Riley Park (2 page)

We hit water. It feels like plywood. It's cold, like the water is barely liquid. Cold closes over me, clamping my lungs so that the air inside compresses. My lungs feel like fire. I fight for the surface. We're not that far underwater, but my arms and legs feel useless. When I break the surface, Darius is already there, laughing. I suck a breath, but no air goes in. I gasp. When at last the air enters, it tears into my lungs and I cough. I spit water. Then I'm laughing too. I thrash my arms, heading for the shore.

Beside me, Darius slips into a smooth, head-up front crawl. He says, “My friend, that was a trip.”

At the shore, the rocks are slimy and my fingers can't seem to bend to get a handhold. I slither out of the water on my belly. Darius is already out, shaking his wet hair on the girls, making them scream. Then I hear her voice. Rubee.

“Hey, Wildman,” she says.

Rubee is looking at Darius, smiling. She's with another girl I recognize from Safeway. Darius grabs Rubee into a wet hug and she wriggles free.

Darius picks up his clothes and ducks behind a tree. I scramble to my feet and follow him. He drops his wet boxers and yanks on his jeans. Quietly, he says to me, “I knew she couldn't resist.”

I pull on my pants, hating how they stick to my legs. I say, “You're an asshole, Darius.”

He laughs. “You had your chance.”

Suddenly I'm not cold anymore. When I speak, there's a hard edge to my voice. “You didn't give me a chance.”

His grin fades. “I don't own her, Corbin. If she wants to hook up with you, she will.” He shakes his head. “What's your problem, anyway?”

I hate it when he shakes his head like that. It's like he drops the gloves but won't fight. I don't try to keep my voice down—I don't care who hears. I say, “My problem, Darius?” I shove him in the chest, hard. He stumbles
out from behind the tree. “My problem is that you're here.”

Everyone goes quiet. Jason mutters, “Corbin's drunk and looking for a fight. What a surprise.”

Rubee moves to Darius's side.

Darius says to Jason, “Leave him alone.” To me, he says, “We're okay?”

I glance at Rubee. She's wearing a white sweater and jeans. I've never seen her except in her Safeway uniform. She's wearing the same red stone bracelet. Her hand goes to Darius's hip. Nope, I don't have a chance. With a sigh, I say to Darius, “Yes, we're okay.” I give Jason a shove. “And I'm not drunk. Yet.”

I storm over to the cooler and grab a six-pack. I pound one back and then another. I guess I drink them all—and I pass out.

When I wake up, the fire is burning high. I see Darius by the edge of the trees, taking a leak. I can't see Rubee. Where is everybody?

I drag myself to my feet. Darius looks up. I say to him, “Where's Rubee?”

“She and her friend left hours ago.” Darius zips his pants. “Have a nice nap?”

I say, “Everyone is gone.”

“Jason just left. We burned all the firewood in the park keeping warm.” Darius puts out his hand for my car keys, and I give them to him.

Darius could have left too. He could have left with Rubee or the others. But he waited. I say, “Thanks.”

He laughs. “Corbin, you are such an asshole.” He throws his arm around my shoulders.

Something crashes into the back of my head. The impact sends me flying. At first I think that Darius hit me, but when I turn, I see three guys are on top of him, and one of them is swinging a steel bar.

Swimming. The guys are swimming in front of my eyes, three guys. They're wearing hoods, but I can see their faces, sort of. Their faces are blurry, like I'm seeing them from underwater. The guy with the bar, he's swinging it behind him and over his head. The steel bar arcs and I see it like a blade, a cold gray blade, cutting open the night. The bar crunches against Darius's shoulder, and he pitches forward onto his knees. I hate that Darius is in the dirt. I hate that he's on his
knees. I blink, trying to clear my vision, and I struggle to get up. Someone boots me under the chin. My head rockets backward and my teeth puncture my tongue.

The steel bar swings again, thudding against Darius's back. Darius makes a whooshing noise, that's all. Another guy is kicking him in the ribs. Darius reaches for the guy's foot, puts his hands on the guy's boot as it lands on him again. It looks like Darius is kissing the guy's boot. The guy with the bar swings it like an axe over Darius's head.

