Breaking Point

  I made out two images. At first, I thought they were homeless people, which Miami had plenty of. I looked closer. They were sacks filled with bagels.

  “They drop them off, each morning, early,” Charlie said. “They trust people to stay away out of the goodness of their hearts.” Charlie looked at Meat and me for the first time. “Take them.”

  I started. Seemed like wine made you drunk a different way than ouzo. Drowsy, dreamy, mind barely recognizing the body’s actions. Beside me, Meat said, “All of them?” When Charlie nodded, Meat said, “What’ll we do with, like, three hundred bagels?”

  Charlie grinned. “Question is, what will they do with no bagels at breakfast time?” The smile vanished. “Take them.”

  “Wicked.” Meat laughed and shoved me at the door. I opened it, feet still heavy with sleep, wine making me powerless to resist Meat’s push. I stumbled forward, found my balance, and followed Meat to the doorway. All the time, I heard Binky’s words, The pretty apples are the poisonous ones. But that was just something she’d said because she was jealous. Smothering me, like Mom. I took another swig from the bottle I still held, somehow, reached for the bag. Heavier than it looked, its plastic caught in my fingers. I hefted it onto my back. Meat lifted his without effort. We walked to the truck. Meat hurled his bag into the cargo area, and I followed. I wondered what the storekeeper would do—for a second. Charlie reached over the seat back, and we high-fived.

  “Good job, men!” Charlie said, and St. John started the car like he already knew where we were going.

  “We def, we fly,” St. John was singing.

  “What are you, a rapper?” Meat asked, and St. John clammed up.

  Next stop was the park. St. John pulled beside the playground, and he, Charlie, and Meat left the car, slamming doors because there was no one to hear. I followed, slower.

  “We used to hang here as kids,” Meat explained as we pulled the bagel bags out the back door.

  I thought of Binky’s church, of swinging in the September humidity. But it was October, cooler.

  “Now, we still party here,” St. John added.

  We opened the bags. Charlie pulled out smaller bags holding sesame, garlic, and pumpernickel bagels. He threw them at us. I caught one. Salt. I hated salt. Still, I kept it. “Over there.” Charlie pointed to the playground. I stumbled across the patchy sand to the merry-go-round and sat. “Leave the wine in the car,” Charlie had said. Meat sat beside me, then St. John on my other side. When Charlie came, he shoved between St. John and me. He’d hidden the big bagel bag in the back, then shut the tailgate. Were they as drunk as I was? Charlie wasn’t, so I kept quiet, not wanting to sound stupid. In fact, we were all silent, eating our bagels, soft and gummy, still hot in the cool night. The hard salt punished my mouth, but I didn’t care.

  Charlie broke the silence. “Know what makes me mad?” Without waiting for an answer, he said, “If people, teachers, our parents, saw us tonight, they’d say, ‘They’re just a bunch of kids.’”

  “We are kids,” St. John said.

  “Speak for yourself,” Meat said. “My parents are kids compared to me.”

  St. John considered that. “We’re old enough to drive,” he said. “Old enough to screw.”

  I thought, briefly, of Amanda Colbert.

  “Old enough to die,” Meat said.

  “Exactly.” Charlie bit a bagel and chewed it. We all waited, in case he had something else to say. He swallowed. “Remember those kids who shot up that school? Killed, like, fourteen people. All the jocks, people who gave them a hard time.” The merry-go-round swayed beneath us.

  “That’s screwed up,” St. John said.

  “Yeah,” Meat said. “Weird when stuff like that happens.”

  Charlie said, “Yeah. Mostly because it’s stuff you thought about doing yourself, taking charge like that. Taking control, making the bastards pay.” He pulled out a second bagel. “Not that any of us would do it for real, of course.”

  “’Course not,” St. John said. “But everyone acts like you might.”

  “’Cause we’re young,” Meat said.

  “We’re shit,” St. John said.

  “Shit,” I echoed, because I hadn’t said anything yet.

  Charlie threw his bagel in the sand beneath us. “I’m so sick of that. The so-called adults. Think they know it all with their questions.” He clasped his hands together, looking for all the world like my mother. “Charlie, angel, you don’t know anyone with a gun, do you? Do you ever feel angry, honey? Do you ever feel misunderstood?” He turned to me. “Well, do you, Paul?”

