Motorcycle Roadkill Page 6

  Lindsey doesn't even look toward Grant. “Go away, Grant. I don't want to talk to you.”

  Without any sort of cue, the kids in the hallway drift closer to Grant. There's the flies and there's the dog crap, as Josh so eloquently puts it. As Grant draws the flies away from the lockers, I head toward mine, with the quiet footing of a stagehand, trying so desperately to not get caught in the spotlight.

  Josh follows me to my locker, but keeps his eyes trained on the commotion. “They've got history,” he tells me.

  Grant takes three long steps up to her, grabs her around the waist and spins her around. “Hey, I want to talk to you.”

  Shed drops her books and glares at him with eyes that can spit fire. Her lips snarl and her cheeks redden. “Grant, I'm not gonna start playing your games...again.”

  My fingers fumble against my combination lock. It's suddenly hard to concentrate. I have to get my books and go to class, but my heart is beating again. I feel like I'm barely the shadow of myself, as I hover there just wishing that I wasn't a buck twenty slip of nothing. Wishing that I had a big stick in my locker, or that there was something—anything—that I could do. I got to get to class, but he's over there, with his hands on her hips, handling her around. I want to stop him, but there's nothing I can do.

  Troy and Danny pause to watch. Troy lets out a cackle. “Dude, she's pissed!”

  “Games? The only game I play is football.” Grant makes a face like he's trying to divide odd numbers in his head. He leads her by her shoulders, backwards into the wall. His hands press to either side of her, blocking her between his arms. “This isn't a game , Lindsey. You can't do this to me.”

  She glances down at his arms, seeing that she's blocked by him. “And so what? Look at you. I don't hear from you for six months! Now, you want... to go back?”

  He shakes his head, shrugs. “Lindsey, you pulled away from me.”

  “Grant, we're not gonna talk about this! Not here! In front of your goons!”

  “But you are goin' to talk to me.” He draws a fist back and pounds it against the wall.

  She shakes her head in disbelief. She holds her hands up. “I've moved on, Grant. You can't keep tracking me down, like Jane in a Tarzan comic. I'm not yours.”

  “You'll always be mine,” Grant says in a tone that sounds comically similar to a soap opera.

  Dan cackles. “What a line, Grant! What a freaking line!”

  Grant snaps at Dan “Hey, stay out of this!”

  “You'll always be mine,” Dan mocks.

  “That looks like a little more than a fling,” I say to Josh.

  “Well, they were together until the end of last year.”

  “And then?”

  Josh shrugs. “She got tired of him.”

  Lindsey's defiant tone becomes a shout: “You might get your way with everyone else, but not with me.”

  As Josh leans toward me, I ask “So, what happened with them?”

  “Grew apart I guess. I try to stay out of it.”

  “Gentlemen, we'll have no loitering in the hallways,” Rooster calls with a sense of satisfaction in his voice. He's caught himself some outlaws and he needs to remind them who's Sheriff. Rooster stands still with his legs spread wide and his hands placed on his hips. He's glaring at the stragglers, like a cowboy staring into the sun.

  It takes everything to keep from laughing out loud at Rooster, as two of his outlaws, Troy and Dan, sulk away. They're careful to escape the wrath of their crime-fighting principal. Grant stays put, with his hands to either side of Lindsey. Trying to appear like I've misplaced a book, I shuffle through my locker, but really I'm just lurking. Josh looks over my shoulder. “Isn't it in there?”

  “Mister Josh, which part of 'no loitering' do you not understand?” Rooster approaches him, while ignoring Grant and Lindsey, who are still having their tiff. “Get 'em, Rooster,” I mutter under my breath. “Let 'em know that justice is blind.”

  Josh feigns a confused face, as he turns to Rooster. “Actually, it's 'loitering', sir. I've heard of 'littering', but I wasn't sure if they mean the same thing.”

  “Uh, well, loitering is standing idly about with no real sense of purpose.”

  Josh nods as an expression comes across his face like he's in deep thought. He waves a finger as if to say that it all makes sense.

  “Oh, well I have a purpose, Mister Manson.”

  “And that is?”

  “I'm waiting on Caleb. You know.... to make sure he finds his classes okay.”