There is a guy between me and the one with the bar, but it doesn't matter. I launch myself at the guy with the bar, knocking him off his feet. My fist connects with his face so hard that I feel bones give way. Then the bar is in my hands, and I'm swinging it, bashing it into someone more by chance than skill, but it still doesn't matter. It just matters that one guy is hurling puke in a perfect spiral as I hit him again, taking out his knees. Blood is running into my eyes and I can't see, but I swing that bar, my hands slipping on blood and snot and puke. Somewhere I hear sirens,
and then there's nothing to hit. They're running. I take off after them, the path crazy under my feet. I hear a car engine, a nice car, and gravel spewing. I drop the bar and claw at my eyes, trying to see. The car has no lights. It slews around in the lot, and then it's gone.

Darius. I reel along the path back to the fire pit. In the light of the fire, I make out his shape on the ground. I crumple beside him. “Darius.” Don't move him. My head is pounding, an actual noise, like a helicopter is inside my head. “Darius!” I shout it, but I can't hear my own voice. Darius's eyes are open, but he's not looking at me. Then I feel hands on my shoulders.

They're back.

I'm on my feet and my fist is roundhousing and I feel flesh. I hit again, and teeth crack under my fist. I hear voices and they're shouting and a light burns into my face. I'm blind in the light, swinging, and I plant my fist into the big square face of a cop.

The Taser hits me in the chest. I don't know it's a Taser when it hits me, but in a split second, I know.

Every muscle in my body goes stiff. My teeth bang down, my lips crank back, my neck is like wire rope. It's the worst pain, and in every muscle, every single muscle. I fall backward and I can't stop myself, can't even put my hands out to break the fall. The pain of the Taser is like my body is the puck on the end of a slap shot, and the slap shot never ends. I call out to the cops to stop. I've never felt anything hurt so badly, but I'm totally aware of the cops. It's like I'm watching them in a movie, a really scary movie, and I can't move to turn it off. They're talking to me, telling me to calm down, and I'm screaming at them to turn it off, just turn it off.

I don't think it's ever going to stop. I'm going to die. But then it does. The pain vanishes. The cop with the Taser says, “That was five seconds, big guy. Do you want another?”

Five seconds. The pain is gone, and at first all I feel is relief. I roll into a ball on the ground. I've never been more exhausted, like I've just done a week of training camp. Five seconds. Do I want another? I decide that the
cop doesn't actually mean for me to answer that question. I tell him to screw himself. But I watch the cop's hand on the Taser and I am careful not to move.

Cops are all around me. Some are putting on disposable gloves. I guess it's because of the blood—they don't want to catch anything. I hear a cop near my head. He sucks in a breath and says, “Nasty.” I guess he's talking about where the bar hit me. I'm not really sure. But the paramedics are here and I'm getting strapped onto a board and I can't feel much of anything at all. I just wish the pounding would stop, that someone would make it go away, that awful pounding in my head.

The cop leans over the gurney as the paramedics wheel me into the emergency room. He has his notebook out, asking me questions, and he talks funny, which I mention.

The cop gives me a look that makes me regret the comment. “That's because you loosened my teeth,” he says.

“I wouldn't have hit you,” I say. “It's just that I thought you were these guys.”

“These guys.”

“These guys. There were three of them. I don't know who they were. They just showed up, started beating on me and Darius.”

Darius.

“Where is Darius?” I ask.

The cop glances at the paramedic, then back to me. “The kid on the ground?”

I nod.

“He's your friend?”

No, I just get into fights defending random strangers. “Yes, he's my friend.”

The cop writes something in his notebook. “The docs are with him now.” He wipes his nose and winces, like he forgot that he just got hit in the face. He says, “These guys, you don't know who they are?”

My head is pounding. “No.”

“Why do you think they came after you?”

I think of Rubee. I say, “I have no idea.”

The cop looks at me. “So you and Darren were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Darius.”

The cop looks at his notebook.

My best friend. The guy who has been my friend longer than anyone. “My friend, his name is Darius.”

