34
In the library, Googling open arrest warrants, I discover a dark secret. A lot of states don’t bother to keep records of how many criminals they’ve failed to track down and arrest. Probably because they don’t want anyone to know how easy it is to get away with crime. But according to the state attorney general of California, the number in that state alone is—ready for this?—2.5 million outstanding warrants.
That includes 252,000 outstanding felony warrants for serious “Your butt is going to jail” crimes, including 2,800 for homicide, 640 for kidnapping, and 1,800 for sexual assault.
Warrants mean the police know who those criminals are, so I have to assume they just don’t know where they are. And they don’t have the money or time or manpower to find them.
If they can’t track down criminals whose identities are known, what are the chances of them tracking down the three unknown assailants who beat up Aubrey?
Welcome to the United States of Part-Time Law Enforcement.
“Dan?”
I look up from the computer into Talia’s distraught, watery eyes. She pulls a chair up and sits hugging herself as if she has a stomachache. “What’s going on? You were walking down the hall with your arm around Meg?”
Her network of spies rivals the CIA’s.
I explain that Meg needed comforting.
“Why does she have to get it from you?” Talia asks with dismay.
“Uh, maybe because we have something in common?”
Using her pinky, she carefully draws a tear out of her eye without smearing her makeup. She’s waiting for me to reach out, tell her she’s the one I truly care for. But something stops me. Maybe it’s knowing deep down that it’ll only prolong this crazy situation.
When I don’t react, Talia’s face goes stony. Without a word she gets up and leaves.
I feel a forlorn regret that weighs down on my shoulders and compresses my heart. This time she won’t be back. We’re through.
* * *
In the locker room after school I borrow Noah’s phone, then go into a stall. His brother’s studio is on speed dial.
“Hello?” a female voice answers.
“Olivia?”
“Who’s this?”
“Dan Halprin, Noah’s friend?”
“Oh my God, Dan, how are you? What’s up? When are you coming down to the studio again?”
After taking a few moments to catch up, I get to the point: “Is all that talk about Buzzuka Joe once being a gangbanger true, or just hype?”
“As far as I know it’s true. Why?”
“What about Oscar?”
“Tell me what you need, Dan.”
I tell her about Aubrey’s beating and the gang beads and the police being unable to find out who did it. “I know there’s no reason why Buzzuka Joe should know anything about it, but I don’t know anyone else who’s even remotely connected to that world. . . .”
The connection goes quiet, as if Olivia’s thinking. “He’ll be in the studio to do some mixes today. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll ask.”
* * *
Later, back at Dignityville, there’s a buzz in the air. Hunched over a bike in front of his tent, Joel sees me and says, “Aubrey woke up.”
Outside the Fines’ tent, an old gray-haired guy in a chair raises his hand cautiously, then speaks in a low voice as if he doesn’t want Meg’s dad inside to hear. “They’re both at the hospital. We’re keeping an eye on Sam until they get back.”
As I head back up the path, I notice Dad in the dining tent with a group of people, and wonder if he’s heard the good news. But getting closer, I can tell that they’re discussing something serious. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.” I join them.
Wade, the guy with the long gray ponytail, turns to Dad and says, “Shouldn’t you tell him? I mean, it’s already been on the news.”
Dad bites his lip indecisively, but Wade decides for him. “There was another attack this morning,” he says gravely. “Well, at least, an attempted attack. She managed to get away, but they grabbed her and said some pretty nasty things.”
“Who?” I ask.
Wade glances at Dad.
“A woman from here,” Dad says. “She’s really shaken up. Doesn’t want anyone to know who she is.”
“Where’d it happen?” I ask.
“The Stop and Shop,” Wade says.
“We’re taking it to Town Hall,” says a woman named Sarah with short white hair, piercings, and sleeves of tattoos on both arms. “The homeless need more protection.”
“It’s going to be an entirely peaceful, nonviolent demonstration,” Dad quickly adds.
