Jerk, California

  Through the glass, auburn flecked with white cascades over my hood.

  My hood.

  And from nowhere they come, words propelled with all the hope and fury I own.

  “Oh God, give me Herculean strength!”

  I dip my shoulder into the car, dig my legs deep, and launch. The car inches ahead.

  “You’re doing it!” Naomi’s voice fills my ears and exhaust fills my lungs. I gasp and heave again.

  Rear wheels teeter up until I’m staring at her muffler. The car swerves down into the ditch, while my momentum topples me onto my stomach. I hear wheels spin; the car’s tires are now in fresh powder where treads have no hope. I lift my head and blink. The car still moves away from me. Grinding front tires find gravel and whip the car onto the road, as my nose fills with fumes of burned rubber and hot smoke.

  My mouth gapes, and I stagger to my feet. That can’t happen. I stumble to the driver’s-side window.

  “That was incredible, Sam! Hop in.”

  I shake my head. I can’t explain why I can’t, why what she saw and heard means I can’t. So I stare at the road and mumble something about living close and feeling okay and having to go.

  My lies hang there between us, all stupid like, and I want to run—run away from my words and the girl I’ve thought about every day since October.

  She reaches out and brushes snow off the breast pocket of my shirt. “Well then. It was good to see you.”

  Stay with Sam. Please, stay with Sam.

  Naomi leans out and whispers, “Thanks for the push. Again.” She kisses my cheek.

  My cheek.

  With a squeal and a whir of rubber, she crunches over our fallen tree and fishtails out of sight.

  I stare into the void as I stroke the sacred spot on my face. “Damn. She took my coat.”

  chapter six

  “THERE’S NO WAY I’M GOING TO THAT GUY AGAIN. I don’t need a shrink.” I hoist the sledgehammer and bring it down with a crack. Chips of concrete ricochet around me. Outside, it’s sunny and June, but inside this pit, it’s dark and dank. Mom pokes her head back into the garage, where Old Bill banished me to pound out the cement floor.

  “You’re just being stubborn, Sam. And his title is ‘psychologist.’ ”

  “Round glasses?”

  “Well, yes—”

  “Wispy beard?”

  “It’s well groomed.”

  “Say what you want, he’s a shrink.” I nod toward the concrete. “Watch out.”

  Mom disappears again. My next blow fills the air with chalky dust. I cough hard, drop the hammer, and join her outside. “I got analyzed plenty at school.”

  “Maybe if you had a friend, that would’ve been different, but you didn’t even try. Four years and not one person invited over.” Her face softens. “I’m sorry. I’m just—”

  “Embarrassed as hell at your twitchy son and trying to make it right.” I rip off my goggles and toss them to the ground. I squint and shield my eyes from the sunlight. My right shoulder leaps and I blink hard.

  Mom glances down. “You need to talk to someone.”

  “Ain’t your job to decide who.” I kick at the grass. “Like I’m gonna bare my soul to Skittles.”

  I had nicknamed the shrink Skittles after the bowl of candy on his table. Just the thing to keep hyperactive kids feeling the need for his services. From our first visit years ago, I remember only that colorful bowl.

  Too bad other people don’t fade from my childhood memory. Other people like Old Bill. His voice fills my head.

  How the hell is he gonna drive the grader if he can’t control his arms?

  According to Mom, jumpy arms didn’t rattle Skittles. “Simple anxiety,” he had said. “Buy the lad some fish. They’re so calming.”

  Calming, my ass. I had jerked, dumped the whole jar of fish food into the water, and the guppies Mom bought me leaped out of the tank. Darn near scarred me for life to see fish fulfill a suicide pact on my bedroom floor. I screamed a seven-year-old scream and Old Bill walked into my room.

  “I guess those fish would rather die than live with you.”

  I watched them flop on the carpet and I knew he was right.

  Now Mom wipes gray dust from my cheeks and biceps, steps back, and smiles at me in a way she does only when Old Bill isn’t around.

  “My strong son.” She folds her arms and shuts her eyes. “I already made the appointment. Paid for it, too.”

  “You did what?”