  “That's kind of you, but Caleb can find his way just fine.” Josh makes an I-tried expression, twist his face into a frown, and strolls along toward his class.

  “Oh, I still have your map, Mister Manson. It's a beaut,” pulling it out of my folder.

  Rooster does this thing with his chin, sticking it out and nodding his head, like an Army General, who upon overlooking the battlefield makes the assessment that his troops have done good work. He's beaming with pride. Someone has found his chicken scratch map useful. “Very well then,” he says, as he moves along.

  He stops behind Grant, who's still blocking Lindsey. “walk it off, Soldier.” He actually calls him 'soldier,' as he taps him on the shoulder.

  Grant glances back at him. “Mister Manson, you don't....”

  Rooster's voice slides up an octave as he says “I said 'walk it OFF'.”

  Grant puts his arms down and gives Lindsey a this-isn't-over face. He does an about-face and takes off down the hallway. His arms swing wildly, trying to keep up with his shoulders as he goes.

  Rooster wobbles down the hallway with the slow, steady gait of a gunslinger who may see danger at any moment. Closing my locker, I hurry to Lindsey, crouching down to help her with her books.

  “Please, you don't have...” My eyes lock with hers, as my fingers feel along the floor for her books.

  “You okay?” My voice squeaks, as I fail at striking a balance between warmth and cool.

  “Fine,” she says. She glances down the hallway as Grant disappears around the corner.

  “Sorry 'bout all that.”

  “Goodness, Caleb. You ain't got nothing to be sorry for,” she says. My face quivers, as I fight the smile that is trying to tear across my face.

  “No one should have to put up with that.”

  “I know,” she says. “ Grant has this way of makin' ever'body feel like pond scum.”

  “Yeah, I've noticed.”

  “Well, I'll see you later, Caleb. You're goin' to the game tonight, right?”

  “Uh..." I had no intentions of going to the game, but I am now. "Yeah. Go Cougars!"

  She laughs. "See ya there."

  I wait in the hallway, watching her as she disappears through the double doors of the Chemistry wing.

  Chapter 11

  “Mister Vickers, is Caleb Calloway here today?” It's Wanda, the secretary on the intercom. Despite the fact that her low, husky growl could easily be mistaken for a man's voice on the phone, she's one of the more pleasant faces around the school—sunny even. With her ear always to Rooster's door, she has the back-story on practically everything. She's also said to be privileged to the special key that opens the secret restroom on the third floor, where all the teachers go for Number 2.

  “Uh, what's that?” Vickers cocks his hear toward the intercom.

  Wanda comes back with a double-helping of volume, likely remembering how Vickers claims to have brought back jungle rot in his ears from Vietnam. “Caleb... Calloway... SEND... HIM... TO... THE... OFFICE.”

  “Sure thing.” Vickers looks at me and pokes his thumb toward the door.

  “Jesus, what did I do?” A long list of possible infractions runs through my head, as I stroll down the hallway.

  Rooster's in his office, sitting across from a man in a brown suit who resembles Colonel Sanders without the smile. Apparently, it's not so finger-licking good in his neck of the woods.

  Rooster reads through his notes, while Colonel Sanders stares out the
window.

  I hover in the doorway. “Uh, you wanted to see me?”

  Rooster actually cracks a smile. “Yes, come in, Caleb. Have a seat.” He speaks in his Biscuits & Gravy voice. The Colonel can't be bothered by making eye contact with strangers. He's likely busy deciphering Confucius from its original Cantonese in his head.

  Feeling like an ant beneath a magnifying glass, I shuffle into his office and hover in front of a chair beside the Colonel. “Uh, what's going on?” My voice cracks.

  Rooster nods and the Colonel takes his eyes away from the windows. Contempt oozes from his puckered lips as he stares down the Rooster. “That's what we'd like to find out. Go on. Have a seat,” Rooster says.

  In a flash, my breakfast conversation with Mom plays through my head again. Definitely kerosene, because anything else just smacks of amateur. It looks like I'm going to need two ropes though.

  Rooster glances down at the contents of a manilla folder, as if it contains all the information he may ever need to know. A sinking feeling swims through my guts. “What? What is this?”