  I started. The merry-go-round squealed. St. John and Meat laughed. Finally, I said, “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t you, Paul?”

  “Don’t you, Paul?” St. John echoed.

  “Don’t you, Paul?” Meat, with a giggle.

  Charlie said, “Sure you do, Paul.” He patted my shoulder. “How could you not? The so-called adults don’t understand, do they? They don’t understand about honor. They don’t understand about loving your friends, about taking care of one another.”

  I looked at Charlie. Then, Meat and St. John, a tall shape and a bulky one. Were they my friends? I mean, they never even talked to me at school. Yet Charlie spoke of friendship, love even. And here they were including me, letting me be part of this night. This incredible night.

  “Right,” I said.

  “They aren’t like us,” Meat said.

  “Right. That’s why I get mad when you two bicker like children.” Charlie gestured toward St. John and Meat. “Or when Einstein here acts like a scared little boy getting to play with the big kids. ’Cause we have to stick together, have to be loyal, respect one another. Have to take control.”

  “’Cause everyone thinks we’re scum,” Meat said.

  “They don’t know better,” Charlie said.

  “But we do, right?” St. John said.

  I turned, feeling Charlie’s closeness. He nodded. “Right, Paul?”

  I shifted. Why was Charlie putting me on the spot? But I said, “Right.”

  Before I’d turned to Charlie, I’d been watching down the street. Now, I looked back. A car. A police cruiser, lights off. It curled around the outer edge of the park, closer and closer. Finally, it pulled beside St. John’s truck and stopped.

  “Shit,” St. John whispered. I felt something like a foot to my stomach.

  “Be cool.” Charlie’s eyes narrowed.

  The door opened. The cop stepped out, a short, muscular guy, the kind who became a cop so he could have authority over someone. Like guys Dad knew in the army. Or Dad.

  “Morning, boys.”

  “Morning, Officer.” Charlie, who was sober, stood.

  The cop eyed us. “I said, good morning, boys.”

  I shifted an arm on the cold, metal bar and said, “Good morning, Officer” with the others. The merry-go-round squeaked. Would they call my mother? I’d rather just die in jail.

  The cop came closer, walking chest-out. “What are you boys doing out this time of night?”

  Again, Charlie picked up the slack. “Waiting for sunrise, sir, reliving childhood memories.” He gestured toward the merry-go-round. “It’s not a school night, sir.”

  “Little breakfast, I see?” The cop gestured toward the bagels, just a small bag. The others were hidden.

  “Yes, sir. Care for one?” Charlie—how could he be so cool?—Charlie reached for the bag by St. John’s feet.

  The cop stiffened, like he thought Charlie might go for a weapon, then relaxed. “No, thanks.” I heard the grit of sand under my shoes, the sound of night insects, and watched, mesmerized, the strobing light on his squad car, turning, turning. The cop turned on his flashlight, shone it on St. John’s truck. “This your car, son?”

  Charlie nudged St. John, who said, “It’s mine.”

  “Mind if I have a look?” Without waiting for an answer, the cop walked closer.

  Oh, God. All those bagels. If he saw th
em…

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Charlie said.

  The cop turned back, smirking, letting his light shine in Charlie’s face. “You wouldn’t, would you?”

  How did Charlie keep from moving, squinting? A mosquito buzzed my ear, but I didn’t dare swat it. Charlie said, “You have no warrant, have you, to search his truck?” Charlie’s voice stayed cool. “We’re nowhere near it—certainly not close enough to grab any weapons. We present no danger. We’re not stoned or anything. We definitely haven’t given our permission. What would happen if someone investigated this search?”

  “What do you know about it?” But the cop moved away from the truck, toward us. It dawned on me that Charlie knew something about the law, somehow. And the cop was listening.

  “Plenty.” Charlie didn’t move. “My mom’s a U.S. attorney, Mary Good—no E. Works in Washington, mostly. Her specialty’s prosecuting cops who do bad searches.”

  The cop didn’t move. I stopped picturing Mom pulling her hair.

  “Don’t think she’d look kindly on you harassing her son.” Charlie shrugged. “You know how moms are.”

  The cop shrugged too. “Hey, I wasn’t going to search the car.”

