Say You'll Remember Me

  Dominic goes out the back, and I follow. He ignores our garage, cuts through our yard, jumps the rusting chain-link fence at the dip from the years of us hiking over it, and he beelines it for the garage in his backyard that’s all busted windows and a sagging roof.

  Above us are gray clouds, and heat lightning flashes across the sky. Dominic leaves the door open behind him, and I pause in the door frame. With no electricity, the garage is dark, highlighted only by the rays of dull light streaming through the broken glass. Dust floats in the air. My eyes adjust, and Dominic surveys a worn punching bag.

  “So you weren’t talking me hitting you?”

  A faint smile marks Dominic’s mouth. “I had a feeling that’s what you were hoping for.” But then the same blackness of the sky covers his face as he turns to me. “You want to take a swing at me, do it. I’ll stand here and take the hit. No swing back.”

  Lead solidifies in my gut. This kid has taken more hits than anyone in life should, and I could never add one more. No matter how mad I am. “I don’t know how to get past this.”

  Dominic launches a right hook at the bag, and it swings. “I know.”

  He catches the bag. I lean a shoulder against the frame and cross my arms over my chest. I told Holiday I’d try. I told her I’d attempt to mend our family, but there’s so much anger swirling around inside me that it seems impossible to speak.

  I scan the dirty garage, then Dominic’s broken house. When I was in the forest, the anger didn’t exist. Maybe I’m a better person behind bars.

  “I was thinking,” Dominic says. “We should go out like we used to. I talked with Jenna and Renee yesterday, and they were asking about you. Renee told me to tell you she’s around.”

  Around as in she’s down to hookup. Renee was good for that. I used to be good for that, too. Renee and I were cut of the same cloth. Neither of us liked attachments. We were on the hunt for anything that made a high run in our veins. Renee’s a beautiful girl, probably one of the smartest girls at our school, but I don’t want the hookup anymore. I want Elle. “I don’t want the hassle.”

  “There’s no hassle with Jenna and Renee. They know you’re on probation, and neither of them believe you did the crime. Hell, Jenna’s dad’s serving time downstate for a crime he didn’t do either. He had the same damn public defender you did, and he also took a plea deal. One year looked better than ten. The girls know and understand the score—no drugs, no alcohol. Just two girls, hanging out, relieving some stress. You’re seventeen, Drix. Not fifty. Let’s live.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “You like the girl.” Dominic’s blunt admission causes my muscles to lock up. “The governor’s daughter. Don’t deny it. I saw the look on your face when you told us how you got Thor, and I saw the same look when you saw her on TV. You finally fall for somebody, and she’s out of reach.”

  Thunder rumbles close enough that the ground vibrates. I don’t deny it, and I don’t look away when he briefly meets my stare. There’s a give inside me because Holiday’s not the only one who wants her family back. I do, too. I want my best friend back. I want to shoot the breeze with him until 3:00 a.m., I want to binge play our battered and bruised Xbox, I want to tell him about Elle.

  “Which was it? Did she want nothing to do with you because you’re a poor boy, or did she turn her nose up to you because you have a criminal record?”

  Neither, and I’m not having this conversation with him. I went to jail for him, and he can’t even thank me. He can’t look me in the eye and tell me he’s sorry. I turn to go back to the house.

  “Hey!” Dominic calls, but I ignore him.

  “Hey!” Pounding of feet behind me and my arm is wrenched back when he grabs my biceps. Anger pummels my bloodstream when he whips my body in his direction, and we’re nose to nose.

  “I don’t want to hit you,” I seethe, “but keep pushing me and getting in my face, and I’ll lay you out.”

  Dominic raises both of his hands and shoves my chest at full strength. I rock, and my arms automatically come up. I fist his shirt and push him into the concrete block of his garage. The air rushing out of his lungs with the impact.

  “Do it,” Dominic yells. “If it’ll make you feel better, do it.”