  Mom winces and nods. She reaches up, grabs my face, and squeezes. “Next Saturday you get a two-hour chat with a shrink.” Mom tries to laugh. But her smiles don’t stay long or hide anything, and the sad sneaks out. She lets go and crosses and uncrosses her arms. I wonder what her laugh sounded like twenty years ago.

  Mom places a hand on my chest. “With graduation in one week and the tough year it’s been for your Tourette’s . . .” She sighs and turns away. “I figured a talk might help.” Her gaze skims the contents of the garage strewn across the driveway and snags on a pair of jackhammers with BILL’S BITUMINOUS etched into their sides. “I know Bill’s been hard.”

  She says this as if he’s in a phase that will pass like a kidney stone. As usual, I play dumb and pretend to believe her.

  “Fine. I’ll talk to the shrink one time. For you.” I roll my eyes, wipe my brow, and retreat into the darkness. “Long as you know I have nothing to say.”

  The Malibu has no desire to see the doctor either. Our farm in Pierce sits thirty miles from Skittles’s Princeton office, but halfway there, the radiator decides it’s had enough. Steam belches from under the hood, and I ease off the gravel road.

  “I reckon it’s a sign.”

  I push out of the car and stare down the lonely road. I scratch my head. “This’d qualify as a good excuse,” I say to no one. “It’s a long haul either way.” Leaning against the car, I stretch my calves and shake my thighs. “But I promised her, you know?”

  I face Princeton, take three big steps, and break into a run.

  Gravel crunches, cool air rushes, muscles relax.

  Finally free.

  For as long as I can remember, morning runs have brought peace. Limbs that spend the day meeting jerky demands submit to my will—my control. Dizziness leaves, balance returns. Before the world wakes up—before its eyes mock me—Sam Carrier is strong and stable and sound.

  And fast.

  I pound into Princeton, my breath slow and steady. There are no urges—my brain has gone to sleep and leaves me alone. There is only the road and the sound of my feet falling in beautiful rhythm. I cut the corner in front of SuperAmerica and slow as I approach the Dairy Queen.

  I ease onto the crowded parking lot, but don’t want to stop. The moment I do, my muscles will grab me and twist me and make me feel like I belong in a freak show.

  But it’s hot and a cone is irresistible.

  I stagger toward the order window, my heart filled with postrun euphoria, and indulge in a victory jerk.

  “What the hell is that?” A male voice sounds surprised and quiets to a whisper. I peek. A packed convertible rests a few feet away. Two guys, two girls, four chuckles.

  “Watch this guy,” he whispers.

  My gaze locks onto my laces.

  I buy the cone, linger at the order window, and wait for the sound of their engine, but my ice cream disappears before they do.

  No matter. I’ll stand here until they leave.

  “Where I used to live, we had an ice-cream joint that—”

  Crap. Heather’s in the car.

  Still talking about her old place in highbrow Minnetonka. Word is her family left a wealthy Minneapolis suburb in search of more land. They found it in Hicksville—Heather’s name for her new home. My forever home. With her blabbing, they’ll be there until tomorrow. No use waiting.

  Brace yourself. I turn and jog past and peek again.

  My gaze bounces off Heather and the two guys like a pin-ball and sticks on Heather’s fr
iend.

  “Is that you, Sam?” Naomi says as I pass.

  The gentle sound of her voice makes me feel human. My pace slows.

  “You know that freak, Nae?” Heather says. “I had to sit behind . . .”

  I pull free of Naomi’s gravity and sprint away from the laughter left in my wake.

  I glance over my shoulder.

  Shut up, Heather. I practically saved Naomi’s life last Christmas. Well, after she beat me up. My fingers touch my tingling cheek while Naomi thoughts dance in my brain.

  Doc, maybe I do have something to talk about.

  I was born to love you.

  I was born to lick your face.

  The second line of the country tune drawling in Skittles’s waiting room catches me off guard and I bust a gut. I’m still laughing when the doctor ushers me in.

  “Do you find our meeting amusing?” Skittles stares as I brush by into his office.

  Doc wears his stern face, and I look down. My shoulders tremble. There’s nothing funny about this rent-a-friend, but all the morbid thoughts I own can’t stop this laugh. I flop down on the couch, which shakes beneath me. For once it isn’t from a twitch.

