“I dropped him off at the hospital. His mother’s having an operation of some sort.”
This time the commotion in the background was louder-much louder, in fact-and Jason distinctly heard the word “shit!” boomed by somebody. If he didn’t know better, he’d have sworn it was Chief Sherwood’s voice. “Okay, Two-Four David.” The dispatcher’s voice sounded like an island of calm in a sea of bedlam. “Stand by to copy.”
“Oh, God, Jake, you’re safe!” Carolyn threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly enough to hurt. “I’ve been worried sick about you.” Inside, the place was black, lighted by a single kerosene lantern on the floor. But the work had all been done.
Once the adrenaline kicked in, she’d become oblivious to everything but her mission. She’d flown through the storage bays, collecting their prepacked duffel bags and second-guessing herself at every turn.
She’d finished early-nearly an hour ago-and that’s when the panic had really started to sink in. If family came first, then how come she had everything else done, yet no one to talk to?
Loneliness was a horrible thing-if only for a few minutes at a time-and loneliness in the dark was worst of all. In the dim light of the kerosene lamp, her fears had taken on a physical dimension. She sensed that if she’d tried, she could have reached out and felt her fears with her hands, and the more she’d told herself that she was being silly, the larger and darker the fears had become.
She’d found the pint of Jack Daniel’s without really even looking for it, buried deep in the middle of her duffel. She dimly remembered hiding it there a long time ago-a time when the bottle was her first priority. She told herself that all she needed was a swig-a single pull-to bring everything under control. Well, maybe two. It burned wonderfully as it sought that place in her soul where the body manufactured courage. As the level fell below the top of the label, though, she was jolted by vivid memories of a different monster, and she’d returned the bottle to the spot where it belonged, in the fold of her denim jacket, about a quarter of the way down from the top of the bag.
From the movement of her shoulders, Jake knew she was crying. She smelled of fear and dust and sweat. And, dammit, of booze. His vision blurred as he held her and kissed the top of her head. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.
The embrace felt magical; hypnotic almost. They’d been through so much together over the years-so much trembling and crying and running-that sometimes Jake wondered if the world could possibly spin without her. The drinking drove him nuts, and the screaming in the night terrified him almost as much as it did her, but she was the only person in the world who knew who he truly was. Even his own son didn’t know-couldn’t know.
The realization hit Jake like a hammer. He pushed Carolyn just far enough away to see her eyes. “Where’s Travis?”
He sat all the way in the back of the school bus, in the corner, right where the teachers and chaperons expected the Farm Meadows kids to sit. He felt ridiculous with his purple eye, and the cheap imitation Oakleys he wore to camouflage the bruise really didn’t hide a thing.
Travis had already been reminded three times-once getting on the bus at the school and then twice more once they arrived at the stupid plantation house-that one more fight would get him thrown out of school. Like that would just friggin’ break his heart.
He was sick of school as it was; tired of always being the new kid-every asshole’s most convenient punching bag. His dad had told him that this move might really be the last one; that this job might be the one to stick. And wouldn’t you know it? After moving every damn year that he could remember, from one dump to another, this butthole of a town was the place his parents decided to sink some roots. Wonderful. If you asked him, the whole state of South Carolina sucked.
To distract himself from his misery, he thought of Eric Lampier, wondering if Pussy Boy was able to breathe through his nose yet. Poor baby couldn’t even haul his butt into school this morning. Travis’s smile triggered a stab of pain in his eye.
Yeah, it was worth it.
The “fight,” such as it was, lasted all of three seconds. After enduring a good two minutes of trash talk in the cafeteria from Eric and his Snob Hill pals, Travis reached his limit when Eric referred to him and his friends as “trailer park shitheads.” He simply stood up, smashed Eric’s nose like a cherry tomato, then sat back down to finish his Tater Tots.
The fountain of blood and snot ignited an explosion of screams, mostly from the Snob Hill girls, with Eric howling right along with them. God, what a mess. It took maybe two minutes for word to travel to the Gestapo. You’d have thought somebody had a gun, the way they swarmed in there. No one even questioned who was the guilty party. While the nurse slobbered all over Eric, the principal, Mr. Menefee, dragged Travis off toward his office. As they reached the hallway, some panicked grown-up shouted for an ambulance. Was that not the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard? An ambulance for a damn broken nose!
“I’ve had it with you kids!” Menefee growled. That’s the way it always was. In the minds of faculty, everything a Farm Meadows kid did somehow implicated all other Farm Meadows kids as silent accomplices.
That trailer park kids were unwelcome around there was the worst-kept secret in the world. Best Travis could figure out, J. E. B. Stuart Junior High had been the exclusive domain of the Snob Hill squeaky-cleans until a couple of years ago, when some redistricting bullshit mingled “Farm Meadows trash” with the “Hill youngsters.” He didn’t pretend to understand all the politics-frankly, he didn’t care-but one thing was sure: the teachers and the school administration wanted things back the way they used to be.
For the life of him, though, Travis couldn’t see why people complained so much. From his perspective, having Farm Meadows kids in the school made the business of discipline a no-brainer for everybody. If there was blood on the tile someplace, punish a trailer park kid. It didn’t really matter that it might be the wrong kid, because everybody from Farm Meadows was guilty of something. Every time a Hill kid smoked, cussed, picked his nose, or jerked off, it was because a Farm Meadows kid had talked him into it. Travis thought it was hysterical. Like there was some conspiracy among him and his friends to lure rich kids away from their brick palaces to come live in shit-heap trailers.
At J. E. B. Stuart Junior High, a rich kid got to do or say whatever he wanted. Such were his constitutional rights. For Travis and his pals, though, the Constitution seemed to end at the point where they told the rich kids to fuck off. And to touch one of them-particularly with a fist-was more than the system could bear.
Mr. Menefee- Der Fuhrer to Travis and his friends, thanks to German class-was as pissed as Travis had ever seen him. That’s the word he used, too. Pissed. Travis wondered if he was still going to be “pissed” when he talked to Eric Lampier’s lawyer-daddy. Somehow he didn’t think so. Perturbed, maybe? Acrimonious (a brand-new word to Travis)? Certainly, he’d be something more elevated than pissed.
Menefee had had it with Travis’s antics. He refused to tolerate violent behavior in his school, goddammit, and no, he didn’t give a shit who started it. They should be ashamed of themselves. When Travis mentioned that there was no “they”-that this was strictly between Eric and him-Menefee seemed unimpressed.
“Are you going to yell at Eric, too,” Travis had asked, “for swearing at me and my friends?” For an instant, Travis thought the man might punch him. Instead, he told Travis to mind his own damned business-another expression that was sure to be edited from the Lampier version.
“This is it, Brighton,” Menefee concluded, his face beet red and his hands trembling. “One more time and I’ll toss you out of here forever!”
Big effing deal, Travis didn’t say. In the end, he escaped with academic probation-whatever the hell that was-and a stern warning to review the Code of Behavior. Yet to be decided was the issue of whether or not the Lampier family would press charges-a concern rendered moot later that afternoon while Travis was winding his way through the woods toward Mike Howe’s place to watch some X-rated videos his friend had found in a closet.