  “Make me feel better?” Lethal rage pours into my muscles, and my fingers shake with the need to do exactly what he’s asking for. “Rewind time and redo it all. How about you don’t dare me to shoplift because you were pissed I was going someplace with the music and you weren’t? Because you had to feel big and you wanted to make me feel small. How about you had been the best friend you claimed you were and noticed I was too lit to be on my own? How about instead of robbing the store yourself you had made sure I made it home? How about when you heard how I’d been arrested, how I woke in a drunk tank, how I called Axle scared as hell, you stepped up and confessed?”

  “Is that what you want?” Dominic asks, back still pressed against the wall, not giving a damn my fists are still pressed against his chest. “You want me to take responsibility for your choices?”

  I shove him into the wall again. “I want you to take responsibility for your choices. I saw the evidence. They laid it out for me. Same height, same build. Black T-shirt with the word Renegade written in white. I know you did it, and I want you to admit it to me. I want you to tell me you’re sorry. I want you to thank me for not letting you go crazy behind bars in a small room because that’s how much I love you. I want you to acknowledge our friendship is worth you admitting the truth.”

  Dominic leans forward, and there’s danger in those crazy blue eyes. “I didn’t do it.”

  As if struck by lightning, my entire body jolts, and my fingers yank free from his shirt as I stumble back. “What did you say?”

  “I didn’t rob the convenience store. You went to jail, brother, but it wasn’t for me.”

  Ellison

  I’m still losing on bull I had nothing to do with. Drix’s words continue to echo in my mind. He said so much to me, many things, but some of his words feel weighted... I had nothing to do with... I’m used to taking the fall...

  Rain taps against the windows, and I finally find the strength to throw off the covers I had yanked over my head. My head is foggy, and as I sit up my body is heavy. I hate California. I hate California rolls. I hate flying from California to Kentucky after eating California rolls. I hate whatever virus I contracted, and I currently hate my revolting body.

  My mouth is a desert, and the water bottle on my bedside table is empty. No doubt I could text Mom for more, no doubt I could open my mouth and whisper her name and she’d come running, but maybe moving out of this room of the Black Death will help me recover.

  I open the door and go down the stairs, my feet cold against the hardwood. The house is unusually quiet and unusually empty. Bet there’s a black flag hanging on a pole out front, warning the world of the plague.

  In the kitchen, there are multiple vases of flowers on the island. With a cold bottle of water from the fridge in hand, I pause when I spot my name on the cards. My forehead furrows, and I open the card attached to the red roses.

  Elle,

  I hope these roses bring a smile to your face like you bring a smile to mine. I miss you. Get well soon.

  Andrew

  The card falls from my grip, and I place a hand over my mouth. I haven’t barfed in hours, but that note made bile crawl up my throat. Like he honestly cares. Wonder who forced him to write that note and why.

  Searching for another sign of life and proof that the aliens I dreamed about last night didn’t invade earth and kill everyone but me, I wander through the house in the direction of Dad’s office. If there’s nobody there, then the world is definitely lost. There’s always someone in this house at work.

  Not a good sign when one of the double doors is open. I step in, and it’s eerily empty.

 
“Mom?” my voice is pathetic and scratchy. “Dad?”

  I should head back upstairs and check my cell, but I’m too tired. Instead, I choose the next best thing—the phone on Dad’s desk.

  When I was a kid I used to love to play in Dad’s massive, cushy leather chair. I’d go round and round until I was so dizzy that if I laid on the floor the earth tilted. I drop into Dad’s chair, and the last thing I want is anything that will make my head confuzzled to the point of puking, so there’s no spinning. At least the type that’s on purpose.

  I pick up the receiver, dial in Mom’s cell, and she answers mid-first ring. “Hello?”

  “Where are you?” I sound like I swallowed sharp rocks.

  “Elle? Why are you calling from your father’s office phone?”

