on the first floor--the building's not likely to have seen regular use in years. It's now home to heaps of scrap metal, stack upon stack of worn tires, abandoned late model cars, and a black tow truck.

  He leers at the tow truck, as he strides toward the corner of the building. As he passes the truck, he glances through the driver's window, as if he expects to find someone asleep inside. He turns back to me, cocking his chin toward the alley in "this way" gesture.

  He's a few strides ahead of me as he reaches the alley, stops in his tracks, and holds his arms out to his sides in what could only be described as a gunfighter pose.

  "What is it?" I ask.

  "Get outta here, you bastard!” He stamps his foot and the sound of a dog scampering away echoes through the alley.

  "Josh?"

  He makes a half turn toward me and shakes his head. “It's cool. Just another stray. Watch out for dog shit.”

  The alley reminds me of an inner-city ghetto with its deep water-filled potholes, its boarded windows, graffiti-covered bricks, and its stray dogs. The ground is littered with cigarette butts and empty beer cans and piles of wet cardboard have become a feast for maggots.

  He strolls down the alley, nearly disappearing beneath the shadow of a tall brick building, and stops in front of a set of steel rungs. He lifts his gaze toward the roof of the building—six stories up. "You afraid of heights?" He doesn't wait for an answer. He climbs.

  "Coming?" He calls down to me.

  "Uh... Where ya goin?"

  "Just up here."

  For the first time, it hits me that tagging along with Josh might not be the best of ideas. The motorcycle thing alone is enough to piss off my dad. Add to it, the way he just laughed in my dad's face this morning, and he's on the outlaw list for sure. Now, I'm following this kid down a dark alley.

  But it's not just Josh I'm concerned about. I think of Grant—how he taunted Jimmy—and the way the football team runs the school, like they think they're the army. If Crenshaw's Creek's as rough as it seems to be, then more than anything I'm afraid of being alone. If I'm gonna survive, I'm gonna need an ally.

  "Yeah, I'm comin'."

  My eyes peek over the lip of the roof, as fumes from warm tar and a gush of heat hit me in the face. It has a dizzying effect on me, and the whole building seems to sway from side to side.

  “You alright?” He grabs hold of my arm to help me over the edge.

  “Yeah. Just a little...”

  “Dizzy? It gets better once you're up here a sec.”

  He stays close to me, making this face that says he expects me to pass out at any moment.

  “Let's go over here and sit down.” He points toward the opposite corner, where two stones hold a white sheet to the rooftop. A couple of straight wooden chairs sit near the lip and a telescope stands up between them. A large Coca-Cola umbrella blocks out the rays of the sun.

  Near the chairs, the fumes fade away and a good breeze knocks down the temperature a bit.

  “Better?” He asks, as he wipes a trickle of sweat from his forehead.

  “Fine,” I mutter, but I'm not fine. My T-shirts soaked with sweat, my underwear's riding up on me, and my balls are sticking to my leg. I'm gonna stink by the time I get back to school, which means I'll fit right in. But what if I run into Lindsey? She already thinks I'm an idiot, but smelling like crotch isn't gonna win me any points with her.

  “Just don't pass out on me. Alright?”

  Half-expecting someone to be climbing up behind us, “we're not trespassing or anything?”

  “No, my mom owns the building.”

  “This is the Josh Escape?”

  “A get-away and lookout all in one. See all kinds of things from up here.”

  It's amazing how even this Piss-Hole appears beautiful from above. It's like flying over a city and seeing a snow-globe village below.

  “I can slip right out my back door and be away from everything in thirty seconds.”

  “It's pretty cool how a crappy little town—no offense—looks pretty decent from a good height.”

  “Actually, I nicknamed this town Steamin' Pile years ago.”

  A snort erupts from my nose, as I bust out laughing.

  "You like that?"

  "I was thinking the exact same thing this morning." He's quiet for a moment, looking down at the alley below. Cautiously, I inch toward the lip of the roof.

  “So, where bouts do ya live?” he asks.

  “Ya don't know?”

  He looks at me like a math problem. “Should I know?”

  “I just thought this is one of those Mayberry towns, where everyone knows your business.”

  “It is.”

  I stagger around until the tall white steeple of the Calvary Hill Church is within view, towering into the sky.

  “There.” I feel nervous, pointing toward the steeple.

  “In the steeple?”

  “Yes, I live up in the steeple with pigeons and homeless people. We huddle around a big fire barrel at night.”

  He cackles again. “That's cool. Be a smart-ass.”

  “The house next to it. The parsonage.”

  “Holy shit! Your dad's the new preacher?”

  “I live...” He starts to explain where his house is, as he turns toward Main Street.

  “I know. I saw you this morning. Coming out of... your house. I guess it was your house. On Main Street. That's where ya live?"

  “That's where I bide my time.”

  “It's a freakin' castle."

  Nonchalance spreads across his face. "Ah, it's a little roomy."

  “Who was that man? The one yelling?”

  His gaze shifts to his feet and his cheeks flush. “Uh... No one.”

  “Oh, because it looked like you knew him.”

  “Y
ou were just passing by?”

  “Just waiting for my dad . Stopped for coffee.”

  “At Broad Strokes? Really? That's our shop.”

  “Your shop?”

  “Well, my mom owns it.”

  “Then, yes. Your shop.”

  He leans over and adjusts the telescope, and motions for me to have a look. “See that road way down there by the creek?”

  A gray line runs along the horizon. “Yeah, I see it.”

  “That's Barrel Road... I used to live down there.” He puts his hand on the telescope, his finger blocking part of the lens. He adjusts the telescope by feel, finding an image he must have seen a thousand times. “You see a large white birch tree?”

  “Yeah, I see it.”

  “Sitting in the bend of the road?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That's the tree Reverend Sheldon ate.”

  “Ate?”

  “Uh, that's where he crashed his car and died.”

  “No way! That's what happened to him?”

  “No shit, dude. I was up here all night when that happened.”

  “I wondered what happened to him.”

  The telescope goes dark, as puts his hand over the lens. Hesitance appears in his eyes. “I wanna show you somethin' that no one else knows about. At least, I don't think they do.”

  He adjusts the telescope again. He removes his hand from the lens and a wooded area behind the school's football field is in the eyepiece. Two of “the goons” are standing at the bottom of an embankment, their blue Jerseys flapping in the wind. “What... what is this... Oh, my God!”

  I tear my eye away from the viewfinder and steer away from the telescope.

  “That's Mark Hayes and Danny Miller. Hayes's the deputy's kid. They just call him “Scoot” around the school. And Danny's from the Stanton Creek Millers. They're growers.”

  “And they're? Uh...”

  “Smoking the Jane. They've been doing it since the beginning of the school year at least.”

  “Jesus! And no one's caught them?”

  “Not yet. Just so you know, information's currency in this town. Never know when it'll come in handy.”