Sick Read online

  Chad grunts and slams his boot against the accelerator, his Mohawk catching the midmorning sunlight. The wagon fishtails. We shoot through the gate, skid a bit on Scarlet Avenue … then we’re free.

  I look back at the school. Bill stops at the gate, shaking his head. He limps out of his cart and throws the switch to shut the gate. It rolls to a close, and Bill locks it, imprisoning all who are inside.

  Jack pumps both fists. “Yes!” he shouts. “Jailbreak, free and clear.”

  A lot of people say their school is like a prison, but Jack’s not kidding about ours. The entire campus is surrounded by a seven-foot iron fence with spikes at the top—as in, the ends are flattened into diamond shapes that can tear up a pair of jeans. The fence is painted white, to make it less imposing, I guess, but the fact is if you don’t have a pass and the gate is closed, your ass is trapped inside. Unless, like us, you’re used to jumping the fence.

  Most people aren’t used to it. Definitely not the girls. Just saying.

  The three of us, plus Hollis, have climbed the fence many times, especially during lunch freshman and sophomore years, before anyone had a vehicle. But you have to be slow and careful about it, because if you slip, you just might impale yourself on one of those spikes. I’ve seen pictures on the Internet of some thief who literally tore his own head off trying to jump a fence like ours. Well, screw that. Lunch at Taco Hell isn’t worth it. If you take your time and don’t rush, it’s pretty easy to climb, though.

  Early in our freshman year, two juniors were killed in a car wreck right where the gate is now, back when it was an open campus. Several editorials and complaints by parents later, the whole school got locked down. To “protect us.” Nobody factored in that keeping two thousand teenagers locked in one place all day is an excellent way to shorten tempers.

  Violence has increased every year at PMHS since the fence went up. Sophomore year, we had a riot. No exaggeration. That’s how we ended up with the bag-search rule. The school did a good job covering it up in the news, calling it an “altercation,” but I was there; it happened. Three kids ended up in the hospital, four expelled, ten suspended. Chad was one of those ten, suspended for “instigating student disharmony.” How’d he do that? He was watching the fights. How do I know that? I was standing right beside him. But I didn’t have a blue Mohawk, so nothing happened to me. And nothing happened to the swim team pricks who were beating the almighty shit out of some stoners. I watched the swim coach pulling his boys out of the mess so they wouldn’t get busted. Everyone else who actually started or took part in the riot got away clear.

  So, no, I don’t feel at all guilty for ditching that cesspool. We’re seniors, and as such, we are expected to know better. Somehow … we don’t. School’s over in, what, six months? College, the military, working for the old man—wherever life is going to take us come summer, there doesn’t seem to be much point in being super-responsible until absolutely necessary.

  “Aw, man, that was killer,” Jack says, stretching into his seat. “Where are we going?”

  “My place,” Chad says as we cross Twenty-Eighth Street, past the southeast corner of campus. “We got food.”

  “Excellent,” Jack says. “I’m in the mood for anything whose instructions include the phrase ‘Until golden brown.’”

  “Golden Brown,” I say. “That could be your rap star name.”

  And we all laugh like the idiots we are. Ditching kicks ass.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and see Mom’s number. I almost answer it before realizing she must be calling to leave a message. She knows I should be in class. So I let it ring and put it back in my pocket. I’m hoping Mom will get me an iPhone for Christmas, because my phone sucks. Just texts and calls. The hell’s the point?

  Chad thumps his thumbs on the steering wheel. “Wish Kenzie woulda come,” he grunts.

  “Dude,” I say. “For one, she’s a sophomore. For two, that’s my sister, man.”

  “So what if she’s a sophomore?” Chad says, skipping right over the whole sister thing. “She’s sixteen. She’ll be seventeen by the time me’n you graduate.”

  “Because she missed a year.”

  Chad manages to both roll his eyes and nod grudgingly. He knows.

  “Plus you’re shipping out come June anyway,” I add.

  It comes out a lot more dickish than I meant. Chad’s the kind of guy who’s either going to wind up in jail or become a cop. Partly, I’m glad he joined the Marines, because it suits him. But he’ll be gone four years. And probably going to war, the way things stand. So what if I’m going to California? I can come home, see my family. And by family, I mean Chad, Hollis, Cammy—plus Kenzie and Mom, of course. Everyone. I don’t think Chad will exactly get a lot of spring breaks in the Corps.