  Rooster makes a down-down motion with his hand. “Relax, Caleb. You're not in...trouble...” He pauses after his last word, as if a 'yet' may soon follow.

  "I thought maybe I was in trouble for littering in the halls again."

  “Sit down,” the Colonel says, without looking up at me.

  “Caleb, I assume you've met Sheriff Beecher,” Rooster says. Oh, Jesus! Now the police are involved! Nodding toward Rooster, I avoid making eye contact with the Colonel.

  Like a robot turning a mechanical head, Colonel raises his chin and slowly turns toward me. His hazel eyes come to rest on me with an all-knowing arrogance. He has this vibe about him, as if he's able to see everything that I've done in my life and everything that I may possibly do in the future. “What... do you think... of Crenshaw's Creek... so far?”

  “Uh, it's fine.” I bit my lip, trying my best to hide a smirk that wants so badly to creep across my face. Not since William Shatner, have I listened to such long and exaggerated pauses in a single sentence.

  Colonel looks at me like I'm a laboratory rat. He seems less interested in my choice of words and more interested in how I say them. His eyes pry me apart, as he seems to observe the slightest twitch I make.

  He chuckles. “Well... It's no... Cleveland... But I suppose... we all... get along... rather nicely. Don't ya think?”

  "I guess.” He's probably taking careful note that I won't maintain eye contact.

  "Caleb, I am hoping... we can speak to you... in confidence. Do you know... what that word means... Caleb? Confidence?" Colonel asks.

  "Yeah, it's kind of like a priest. It means I won't go blabbing to other people."

  "Yes... Yes, Caleb. That's it... That's exactly...right. So, can we... speak to you... in Confidence? And trust... that it won't go... any further?"

  "Who would I tell?"

  Colonel uncrosses his legs and leans forward in his chair. "I mean... no one. Not your friend... Josh. Not the... pastor... Not... that girl you have your eye on. Not an old... pen pal... back in Cleveland... No one."

  “What?” I've never felt so confused in my life. Sure, Colonel has an ax to grind, but it's not clear how I fit into his plans. "What's this about?"

  “Do we... have... your... confidence?” The colonel asks again.

  "Uh, sure. You have my confidence." My eyes grow narrow and my forehead tightens.

  "Crenshaw's Creek's a small town, but it's not exactly sleeping,” Rooster says. “And information in the wrong hands can be a.... uh, uh.... a dangerous thing.”

  "Caleb, your principal's trying to protect you," Colonel says.

  "From what?"

  “Uh, well, let me just say I'm only interested in your safety. That's my most important job here,” Rooster says.

  "Dangerous people," Colonel adds.

  "Oh, come on. The only dangerous people in this town are hillbillies with banjos... " The words are out of my mouth before it occurs to me that I've likely offended both of them. It's generally not a good idea to insult your principal, or the sheriff for that matter.

  “I realize... this may not... make a lot... of sense... at the moment... but just... put this... in your pocket... for a... rainy day. You need to know... that I... know.”

  “You know what?”

  He smiles, taps his noggin with his index finger. “I... know.”

  “You seem to be missing a noun. What do you know? Kung Fu? How to fry opossum? Clean your rifle?”

  Colonel lowers his glasses and looks at me over the top of them. His mouth gapes slightly, as if to say “this guy doesn't get it.”

  “Caleb, we're really not trying to stir the grass for snakes,” Rooster adds. “We know you're not involved.”

  I shake my head. “I'm confused. I, uh... don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about...”

  “We believe you,” Rooster says.

  “We understand that you took a walk in the woods the other day.”

  "Is that what this is all about?" A dozen scenarios race through my head. “I thought it was okay.”

  “You're not in trouble. Like I said, my job's to keep you safe,” Rooster says.

  “What... were you hoping... to find... back there?” Colonel asks.

  “I don't know. A farm maybe.”

  “A farm? What... on earth... for?”

  “Ya know being from the city I've never choked a chicken before. I kind of thought it would be fun to choke the chicken."

  "I... see... I never... thought it... would be... something... you'd... enjoy,” he says.

  "I bet you've choked the chicken before," I say.

  "What?" Rooster suddenly appears confused beyond belief. He holds up a hand, as if to interrupt, but the Colonel keeps going.