* * *
Leaving the dining tent, I’m blindsided by a pair of arms that wrap around my neck. For one alarmed instant I think I’m being taken down by attackers, but it’s Meg, and her embrace is one of joy.
“He’s awake!” she cries happily. “Oh, Dan!” She squeezes so hard she practically chokes me, then plants a big kiss on my cheek. “He’s talking and moving and everything!” Tears of happiness drip down her face. “Will you come see him? Tomorrow after school?”
Her elation is contagious. It’s hard to imagine anyone being happier.
“Definitely,” I answer.
With a mile-wide smile she kisses me again, then breaks away. “Mom’s still at the hospital. I’ve got to go check on Dad. See you tomorrow!” She dashes off toward her tent, half running, half skipping.
35
The next morning when I tell Noah I can’t make our workout that afternoon, he’s understandably annoyed.
“Today’s the exception. Aubrey woke up. I have to go to the hospital to see him.”
Noah sighs as if to say, I knew it wouldn’t last. All talk and no follow-through.
The tension may begin with Noah, but it doesn’t end there. I’m surprised to find Talia waiting at my locker with a somber expression.
“Can we talk later?” she asks. “I have a yearbook meeting at lunch, but I could do it right after school.”
I can’t imagine what she wants to say, but we were together for two years. I owe it to her.
* * *
In government and politics Meg smiles warmly and gives me a happy little wave. I hope she’ll understand when I tell her I’ll get to the hospital a little late this afternoon.
Ms. Mitchell waddles in, her face flushed as usual. But instead of going to her desk, she stops in front of the class. “Anyone see the Median Buzz this morning?”
No one responds.
“So you haven’t heard about the protest?” she asks.
“You mean the homeless march on Washington?” Ben asks.
“No, I mean right here,” Ms. Mitchell replies. “There’s going to be a demonstration at Town Hall for more police protection for the homeless.”
When half the class turns and looks at me, Ms. Mitchell realizes why. Instead of pretending otherwise, she follows their lead. “Well, Dan, how do you feel about it?”
At this point being singled out doesn’t bother me anymore. “I’m in favor of more police protection for everyone.”
Ms. Mitchell chuckles. “Thank you for that glib reply, Dan. I’m sure it was deeply heartfelt.” Having drenched me with sarcasm, she looks for someone else.
But she’s right. So why not say what’s really on my mind? “Okay, seriously? That protest may be happening here, but for most of the kids in this school it might as well be in another country.”
Ms. Mitchell studies me. “You sound angry.”
Yeah, well, it’s hard not to be. I still can’t put my mother’s positive “pioneer” spin on Dignityville. “Try humiliated and embarrassed. It’s like everyone thinks there’s something wrong with you.”
I catch myself and stop, startled by what I’ve just blurted out. But now everyone in class is looking at me and I feel the urge to go on. “But that’s not the worst part. Want to know what the worst is? The hopelessness. Not for me, but for my parents . . . and all the other ones around
their age? Like never being able to get jobs again doing what they used to do. I mean, for so many people there’s nothing to look forward to.”
Silence, and that slightly eerie, unexpected feeling when you realize they’re actually listening. Ben nods like maybe there’s something other than rosin in my skull after all. Ms. Mitchell clears her throat. “Thank you for sharing that with us, Dan. I know it can’t have been easy, and we all appreciate it.”
She invites other opinions, and the GPA zombies leap at the opportunity to score class-participation points. I’m still finding it difficult to believe that I just vented so publicly about something so private. Has my body been taken over by aliens from Planet Emo?
In the hall after class Meg has an earnest expression, like she’s going to say something about how impressed she was that I spoke out.
But I’ve got something I need to tell her. “Listen, about this afternoon . . .”
“You can’t come?” Her face falls.
“I can. But I have to take care of something else first. It shouldn’t take long.”
That earns a half smile, and she says, “I can wait.”
“It would be better if you didn’t.”
Good-bye half smile. As if she knows it must have something to do with Talia, she slides her eyes away. “Okay, then I’ll see you there, I guess.”