  Charlie smiled, understanding. “Didn’t think so.”

  “But you’re not supposed to be in the park this time of night.” With his flashlight, the cop lit the sign posting park hours.

  “Oh, is that all?” Charlie stood, gesturing for us to do the same. “Well, men, we’d best leave, then.” I followed, barely finding my feet beneath me. “Thanks for the advice, Officer…” Charlie squinted at the cop’s badge.

  “Wolofsky,” the cop said.

  We piled into the car, managing not to break up for a block or so. Charlie sat, trancelike, saying, “Keep a cool head. That’s what Big Chuck says.” Then, Meat started to giggle. St. John followed, a full, hollow laugh. Not me. I watched the fading streetlights, the roadside benches flashing by, the Dumpster where we threw the uneaten bagels, and I knew that with Charlie, I was safe. Charlie could get away with anything.

  Monday in chapel, the sermon was “Thou Shalt Not Steal.” I couldn’t help but glance at Charlie when Reverend Phelps announced the topic. He sat, hands in lap, listening like the perfect Christian schoolboy. Maybe he even was.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Write about a childhood memory,” my English teacher had said, probably thinking she was being profound. Thinking that it would be easy, anyway. Miss Bundy, who reeked of CK cologne and drove a new white Saab her parents had probably bought, couldn’t have imagined childhood would be a difficult subject for anyone. But it was for me. Oh, I knew what the clones would write: “My First Bicycle” or “Our Third Trip to Europe.” But my childhood stretched behind like so many identical calendar squares. Read with Mom, watched television, wished Dad would come home, then regretted it when he did. Nothing ever happened. At least, nothing memorable. Nothing memorable had happened until this month. Until Charlie.

  Maybe, I thought giddily, I could write about smashing mailboxes or stealing bagels. That would be an A paper, all right.

  I calmed myself.

  I stared out the window, flipping through memories like tabs on a notebook. All I remembered was trying to keep Mom happy, keep my parents from fighting.

  Finally, I wrote about going to Disney World when I was five. I could be a clone, too.

  “When I walked into class, everyone turned to stare. Then, they looked away.”

  Amanda was reading her English essay. I fidgeted, suddenly uncomfortable in my clothes.

  “I was nine, and it was my fourth school.”

  Beautiful. Perfect. Hot. Adjectives hit my ears like enemy missiles, then fell away, harmless. Roget himself couldn’t have come up with a word for Amanda Colbert.

  “Every year, Dad promised we were somewhere to stay. But every September, there I was, staring at the linoleum. Different schools, same sinking feeling.”

  Amanda sat three seats behind me. Impossible angle. Still, I strained to watch. She’d never read in class before. I couldn’t remember hearing her voice. Now, her eyes didn’t leave the paper. Her reddish hair fluttered across her forehead, obscuring her face. She didn’t fix it. She was scared. Suddenly, the feelings I’d been having for girls in general since coming to Gate all concentrated themselves on one girl. This girl. This girl was different. This girl was real.

  This girl was Gray St. John’s ex-girlfriend. He still liked her, Meat had said. She might as well have a sign hanging around her neck: LOOK, DON’T TOUCH.

  Still, I watched. She kept reading, about sitting alone at lunch, crying in her pillow every night. “I thought I’d never make friends,” she said.

  I know what Binky would have said. Poor baby. Such a deprived childhood. But me, I longed to reach back through the years and comfort her. I’d been there too.

  She looked up and met my eyes. A second, no more. It meant nothing. But she smiled.

  I forced my eyes down to my paper.

  I was still recovering from the Great Bagel Caper when Charlie sent another shock wave. Friday morning, I fumbled through my books, mentally preparing for the exhilarating change from religion to Algebra II. Down the hall, Mr. Motter talked to Miss Bundy. A jock named Pierre, one of the guys who’d mooned me the first week, grabbed Emily’s lacrosse stick, making like he’d hook Motter’s toupee. The assembled clones cheered. Motter walked on, oblivious. Charlie emerged from the mob.

  He leaned against my locker. “You free after school?”

  He wanted more homework help. Still, I said, “The usual.” Not mentioning that the usual was going over to Binky’s house.