  “Sam, your mother said this may be difficult for you. Sam, I see you came alone. That took courage.”

  If he begins one more sentence with my name, I’ll vomit.

  “Sam, how do you feel about being here?”

  My stomach turns. “It sucks.”

  I glance around the room. Lots of papers encased in glass and a few scraggly plants. Depressing. I lean toward the doctor and grab a handful of candy. “But we don’t have much time, thanks to the Malibu. Since this is the last time we’ll talk, I’ll try to touch on all the stuff Mom worries about right up front.”

  “This is confidential, Sam, so you don’t have to worry about what your moth—”

  My hand shoots up. “Right there, again. You’ve said ‘Sam’ four times already. Do you know that ain’t my real name?”

  Skittles settles back into his chair, and a faraway look glazes his eyes. It’s obvious I’m the only one in the room. He strokes his wispy beard. “Interesting. What do you think your name—”

  “Jack, Jack Keegan. I used to think names were like envelopes. Your folks tuck you inside one, the state slams on a postmark, nobody messes. Turns out they’re like diapers. If the first one gets stinky, they’ll just whip it off and slap on another.”

  Skittles adjusts his glasses and reaches for a pad of paper. “And how do you feel about—”

  “Tell you what; I’ll make this easy on you. I’m an expert at this psychocrap. Don’t worry about questions. I’ll blab and you scribble.” I clear my throat. “See, Old Bill, my stepdad, ditched both my names not one hour after changing my mom’s. The man hates everything Irish since a brawl with Officer O’Malley landed him in jail.”

  My shrink scribbles something fierce. “Tell me about—”

  “Idiot. An obsessive-compulsive idiot. Counting cans or keys is this year’s thing. It’ll pass. He’ll go back to gambling or cleaning or touching stuff eight hundred times in a row. Why Mom married him is beyond me. I was only two at the time.” I pause. “But from the stories Old Bill tells me, sounds like he’s a step up from my real dad. Get this. My dad’s tics went crazy when I was born. He blames me and stops looking at me. Old Bill says he even quit holding me ’cause once he twitched so hard, he dropped me on the floor.”

  My face is hot, and I exhale hard. “How am I doin’? Should be enough soul-searching for Mom. Besides, I’m almost finished with this subject.”

  “This is wonderful. Don’t stop. And again, I can promise you that what you share here stays—”

  “Whatever. So Dad kicks, I start twitching, and Old Bill gets all pissed. But now, with Baby Lane? Well, the new heir looks normal, and Bill has hope. And I’m a twitchy shadow his golden boy will soon eclipse.” I sigh. “Don’t get me wrong, I like the poor kid. Being the object of Old Bill’s affection is no cakewalk.”

  Doc scribbles and smiles and nods like he can’t get enough of my crap. Like he lives to uncover it and smear it all over his yellow pad.

  I run both hands through my hair. “And Old Bill loves the little guy. Kid covers himself with spit, and it don’t seem to matter. Lane screams and blurts like babies do before they turn into normal kids who stop screaming and blurting.” I bite my lip and stare at the floor, while my throat burns. I almost lose it. Almost spill my guts to a stupid shrink who won’t stop saying my name and only listens because Mom gives him money.

  “To Bill, Lane’s noise don’t matter.” I swallow hard. “He finally has a son he’s proud of.” I peek at Skittles, who doesn’t write down the only thing worth noting in our entire conversation.

  I stand and take a deep breath. “But I have no desire to talk about any of that.” I walk over to one of his glassed-in shrink certificates. I touch the casing, turn, and catch him in a wince. What a pathetic, little man.

  I spin. “Do you know I’ve seen Heaven?”

  “Heaven.” Skittles frowns, lowers his spectacles, and peers above the upper rim.

  “Absolutely. Four times now, not counting all the mental replays. The sight flashing by my good eye last Christmas, not to mention today just down the road here?”

  The doctor scratches his bald spot. “Good eye? I’m still—could we return to your father and the passing twitchy-shadow comment for a—”

  “Hell, no.” I grin and walk to the window. “My time, my topic. You ever see a sunset so beautiful it made you afraid?”

  “No, Sam.”

  “Well, I have.”

  “You’re afraid of sunsets?” He scratches in his pad.