For some reason I can’t just spin on my heels and go off toward my next class. Something makes me want to give her spirits a lift, so I place my hand on hers and gently squeeze. “I promise.”
* * *
I don’t expect the meeting with Talia to go very long. I mean, what’s there to talk about once she tells me that she’s thought it over and realized that we’ve grown apart and we’re not the same people that we used to be and she’ll always remember the good times we had?
School ends and I dawdle inside for a few minutes while the herd heads for greener pastures. When I do get outside, a couple of small groups are hanging around talking, while a few others wait at the curb for rides. Talia’s by the flagpole, the strap of her book bag over her shoulder. I walk over, tempted to say, Listen, this isn’t necessary. Let’s just shake hands and part friends.
Except Talia says, “I don’t want it to end like this, Dan.”
Does she mean that she wants it to end, but in a different way? No, that’s not what she means.
“I care too much about you.” Looking up into my eyes, she moves closer.
I’m completely flummoxed. “I . . . I care about you, too, Tal.”
She slides her arms around my waist and hugs, but I’m still in shock. This is so not what I anticipated. But at least I was truthful. I do care about her. I’m just not sure it’s the kind of caring she’s talking about.
“I know you’ve been going through a really rough time,” she says, still hugging me. “I just never imagined that things could get this . . . this extreme.” She presses her cheek against my shoulder, which is good because she can’t see the stunned expression that must be on my face. The sweet scent of her perfume brings back lots of pleasant memories. Meanwhile I’m totally reexamining the past. Does the fact that she’s paid for everything we’ve done for months show a greater degree of understanding and sympathy than I’ve been willing to admit?
And she’s done all the driving and paid for all the gas. And never once complained about any of it.
An unsettled feeling envelops me. Have I been totally unfair and judgmental, and maybe just plain wrong? With Talia in no rush to let go, I glance around to make sure Meg didn’t stay after school to see what my delay was.
No, she’s not that kind of person.
Talia raises her head. “Who are you looking for?”
“Uh, no one.” Who am I trying to fool? She’s way smarter than that.
She leans back and studies me. “What’s going on with you and that girl?”
“I told you, Tal. We have things in common.”
“But you’re not . . . involved with her, are you?”
I shake my head.
“You sure?”
I nod, even though I’m not sure of anything. Talia relaxes and seems mollified. “Can I give you a ride?”
I point back at the school entrance. “Gotta practice with Noah.”
“Okay.” She stretches up and kisses me. “Talk to you later.” She bounces away, clearly pleased that we’re still a couple.
Why can’t I be honest with her?
Is it really that hard to give her up?
Or is it just hard to give up what she represents?
* * *
At the hospital Meg gives me a crooked smile as if she’s torn between her joy for her brother’s recovery and her concern over why I couldn’t leave right after school to see him. I shoot her a cheerful nod even though inside I’m blown away by what just happened with Talia.
Aubrey’s sitting up in bed with a blue cast on his left arm and an iPad on his lap. He looks gaunt and pale. The tubes have been removed from his mouth and nose, but are still in his right arm. “How are you?” I ask.
“Okay,” he answers in a hoarse whisper, as if his voice is rusty from lack of use. “I’m awake.” But the effort to say those few words seems to tire him.
I gesture to the iPad. “Nice.”
“It’s not his,” Meg says. “A nurse here’s letting him use it.”
“Not like . . . I’m going anywhere with it,” Aubrey quips, then waits expectantly.
So I grin. “Good one.”
He grins back and I sense he’s relieved. As if my reaction means that he still has a sense of humor. But now the smile disappears and he looks serious. He slowly inches the iPad in my direction. On the screen is the Median Buzz’s home page with a headline:
RUMORS OF COUNTERPROTEST GROW
I skim the story about opposition gathering against the demonstration for more police protection. It’s the same argument we heard at the Town Hall meeting: The homeless don’t pay any taxes. What right do they have to demand more than anyone else?
