Don't Get Caught(56)

I think about who I want to be.

Here are my choices as I see them:

I could just live out the rest of the year, the rest of high school, hell, even the rest of my life playing it as safe as I have for my first sixteen years. Basically, I could Just Max it. It’s certainly the cautious, not get arrested way to go. But Just Max also has no confidence, no friends, and lives his life through movie characters. What good is that?

Or I could go the Not Max route. In the months since letting him surface, Not Max has spoken out, taken risks, and acquired a circle of real friends. Of course, Not Max’s impulsiveness also got him arrested, twice if you count the water tower. And Not Max’s parents don’t trust him anymore, and I sure don’t want that happening again.

So the question is, Just Max or Not Max?

Caution or impulsiveness?

Safety or action?

Silence or noise?

The hell if I know. But I do know what would happen in a heist film—the mastermind would go to his mentor for advice. In The Italian Job, Mark Wahlberg goes to Donald Southerland. In Parker, Jason Stratham goes to Nick Nolte. In Ocean’s Eleven, George Clooney goes to Elliott Gould. I don’t have a mentor—I’ve been flying-by-the-seat-of-my-pantsing it if you haven’t noticed—but I do know someone who fits the characteristics of a mentor, or at least can fill in on short notice. That is, if he’s speaking to me anymore.

? ? ?

“If your mom finds out I was here, she’s going to murder me, you know that, right?” Boyd says.

We’re pulling out of my driveway in Boyd’s truck. He has a Red Bull between his legs and a half-eaten turkey sandwich balanced on one knee. I waited until Dad made his daily noontime phone check-in to make sure I’m in the house (Bonus Heist Rule: Don’t be predictable) before calling Boyd to pick me up. He came without even asking why.

“I know she will. You’re definitely on Mom’s shit list right now. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t have any choice. I talked myself into a corner I couldn’t get out of.”

“Yeah, I’ve been there. Don’t worry about it. So how much time do we have?”

“Thirty minutes maybe,” I say. “Mom makes the afternoon call but never until around two. Sometimes she doesn’t call at all.”

“Or she might be calling right now,” Boyd says.

“There’s nothing I can do about that if she is.”

“You lead a dangerous life, man.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“So then tell me.”

I fill Boyd in on what’s happened since he first rescued me at the school after the water tower. The story takes ten minutes, during which time Boyd finishes his lunch. I end with what I’m struggling with, Dad suggesting I figure out who I want to be. When I finish, Boyd checks the rearview mirror and then does a U-turn in the middle of the road.

“I thought we were going to the barn,” I say.

“Change of plans, man. Field trip time.”

We head toward downtown Asheville, which is made up of a dozen small stores that are inexplicably still in business, two places I don’t want to ever return to—the police station and the Whippy Dip—and what turns out to be our destination: the town’s administrative building. We pull into the building’s parking lot, and Boyd takes a spot in the back, away from the other cars but with a clear view of the front entrance.

“Do you know why your mom doesn’t like me?” Boyd says.

“Because you drink a lot?”

“No, it’s—”

“Because Dad always comes back from your barn smelling like he’s smoked a dozen cigarettes?”

“No, I—”

“Because of that time you and Dad were escorted by the police to the Las Vegas city limits and told not to return?”

“Okay, stop,” Boyd says. “Those are all good reasons that definitely play into why she doesn’t like me, but the main reason is because of that.”

Boyd points to the front of the administrative building, specifically to an archway outside the main entrance. From where we sit, the arch seems to grow out of the earth naturally, like some sort of metal weed pushing through the concrete. Four orange-and-green metal poles twisted together rise fifteen feet into the air before arcing down to the other side of the walkway. It’s your basic arch—nothing more, nothing less.

“One of yours?” I ask.

“So, twenty years ago, your mom and dad were already living their grown-up lives—married with real jobs, thinking about having kids, and living in a house a lot smaller than the one you’re in now. I was doing the struggling-artist thing full time at that point, a lot like I am now but with a lot more struggling. I borrowed money from them a couple times, something I didn’t want to do but had to. Anyway, the city council announced a contest for local artists to design a sculpture that would go right there. The contest was obviously a big opportunity, not only because of the money but also because of the exposure. So I worked on my idea for a couple weeks and came up with something that sort of looked like the pieces I make now. I showed your parents the idea, and your dad liked it, but your mom, man, she hated it. I mean, really hated it. She told me that if I was going to live as an artist, I needed to do something a lot more commercial, because the city council would make their decision based on what the whole town would like. At first I hated the idea, but you know your mom—she kept talking about how this could really launch my career, and eventually she just wore me down and I gave in. I ditched my original idea and presented a new, more commercial concept to the city council. And as you guessed, yeah, that’s the one they chose. The final’s right there in front of you.”