  “Because I’m calling from Dad’s office.” Duh. “I was looking for you guys. Where is everyone?”

  “Your dad isn’t allowing anyone in the house. He wants you to rest, and he didn’t want a lot of noise disturbing you. Are you feeling better?” she asks with the right mix of Mom terror, deep concern and love. “Are you feeling worse? Robert, she’s in your office, and she’s feeling worse.”

  My mouth tips up with her familiar panic. “I’m on my feet. That’s better.”

  Technically, I’m not on my feet, but I did use my feet long enough to travel here.

  “Your dad and I are in the back sunroom meeting with Sean. I’m coming in.”

  “Finish what you’re meeting about. I’m okay. I’ll hang in here for a bit.”

  “Okay, but I’ll be in soon.”

  We both hang up, and I lay my head on the desk as my stomach dances in a very mean way. Maybe I’m dying.

  I’m still losing on bull I had nothing to do with.

  Between fevered dreams about aliens and complete human annihilation, I dreamed of Drix and those words.

  I’m still losing on bull I had nothing to do with.

  What does that mean? Was it just words that fell out during so many other words? But that doesn’t feel right. Drix is methodical. I open my mouth and thoughts tumble out. Drix, on the other hand, thinks. Overthinks. The opposite of me.

  I pick up my head, and the world has a fuzzy haze. My body’s hot, and I drink half of the cold water. I move the mouse on Dad’s computer. The time and date appear in the corner, and it’s like someone kicked my already sore stomach. Crap. I’ve lost not just time, but I’ve lost track of days. The big trip to DC is this weekend.

  It was supposed to be parties and fund-raisers, and Dad said I might meet the president. The president. I would have had thirty seconds. I was going to fill those thirty seconds with something profound, something amazing...something that would have left my father proud.

  I sigh as another wave of dizziness hits. I’m obviously not making Dad proud today.

  I’m still losing on bull I had nothing to do with.

  “What did you mean, Drix?” I whisper.

  I pull up Solitaire on Dad’s computer, but three clicks in and my brain starts to hurt from focusing, so I turn the chair away from the screen. Behind Dad’s desk are binders. A ton of binders. Dad loves to have all of his political stances printed out with bullet points. It helps keep him organized and on task, but he’d better hope the environmentalists never find out how many trees he’s killing.

  In a corner of binders on the floor is one labeled Second Chance Program. Below it is another binder labeled Hendrix Pierce.

  I’m still losing on bull I had nothing to do with.

  “Congratulations, Elle,” Dad says as he enters the room. Even though it’s Wednesday, he must be having a down day as he’s in a T-shirt and jeans. “You hit one of your first milestones of your career in politics.”

  I use my toes to slowly spin in his direction. “Did you congratulate me on being sick?”

  “Politician plague. Shake enough hands, kiss enough babies, and your immune system will finally meet its match.”

  Dad stops short of his desk, and his face falls. “You look bad, Elle.”

  I try to flash him my perfected fake smile. “Why, thank you.”

  Dad rounds his desk and places the back of his hand against my forehead. “You’re burning up.”

  “I’m fine.”

  The I’m-sorry glance he’s giving me says it all, yet he still talks, “You’re not going to DC.”

  Not what I wanted to hear. We had big plans for my birthday in DC, and that’s what I was looking forward to the most—spending time with Mom and Dad.

  “I win this election and you’ll be in DC all the time.”

  If he wins the election... “Am I doing okay? With the election?” Has doing close to everything he’s asked of me and being miserable the entire time been enough for him to forgive me?

  Dad tucks my loose hair behind my ear. “Your mom and I are proud. You’ve followed every direction, and Sean came by to tell me we’re leading in the polls. Hugely. You’ve played a big part in that. Even Sean’s impressed.”

  I sit a little higher. At least I do in my head—in reality I might have slumped lower in the chair. Regardless, I love my dad. Just love him.