  Chad shoots me a narrow glare, and I turn away.

  “I just mean you wouldn’t have a lot of time with her,” I say.

  “I hear ya,” Chad says. “I’ll miss you too, ya cockgobbler. So what was all that with Laura, huh?”

  I appreciate the topic change, but not the new topic.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Did she seem different to you?”

  “Yeah,” Chad goes. “Like, not quite so out of it. You gonna hang with her tonight?”

  “Probably.”

  “You’re getting back together?” Jack says, draping his arms and chin over the bench seat. “Hell, yeah. If I was you, I’d bend that woman backwards.”

  “I’m going to hacksaw your face off in a second,” I tell him. He laughs.

  “That ain’t why you broke up, though, right?” Chad demands. “’Cause of the sex thing?”

  “That was never it,” I say. “I didn’t end it over sex.”

  “Or lack thereof,” Jack says.

  “Shut up.”

  “What?” Jack says. “She wasn’t doing it, right?”

  I shake my head, more at Jack than as an answer. The reality is, Laura’s pills have side effects, lots of them, one of which is “decreased sex drive.” Yeah, tell me about it. We got together and stuff, but not as often as I wanted. I mean, she’s hot. I can’t help that. But that wasn’t why I broke up with her.

  “It ain’t her fault, you know,” Chad says.

  “I know it’s not her fault,” I say. “But dude, we didn’t go anywhere. We always had to be at her house or mine. I mean, even when I talked her into going to a movie, it had to be during the day, at this certain theater, and the movie had to have been out for a long time so there wouldn’t be a big crowd … just on and on. She’d do everything in her power to avoid having an attack. That was the problem. It’s exhausting. I know it’s a legit issue, no question, but she never tried to get better at dealing. She just never worked hard enough at it.”

  “Oh, yeah? How hard did you work to help her?”

  “What do you think I’m doing right now?” I say. “Look, I know it sounds like I’m this egotistical asscrack who thinks he craps golden rainbows. But maybe not being with her will be what helps. You know? If she has to make it on her own, maybe that’ll do something. Like the assembly. You think she’d be going if we were still together?”

  “So you’re helping her by ditching her,” Jack says.

  “I’m not ditching her,” I say. “I don’t ditch people. Not unless they ditch me first.”

  “How long were you together? Like, a year and a half?” Chad says.

  “Just about.”

  “That’s five years of marriage in high school time,” Jack notes.

  “See, that’s what I’m sayin’,” Chad goes. “You had all this time with her. I’d take from now till summer with Mackenzie, no problem.”

  Ah. So that’s where all this was really headed. Should’ve known.

  “Dude, you don’t need my permission to ask Kenzie out,” I say.

  “Yeah, he does,” Jack argues. “It’s not like you’re gonna let Kenzie put out for him, right?”

  “Jack, do you hear yourself when you
talk?”

  “Eh. I tune in and out.”

  I whip my left hand up so it catches Jack’s nose. He yelps and falls back. Chad laughs. Jack cusses me out; I cuss him out.

  Still rubbing his nose, Jack says, “Hey, you hear about the fight this morning?”

  “What fight?” Chad goes, perking up.

  “Couple of guys in first period, in the gym,” Jack says. “I heard they, like, went to town on each other. I hear some stoner dude got a finger bit off!”

  “No way, man,” I say. “Something like that happened, we’d know it. It’d be all over school. News travels fast. It’s viral.”

  “Prolly just a shove match,” Chad says. “But it ain’t that hard to bite off a finger.”

  “Personal experience talking there?” I ask.

  Jack laughs, but Chad just glares. So I punch him hard on the shoulder, which doesn’t amount to much through his leather. Chad cheers at the inherent permission I’ve just given him, and belts me one back. Which I do feel.

  Still. Beats being in school.

  WE’RE STOPPED AT A RED LIGHT ABOUT A BLOCK from Chad’s street when he suddenly gives an intense look to our left, then our right.

  “It seem dead out here to you guys?” he says.

  Jack and I sort of look around.

  “Guess so,” Jack says. “Not much traffic today.”