  “Talking about Naomi here.” I roll my eyes. “You know, let’s just leave her name out of it. I call her Heaven. When I saw her at the Dairy Queen, she stole my breath. I jerked. They laughed.”

  Skittles squints, and then cocks his head. “Naomi—I mean—Heaven laughed at you?”

  I turn from the window and my shoulders slump. I stare at my tensing wrist and fingers and glance at the ceiling tiles.

  “Heaven laughs at me every day.”

  I plunk back down onto the couch, stretch out, and close my eyes.

  “That girl? Yeah, she chuckled right along with her friends. But I can almost imagine it wasn’t as loud as the rest.”

  chapter seven

  THE WEEK PRIOR TO GRADUATION BLURS DUE TO Mom’s need for “deep cleaning.” A whole different animal than general straightening up, deep cleaning is mysterious, and only Mom knows when it’s finished. My role is simple: I rush home from finals and repair everything Old Bill busted the previous week.

  It’d been a rough seven days.

  “Stair rail, screen door, lawn mower, wooden gate, shed shelving. I think we got it all done.” I fold the list into a paper airplane and fly it into my bedroom wastebasket.

  “Open up, Sam.” Mom thumps my door. “I need to dump these coats to make room in the closet.”

  Room for what? You really think anyone’s coming to my graduation party tonight?

  I glance from my unmade bed to my cap-and-gown-clad image in the mirror. “It’s an impressive gown, but if you ask me, the square hat looks stupid.”

  “Sam!” Mom sounds annoyed, and by the time I open the door, her forehead glistens. A sweltering morning plus an armload of coats plus a dead air conditioner make for a lot of steam. She pushes past me and collapses on the bed. Mom rises from the coat ball, turns to me, and stares.

  “You look handsome.” She adjusts the robe at the shoulders and flattens the black fabric against my arms. “You are handsome.”

  A couple hard squints and a jaw grind erase her compliment. “What I am is late. When’s Bill getting back with the car?”

  Mom glances at her watch, and her eyes widen. “Said by now. But he wouldn’t miss your big day.” We lock gazes and she purses her lips. “I’ll start calling around.”

  Ten minutes later, Mom’s fra
ntic.“The whole town is already there, probably to get a good seat. I don’t know what—”

  “Later.” I whip off the hat and robe, stuff the dry-cleaned costume into a plastic bag, lace up my running shoes, and bolt.

  Saturday mornings are usually active times in Pierce, but this morning the place is a ghost town. I blow through Pierce proper with its two streets and forty houses and sprint back into farm country. My feet know the gravel road, and my mind wanders. I’ve dreamed of this day. I will hear my own Emancipation Proclamation, and I will be free. When my name’s called, the crowd will erupt, and so will Naomi. Bet she’ll be there to watch her best friend, Heather. Yeah, the rescued princess will cheer for me, her hero. She’ll remember our kiss and seek me out.

  My legs churn faster.

  Naomi, is that you? What a surprise. Yeah, I am sort of busy. Play it cool. Kind of got this graduation party right after the ceremony. You probably have plans with Heath—you don’t? It’d be great if you came.

  I cut across the Pizza Hut parking lot. The towering lights of Mitrista High School’s sports complex are only minutes away.

  Thinking about me? Really? Well, you’ve been on my mind day and night. No, too desperate. Yeah, you’ve crossed my mind once or twice yourself.

  I crumple against the Mallard fieldhouse. My thighs burn, and I double over in search of breath.

  “I’m here. I made it.” Shoulders jump, then calm—until the music starts.

  “Crap!”

  On the far side of the football field, a large congregation fills one side of the bleachers, while a raised platform faces them from the opposite sideline. Sandwiched between, and covering the playing field, stands a host of empty chairs. One of them’s mine.

  I shake my bag, pick up my crinkled robe, and curse. “A twitchy six-foot raisin.” I smooth it against my chest and over my thigh. Pointless. It’ll take Old Bill’s steamroller to flatten these wrinkles. I reach for the mortarboard lying funny in the grass.

  “No, no!” One of the corners bends up, and I force it flat. I hear a snap as the corner flops down at the crease and hangs, shielding my view to the right. “Nice. What else?”