  "Son... I've choked... all kinds... of chicken."

  “Caleb, let's just say—and I don't know how many to be exact—that there are people whom you may know, who are involved in a line of work that isn't exactly published in the newspaper. Am I making sense now?” Rooster asks.

  “Sort of. Uh, I don't mean to be rude, Mister Manson, but do you drill all of your new students like this?”

  "No, I suppose not. Uh, you need to know that I'm not just your principal, but I'm also your friend."

  "That... goes for me... as well." Colonel turns to Rooster, smiles, makes a job-well-done expression, as if the past little bit had been rehearsed in front of a mirror.

  Isn't this touching? Just when it was starting to look like I wouldn't make any friends here, along comes Colonel Sanders and a Rooster to boot. “Well, thank you, Roo...” I slip, nearly calling him Rooster to his face. “Really, appreciate that.”

  "If you're ever in any trouble, uh, any danger, you need to know that you can come to me. Any time of the day or night," Rooster says.

  “That... goes for...”

  “You as well?” I step on his lines, unable to endure the theatrics a moment longer.

  Colonel nods.

  "Thank you, Sheriff. So, I'm not in any trouble then?"

  Rooster smiles. “Not at the moment. Let's keep it that way. Shall we?"

  "You bet." I lean forward, fold my hands in my lap. “So, I'm free to go then?”

  “Keep your nose clean and get out of here” Rooster makes a fly-away gesture for me to leave and I bolt for the door.

  "Confidence, Caleb," Colonel calls after me in a way that reminds me of Miyagi yelling 'Banzai' at Danielson.

  "Confidence." My voice echoes across the front office, as I hurry out the door.

  It takes everything I have to keep my cool, as I stagger down the hallway. Once I'm out of sight, I glance back to make sure no one's watching. A wave of panic overtakes me.

  I collapse to my knees. Gasp. There's a tightness in my chest and my heart's pounding in my ears. "Easy Caleb," I mutter to myself, as I put my hands behind my head. I'm doing my best to channel Doc Finkelstein. "The important thing is to remain cal
m. What's happening to you may seem terrifying, but giving into that terror only makes it worse. Take deep breaths...And remember: no one's ever died from a panic attack."

  But it feels like the school is closing in around me. And it's not just paranoia. They're watching me. Rooster said so himself. They even know about "that girl" I have my eye on. How could they possibly know about Lindsey?

  My hands fall to my sides, as I slump against the wall and close my eyes.

  Chapter 12

  Rooster's due to start yammering over the intercom at any moment. His big surprise is that a pack of Cougars has been spotted in the building—or something completely stupid like that—and we are all to proceed to the gymnasium for further instructions. That's clever-speak, or so he thinks, for “we're dismissing class early for a school pride rally.” My plan's to meet up with Josh at my locker and duck out the back door.

  Mister Owen's voice is a low tuba sound, scuttling about in low ranges, as he gets into the War of 1812. I'm staring at the clock, as an actual growl comes across the intercom. It's a low, almost purring sound. Rooster must be holding a tape recorder up to the microphone, because there's a lot of feedback amid the growling. At any rate, this is my cue to head out the door.

  “You haven't been dismissed yet,” Owens calls after me, but there's already a dozen students filing out behind me. As our eyes meet, a forget-about-it expression spreads across his face, as he waves me on.

  The dull roar of voices carries up the stairwell from the first floor. It's shoulder-to-shoulder and nose-to-neck. The students are packed in like sheep. A grip tightens around my elbow, as the mixed scents of cologne and cigarette smoke hangs in the air. There's little doubt about who's grabbed my arm.

  “Dude, didn't ya hear me yelling for ya?” But I can barely hear him when he's right in front of me, let alone from a distance.

  Drums and the faint sound of band music rise above the roar of the student body. The rhythm finds its way into our footsteps, as everyone moves in tandem across the foyer. Those who can't keep a beat and those with clumsy footwork are punished by a shove or an elbow. The flow leads through the cafeteria into the gymnasium, but Josh nudges me. It's time to break away. He makes a chop with his arm, pointing toward the rear hallway, which is mostly empty.