  It’s almost lunchtime, and there are a lot of office buildings and stuff down this way. Usually, ditching fourth hour, we’d have to add ten minutes to the drive for traffic, but today it’s almost deserted.

  “Hey, if it gets us more time away from school, let’s ride that pony,” I say.

  We get to Chad’s and climb out. His mom’s working, so we have the place to ourselves. It’s just the two of them, and the house is kind of small, but Chad keeps the front yard looking good for his mom. The grass practically shines, and grapevines curl up along white trellises near the driveway.

  Chad nukes a few pizzas for us, and we take them up to the roof with some other snacks. We go up to the roof only because we can. You know. Cooler. Different. Plus the weather is great.

  “Hey!” Jack says, pointing to the box of cookies I’m eating out of. “That’s Brian’s rap name. Nilla Wafah!”

  I gesture to Chad’s saltines. “So Chad’s name is … Salty Cracka.”

  We all laugh like total dorks. Jack starts to list off various foods we could use to nickname ourselves. Twinkie da Kid, Apple Fillin, and Chocolate Puddin top the list.

  Still giggling idiotically, we’re starting to crumple up our trash when a little white Toyota pickup sputters around the corner and stops by the curb. We shout at Hollis as he climbs slowly out of the truck. He does not shout back.

  Hollis saved up for that car for years because he hated getting up at ass o’clock in the morning to catch a city bus to PMHS. South High School, in his part of town, closed a few years back, and now half the students from there come up here. Hollis calls the pickup “Whitey,” which we think is pretty funny. I always wonder how cheer captain Cammy feels being seen in a beat-up old truck, but I’d never ask. My guess is the girls on the team, most of whom are white—or, in some cases, orange—are smart enough to not give her grief about her boyfriend’s car.

  “What the hell’s up with him?” Jack says as Hollis shuffles up the lawn.

  “Cammy told Laura he was out sick, but I don’t know with what,” I say.

  I didn’t know a black kid could be pale, but Hollis is. He walks toward the carport, his hands shaking beside his hips, his whole torso bent and stooped over in the shape of a C.

  “What’s up, ninjas?” he calls weakly.

  Me, Chad, and Jack jump off the roof. Sweat rolls off Hollis in rivers. He’s wearing a blue T-shirt, and a white bandage is wrapped around one wrist. He scratches absently at it.

  “Dude … what the hell, man?” Chad asks.

  “Dunno,” Hollis grunts. “Caught something. Mom’s got it too. People at work. It’s going around, I guess.”

  “Why’d you bring it here?” Chad demands. “Damn, dude! I don’t wanna be gettin’ all sick!”

  “Naw, man,” Hollis says. “It’s not like that.”

  “Hell’s it like?” Jack says. “Because you look like crap, Holl.”

  “Dunno,” Hollis says again, and tries to straighten his posture. The effort makes him wince, and he gives up. “Some kinda flu, something. Back’s killing me, man.”

  “You should seriously get checked out,” I tell him. “Jack’s right, you look terrible.”

  “Yeah, tried that,” Hollis says. “Urgent care was all backed up, and the ER woulda taken hours. So I skipped it. Saw the Draggin’ Wagon, thought I’d stop by, you know.”

  He coughs big, whooping barks and pulls his shirt away from his neck like it’s choking him. Something on his skin catches in the sunlight and sparkles. Sweat, I assume. But it doesn’t look quite like sweat.

  “Where are you headed?”

  “School,” Hollis says, wincing.

  “What? Why?”

  Hollis smirks sickly. “Gotta see my girl do her thing sixth and seventh at the rally. Promised her. Had to get out the house anyway. Let my sister take care of Kyle. She’s feeling okay.”

  He coughs again, a thick, disgusting sound that makes my nose wrinkle. He sounds like a lifelong smoker about to die from emphysema. The cough is so strong it pulls Hollis several feet away from us, his hands gripping his back like the effort makes his spine hurt. He spits something yellow onto the lawn.

  “Man, seriously,” I say. “Go to the doctor. No kidding.”

  The coughing fit subsides, and Hollis rubs his chest. I think I hear something crackle under his shirt. Some kind of necklace, I guess. Maybe that’s what I saw glimmering on his chest.

  “Dude, Holl, I’m sorry,” Jack goes as Hollis gets his breath back.