“How did they know . . . she was homeless?” Aubrey asks, referring to the woman who was threatened at the Stop and Shop.
“The same way they knew you were homeless, I guess.”
Aubrey’s forehead furrows. “Who knew?”
I glance at Meg, wondering what she’s told him about the attack. She looks wary. Aubrey sees this. “Tell me.”
“You were attacked in the parking lot behind Ruby’s,” she says. “I told you, remember? The baseball bat? That’s why you were in a coma.”
Aubrey blinks as if this is all new information, but people often can’t remember traumatic experiences. “What did . . . she say happened?”
“I don’t know. She doesn’t want to talk about it.”
His eyebrows rise and dip with consternation. “But she told . . . someone.”
“My dad. He’s the only one who knows who she is.”
Aubrey’s eyes dip further. “You . . . don’t know who she is?”
“No one except my dad.”
Meg’s brother goes silent and looks away. Several moments pass before he says, “Don’t demonstrate.”
It’s hard to know how to take this. Is he thinking clearly? As if he senses this concern, he takes a deep breath. “They attacked me . . . because they wanted to. . . . It was deliberate.” He closes his eyes and sighs as if this conversation is taking way too much energy.
“Maybe we should drop it,” Meg suggests protectively.
“No,” Aubrey insists. “If there’s violence, it’s going to polarize . . . give the other side a reason . . . to feel threatened.” He leans back in bed and closes his eyes again.
“Maybe it’s time to go, Dan,” Meg says softly.
Aubrey opens his eyes. “I’m not . . . finished.”
“We can talk about it another time.” Meg’s clearly worried that he’s stressing too much.
But her brother perseveres. “It’ll scare people away from Dignityville. . . . They’ll be a
fraid . . . of more violence.”
That makes sense. But my father’s in favor of the demonstration. I have to think carefully about this.
This time when Aubrey closes his eyes, they stay closed. Meg tilts her head toward the door and raises a finger as if I should wait for her. A moment later she joins me in the hallway.
“It’s posttraumatic amnesia,” she whispers. “He forgets things. In a few minutes he may not even remember what we just talked about.”
“But when he does remember, it seems like he thinks pretty clearly,” I whisper back. “How long does he have to stay here?”
“It depends. They’ve started him on physical therapy to get his strength and balance back. But he still has a long way to go.” She glances into the room. Aubrey’s reclined in his bed, his eyes still closed. I take her hand and squeeze it. When she looks up at me, her eyes are watery and she blinks back the tears. “Thanks for coming,” she croaks, then turns away down the hall so I won’t see her cry.
* * *
When I leave the hospital in the dark, I discover that the back tire on the bike I used has gone flat. By the time I walk it back to Dignityville, they’ve stopped serving dinner. Spaghetti was on the menu tonight, but the servers and big pots are gone. All that’s left are some pats of butter and stale bread.
With a plate of bread and butter, I find Dad at one of the dining tables, looking gloomy. I wonder what he’s been doing all day. Organizing the demonstration at Town Hall? Collecting bottles and cans? Selling blood?
“Where’ve you been?” he asks.
I’m about to tell him about Aubrey when I hear a heated conversation nearby. Mom, dressed in her gardening clothes, is talking to a man wearing a plaid shirt and overalls. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but the crossed arms and clenched jaws cry out disagreement.
“Mutiny in the cabbage patch,” Dad mutters.
“The cucumbers don’t want to be planted next to the string beans?” I ask.
He isn’t amused. “It’s serious.”
I glance again at Mom and Farmer Joe or whoever he is. Now there’s just silence between them. With glittering eyes, Mom abruptly turns away and comes toward us, sitting down hard. When she picks up her carry mug to take a sip of tea, her hand is shaking. “I’ve always used organic fertilizer. I know it’s more expensive and that inorganic produces a slightly better yield. But this garden was my idea. I fought for it and now he comes out of nowhere with his ‘What do women know about farming?’ routine.” She balls her hands into fists. “Oh, I’d like to kill him!”