  “Blow it off,” Charlie said. “We should hook up after school. You could come over my house.” Charlie was already looking elsewhere.

  “Sure.” I glanced around. Did anyone else see us talking? Yes. Down the hall, Binky frowned. I met her eyes, then looked back at Charlie. “Are St. John and Meat—?”

  “No, just you. I’m not a pack animal.” He shifted his book bag. “If you can.”

  He walked away. Binky was still standing, watching us. When Charlie left, she came over.

  “What were you talking to him about?”

  “Nothing. I mean, he had a question about the assignment—he’s in my Algebra II class.” Did she know I was lying? That Charlie was in none of my classes?

  She did. I was sure. But she said, “Oh.”

  “I need to get to class.”

  Binky smiled. “Algebra, right? The one Charlie Good’s in with you.”

  I shifted foot to foot. “Yeah, well, he transferred in.”

  “Whatever.” She shrugged. “See you after school, then?”

  “Can’t.” Shifting faster, desperate to get away. “I’ve got stuff, family stuff.”

  “Next week, then.”

  She started toward Motter’s room, then turned and waved. I waved back and went in the opposite direction. But somehow I knew I wouldn’t be visiting Binky’s house next week or ever again.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Later, we pulled into Charlie’s driveway in his Mercedes. My first ride, and I was shotgun.

  I crossed the threshold, eyes open, looking for something but not sure what. Something to explain what made Charlie—well, Charlie. Yet, the house, though rich and beautiful, was ordinary. Beige. The right number of books on the correct number of shelves. Even the pool, surrounded by palms through the French doors, was typical around there. The tennis court occupied the prized spot beside it. Nothing was surprising, and that surprised me. I’d expected Charlie’s world to be painted in colors I’d never seen before. Not beige. Anything but beige.

  “Hey. Anyone there?” Charlie interrupted my thoughts. I jumped. “Sometimes, you look like you’re curing cancer, Einstein.”

  “Nothing like that.” My eyes fell on a framed photo, Charlie under a banner for the Junior Orange Bowl tennis tournament. “That’s your dad with you?” He didn’t look like Char
lie, but he had his hand on Charlie’s shoulder.

  “The man himself.”

  Charlie didn’t smile. “Sorry,” I said. “What were you—?”

  “My room’s upstairs.”

  I followed, still blown away about being there. The first thing I noticed was the computer. Couldn’t help it. It was a new Dell, with flat-screen monitor and speakers I’d have killed for. Before I knew it, I was touching it. I saw Charlie looking and backed off. “Wow. Some setup.”

  “Is it?” Charlie shrugged. “Birthday present.”

  “What kind of software do you have?”

  “You’re sure into computers.” But he smiled and flipped on the stereo. Someone’s drum solo filled the air really loud, so I knew we were alone. Charlie sat on the floor. “Turn it on and look,” he yelled.

  I sat on his desk chair—leather soft as flannel—and fired up the computer. I scrolled through the programs. He had everything. He had Doom II, which Mom had forbidden once she’d seen Doom. And all the Tomb Raiders—Lara was hot. I pointed to Doom II. “Where’s the disc for that?”

  He gestured toward the CD rack. “I have Quake III Arena too.”

  I nodded. There wasn’t even time to look at everything.

  “And The Last Revelation. But mostly, I use it for homework. Like word processing.”

  I nodded.

  “Play on the Web sometimes, especially since last year’s honors awards. Meeks’s keynote address was about the ‘Influence of the Internet on our children.’” He said the last part in Meeks’s lispy voice.

  I laughed. “What’d he say?”

  With his other foot, Charlie removed one whitish Top-Sider and kicked it to the floor. He wore no socks. Gate required them. “He’s against it. Misses the old days when they communicated by Morse code.”

  I laughed again. “Or Pony Express.”

  “Sent Mary scurrying for the parental controls, though,” he said.

  “Yeah, my mom did that too.”

  “I told her I’m not that easily influenced, and she respected that.” He kicked the other shoe aside, wiggling his toes. “It didn’t block much anyway. Mostly porn sites, and who cares about that?” I nodded, though I wouldn’t have minded seeing one. Charlie reached for the volume knob, turned down the stereo. “Found some wicked websites, though. Pranks, stuff to do to people. Pretty wild.”