Chapter 15

 

 

 

I opened the garage door, then went in. I kept my bike near the middle, near some boxes of Christmas decorations and Dad’s tool desk, which he never used but kept in perfect order.

I moved the kickstand up, grabbed the handlebars, started walking the bike to the front of the garage—

CJ stood there. “Going somewhere?” He was shirtless, dressed in nothing but shorts and flip-flops.

“Maybe,” I said, trying to sound like a sullen kid sister and not a scared-to-death daughter trying to save her mom.

“Like where?”

I tried to roll the bike around him, but he moved to block me. I uttered an exasperated sigh and said, “To the store, okay?”

“For what?”

I glanced across the street at Debbie’s house and said the first thing that came into my mind. “A hammer and nails.”

“Dad’s workbench is right behind you; he’s got a hammer and plenty of nails.”

“CJ, get out of my way.”

“Make me.” He planted himself firmly and crossed his arms.

My heart was pounding, my grip on the handlebars was slick with sweat. There was no way I could get past him, and I sure couldn’t beat him. Give up and try again later? Hope he didn’t decide to bring Debbie over to see my mom next?

“What are you doing, CJ?” It was Sandy, and I’d never been so glad to see a naked woman lounging in her doorway.

“Nothing,” CJ shouted back over his shoulder. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“But CJ,” Sandy whined, “I want to fuck now.”

That did it. CJ turned to call to her, “I’ll be right there, baby.” Then he looked back at me a last time. “Have a fun ride, dope. Too bad you won’t get very far.” He walked off to join Sandy; together they went back inside her house.

What did that mean? Why won’t I get very far? The street was empty, and CJ was preoccupied. Nobody was around.

He’s just being mean.

I got on the bike, desperately hoping that was it, trying to ignore how nervous I was, how much I wanted to turn around and run back into the house…but that didn’t seem any safer at this point. So I kept pedaling.

I’d gone about four blocks when I noticed something: the air was cleaner here, the smog lighter. The yellow tint that hovered perpetually over our street was milder here; the sky almost had a hint of blue to it. My lungs and eyes weren’t burning as badly.

Then I turned a corner and saw the roadblock.

Maybe fifty yards down, sawhorses had been set up to form a barricade completely across the street. There were trucks parked just behind the sawhorses, big, camouflage-green troop carriers. Men with rifles patrolled around the trucks.

For a second I thought, They’ll help! Then four rifles lowered and pointed at me. At me.

“Halt!” somebody yelled. I didn’t even see which one.

I coasted to a stop but didn’t get off the bike. “Can you…” I tried to shout for help, but I felt like I was about to throw up, and my voice didn’t work. I cleared it and tried again. “Can you help me?”

“You’ve got ten seconds to turn back.”

What? The soldiers hefted their weapons, and I tried not to imagine any trigger fingers getting sweating and slipping. “But I…”

“…nine…eight…seven…six…”

“My mom needs help!”

“…five…four…three…two…one…”

One of them fired a warning shot. The asphalt three feet to the left of me spat up little bits and a plume of dust.

I turned my bike around and pedaled harder than I ever had in my life. I fully expected to feel the bullet hit my back any second—would there be pain, or would I die instantly?

But they didn’t shoot. They let me go. And I kept pumping the pedals as fast as I could, until I skidded to a halt in the garage. I just dropped the bike and ran into the kitchen. “Mom!”

I ran up and hugged her, and she comforted me as best she could. “What happened, baby?”

“I tried, I really tried, but there were soldiers, over on El Nido, and they shot at me, Mom.”

“Oh my God. Are you all right?” She pushed me back to look me over, her movements frantic.

“I’m okay.”

We stayed there for a few seconds, then I said, “What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

And at that moment I realized—maybe for the first time—that my mom was not infallible, that she was helpless, and that it was entirely up to me.