“Darius,” the cop says. “Right. So you and Darius don't have any connection with these guys.”

“Right.”

“How many guys?”

“Three. I told you that.”

“What were they wearing?”

I replay the scene in my head. Everything appears as gray. Gray clothes. Gray skin. Gray steel. I say, “Do you mean were they wearing colors, some kind of gang?”

He shrugs.

“I don't know. I don't think so.”

My head is pounding so hard I'm surprised the cop doesn't hear it too.

The paramedics wheel me into a curtained cubicle. A nurse appears, and she's gray too, her gray hair held back in a ponytail. She snaps on new gloves and greets the cop. “Hey, Rex. Nice goal your son made last game.”

Rex. The name makes me think of a bulldog. I snort.

Rex is a mind reader, apparently. He turns to me and says, “That's Officer Rex to you.”

The nurse takes a chart from the end of the gurney and flips it open. She speaks to me while she reads the chart. “How much did you drink tonight?”

“My head hurts.”

She moves up beside my head and peers into my eyes. She recoils, using the chart to fan the air in front of her face. “I'd say you had a fair bit.”

Officer Rex says, “His head is cracked open at the back.”

Without moving my head, the nurse peels up the bandage and the pounding gets louder. “Nice. Looks like he'll need surgery.” She looks at me. “We're going to have to get rid of what's in your stomach.”

I'm wondering what she means, when she holds up a package. Inside the package is a length of clear tube.

Officer Rex grimaces.

The nurse nods at the paramedics. One moves to each side of the gurney. The nurse opens the package and fits an end on the tube.
Then she squirts on a blob of clear gel. “If you don't fight this, it won't be so bad.”

She pries open my mouth and jams the tube to the back of my throat.

My eyes fly open and I gag, but I can't clear the tube. I can't breathe. I reach for the nurse, but the paramedics clamp my arms. I gag again, and the tube slithers into me. I can feel it, actually feel it moving in my gut. I start to puke.

Officer Rex steps back from the gurney.

The nurse vacuums the spew out of my mouth. “We're in.” She eyes the orange liquid coming up the tube. “Looks like hot dogs.”

I puke again, and the puke tastes like tube and the gel crap, which tastes worse than puke, if that's possible.

The back of my throat is on fire.

I retch, wishing I could expel the tube, wishing I could reach in and yank it out, wishing I could get the paramedics off my arms and I'd rip that tube out and I don't care if my entire stomach comes with it.

The nurse puts her hand on my chest. “Easy.”

Does she know I can't breathe?

My eyes fill and I taste snot streaming from my nose.

Get this thing.

Out.

Of.

Me.

One of the paramedics has broken into a sweat. The other is practically sitting on me. The nurse adjusts the tube. I retch again.

“That's going to feel better,” she says.

For who? The tube is red hot, nuking my puke, searing my throat.

She clicks off the pump. She looks at me with warning in her eyes. “Do not move.”

And the tube is out. Even the paramedics seem relieved. She hands me a paper tray and I spit the last of it. My throat feels like I just drank gasoline. I suck air until my lungs hurt.

On the other side of the curtained partition, a monitor starts to beep. I hear someone yell, “Crash cart!”

The nurse swears softly, peels off her gloves and disappears around the curtain.

Officer Rex moves next to me.

I hear the sound of running feet and a cart.

“Clear!”

Officer Rex is watching me.

Again I hear it. “Clear!”

Officer Rex speaks quietly. “He's going to be all right.”

Who?

From behind the curtain, I hear, “Stay with us, Darius!”

Darius.

I look at Officer Rex. His eyes flick from the curtain to me, back to the curtain.

“I need to see my friend.”

“Not now.”

“No. I really need to see my friend.” I wrestle one arm free of the straps.

One of the paramedics calls out, “We're going to need some help in here!”

I've got the other arm free, and I'm just about off the gurney when the nurse appears. Her hair has come loose from the ponytail and hangs damp on one side of her face. She sets a syringe against the inside of my arm.

Maybe it's in my head. Maybe it's Darius, but I hear the drone of a heart monitor flatlining.