  “I know your mom and I have been tough on you, but we know life, and we understand hard life. I came from nothing, you’re mom had so many demons she had to slay to make it out emotionally alive, and look what we have now. We love you, more than we could have imagined loving anyone. We want the best for you.”

  My mom and dad didn’t want children. They were so emotionally scarred from their childhoods that they weren’t convinced that adding to the human population was a good idea. But then there was me. I was a surprise—a happy surprise, I have always been reassured, but a surprise. One, as Mom has said, they have worshipped since seeing two lines on a pregnancy test. I believe them, but sometimes their love is a little intense.

  “Let’s get you back in bed before you puke in my office.”

  I start to move, but then my eyes fall on Drix’s binder again.

  I’m still losing on bull I had nothing to do with.

  “Hey, Dad?”

  “Yes, I’ll carry you.”

  “No, that’s not what I was going to say.” But doesn’t sound like a bad idea. “Why did you choose Drix for the program?”

  Dad’s eyes narrow. “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m curious. How did you know he was the one to take the risk on? Your program was going to succeed or fail on his shoulders. How did you know he was the one? You promised to help end the school-to-prison pipeline, so why did you think Drix was the one to prove it?” I fan myself as a wave of unwanted sick heat hits my head. “When so many things hang in the balance, how did you know you were making the right choice?”

  Dad leans back against his desk and crosses his arms across his chest in a relaxed position. I must be doing something right because he’s going to answer. Typically, my father blows these types of questions off—at least with me.

  “If I talk to you about this, then it stays between us. Part of doing this type of job is learning how to keep information to yourself.”

  “Got it.”

  “Do you understand the pipeline theory?”

  I read about it when Dad proposed the program, and people thought it was a waste of money. “Teens act out at school, sometimes being thrown out over something such as cursing, sometimes something worse. While out of school they commit a crime. They go to juvenile detention, and even though they have classes there, they fall behind in their studies. They get out, don’t do well in school because they are behind, act out, get suspended, commit a crime while on suspension, and end up in juvenile detention again. Rinse and repeat until they turn eighteen and end up in adult prison.”

  “That’s the gist. How did I choose the spokesperson? By making an informed decision. We looked at teens from several different stages of the
pipeline. Ones who had already been in and out of the system several times, to some who were on their second offense, and then there was Hendrix. First offense, a serious first offense, and a history of suspensions at school for fighting. His home life had instability, and teens like him have greater chances of staying in the system once entering.”

  A painful squeeze in my chest. Fighting. Drix said he was scared of returning to who he had been. “But why choose him?”

  “He didn’t fight the charges. Within forty-eight hours of being arrested, he pled guilty. He showed signs of remorse, showed signs of concern for his future, and had an older brother who stepped up and promised to help once Hendrix was released from the program.

  “Unfortunately, there isn’t a lack of teens to choose from, but with so many eyes on an unpopular idea, we knew we had to be conservative with our choices. Make choices with teens who had a better chance at success so we could expand the program to all. Any teen we picked was a risk, but Hendrix was a controlled risk. We had a feeling from day one if we removed him from the situation he was in, showed him who he could be and then returned him to his brother, he’d succeed. His success and his willingness to be the face of the program will pave the way for other teens to escape the pipeline.”

  Individual attention. Individual care. Individual plans created for the individual teen. Lots of money, and anything involving lots of taxpayer money isn’t popular, even if it helps save lives. But my dad, he’s not the guy who makes the choices for the greater good. He understands society won’t work until the voiceless have a voice.

  That’s good because my dad is my hero, and I’d be crushed if he was anything less.

  My fever-induced slow-moving brain rolls through Dad’s explanation, and my eyebrows knit together. “Drix didn’t have a trial?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know he did the crime?”

  “As I said, he confessed.”

  My head begins to pound, a blinding pain, and I rub my temples.

  “You just turned a scary shade of white, Elle, and I don’t like it. Your doctor said you shouldn’t push it.”