  Hollis only nods painfully.

  “When did it start?” I ask.

  “This morning.”

  “How’s your mom?”

  “Sick,” Hollis says. “Real bad.”

  “Worse than you?”

  “Maybe. Yeah. She went to work, though. ’Course.”

  “Maybe you should call someone,” Jack says. “I mean, if it’s the whole family, and if your mom’s worse than you—”

  Hollis waves him off. “She’ll be okay,” he says. “You know how she is. Don’t wanna make a fuss. Workaholic.” He tries to laugh but coughs instead. He scratches at the bandage again.

  I point to his wrist. “What’s up with that?”

  “Aw, man,” Hollis whines. “Kyle. Bit me during breakfast.”

  “Bit you?” Jack goes, and laughs. “What’s he, like, a vampire now? Is he pale and stylish and painfully handsome?”

  Hollis grins wearily, looking down at the bandage. “Naw. He’s all sick too, right, and Ma told me to take his temperature before she left for work, and bitch bit my arm. He was going all kindsa crazy, man.”

  “That sucks,” I say. Kyle’s only seven. Cool little kid.

  “Yeah,” Hollis says. “Well, I better go. Gotta check in with the man before they’ll let me on campus, I guess.”

  “Hey, you know I love Cammy,” Chad says, “but get your ass to the doctor. Cammy’ll understand.”

  “Naw, I want to see her, it’s all good,” Hollis says. “Make me feel better, maybe.”

  “Well, fuck Principal Winsor, dude,” Jack says. “You don’t need to check in with anyone just to go to a pep rally.”

  “I’m blackety-black, son,” Hollis says with a pained smile. “Winsor doesn’t want me scaring all the whiteys without a pass.”

  The rest of us laugh. I wouldn’t say that Principal Winsor is a racist, but Hollis is right. The black and Latino kids who aren’t athletes don’t exactly get four-star treatment at our school. It’s such crap. Rumor is, Winsor was pissed when South High closed and we got a bunch of new students like Hollis, and he’s been looking for a new job ever since. />
  “I’ll see you all later,” Hollis says. “Peace.”

  “Feel better, man,” I call as Hollis climbs slowly back into Whitey. His chin nearly touches the top of the steering wheel, he’s so hunched over.

  Just as Hollis turns the corner, I hear three pops in the distance, like pok pok pok.

  The three of us freeze and tilt our heads.

  “Was that a gun?” Jack says, looking at Chad.

  Chad squints at nothing. “Maybe,” he says. “Handgun.”

  “Probably firecrackers,” I say. “Unless we’re missing a sweet bank rob—”

  Two more noises cut me off, bigger bangs that echo: KA-shoom, KA-shoom.

  “That was a shotgun,” Chad announces. “No doubt about it.”

  We wander into the street, even though the sounds were way too far away to be anything happening within eyesight. Chad’s neighborhood is pretty safe, far as I know. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear gunshots where Cammy and Hollis live, but not out here.

  We wait around a few more minutes but don’t hear anything else. I shrug, and my friends shrug back at me. We go into the house and Chad flips on the TV. It’s tuned to local news.

  “And coming up,” this plastic Barbie news anchor says, “disturbances at several area hospitals bring out the police in force.” They cut to a shot of Phoenix Memorial Hospital. “We’ll take you live to—”

  Chad flicks the remote, and a game show comes on.

  “That’s where Hollis’s mom works,” I say. It’s not far from my mom’s office, about ten miles from school. Hollis’s mom does medical coding or something.

  “Jeopardy!?” Jack goes, confused.

  “No, man, Phoenix Memorial.”

  I get a text from Kenzie just then. I check the time; the lunch bell must’ve just rung at school. Kenzie sends me a few of these friendly messages pretty much every day:

  You suck. :)

  I text back: Thanks Mack!!! :)

  She writes: Ha ha. You at chads?

  Me: Yep. And then I remember to check my messages. Mom’s left one. I call my voice mail.

  “Hi, sweetie, it’s Mom,” she says, like I didn’t know that. “Listen, I need you and Mackenzie to handle dinner tonight, okay? I got called out of town, and I don’t think I’ll make it back till late. Please do not have a bunch of people over, all right? See you later. Love you.”