More Than Good Enough(28)

It was just fate and genetics that tied us together. That’s all.

Light slid across the grass. Uncle Seth walked out of his house. He was usually in there watching game shows with his girlfriend.

“Get up,” Dad told me. “Stand like a man.”

I didn’t move.

“Everything okay?” Uncle Seth called out.

“This ain’t your business. Got that? It’s between me and him.”

Uncle Seth flicked his gaze in my direction. “Why don’t you head inside and we’ll talk it out?”

“You heard what I said.”

Dad turned and I made a lunge for the backpack. I tightened my grip around the strap and hauled it closer. My hands shook as I yanked the zipper, felt the gun’s plastic handle wrapped in my sweatshirt. I didn’t plan on doing anything stupid. Like I told Pippa, it wasn’t loaded. I just wanted to scare the shit out of him.

The .357 Mag fit in my palm like it was meant to be there. I looped my finger around the trigger—a major rule-breaker, unless you meant to blow somebody away. Got up on my feet. Stood like a man. Exactly what Dad had told me to do.

When he saw the gun, his expression shifted. “Give me that thing. Shit. You don’t even know how to operate it.”

“Yeah? You want proof?”

Man, it felt good telling him off. And I wasn’t done yet. There was a lot Dad needed to hear. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the chance.

He clamped onto my arm, wrenching so tight I groaned. We staggered around the yard. I shoved all my weight into him. He wobbled against me, crushing down on my shoulder.

But he was still drunk, and I was the stronger one. I knew that now.

An explosion of noise rocked through my fist. I was so freaked out I tossed the gun. It skittered across the driveway. The smell of metal sharpened the air. My ears were ringing and I’d forgotten how to breathe.

I gawked at the Mag, the way it glinted on the pavement. Why the hell was it loaded? Dad was always grilling me on the Ten Commandments of Fire Arms Safety. Rule numero uno: Keep nothing in the chamber.

Smoke draped the trees like gauze. I stood there, breathing in slow-motion, trying to decide what to do. If Dad caught me moving toward the gun, he’d see where it had landed and grab it first. I thought about Pippa, trapped in the car. No way could I ditch her. She was the one shining thing in the void I called my life.

I had to choose.

Stay or go.

I was stuck on pause, unable to move or make a decision, until a siren tugged me back to consciousness. It sounded so fake—a TV sound effect. A pair of spinning halos swooped over the house, shifting back and forth, red to blue. I squinted in the brightness.

Then I ran.





ten



Houses zoomed past me, one after another, all facing north. Each came with a chickee hut, a satellite dish, and at least two SUVs—the basic necessities of life. Everybody on the Rez planted little backyard gardens for the Green Corn Dance in summer. You’re supposed to plant the seed and take care of it. There’s a big celebration, lots of dancing and singing, and the boys get new names.

It was all about letting go of mistakes and starting over again.

This was supposed to be my home, but I didn’t have a freaking clue where to go. I hadn’t done much exploring since moving to the Rez. It was just another neighborhood, twenty miles outside Miami.

Why was I running like a criminal? My dad was the one who’d f*cked up. You could say he’d made a career out of it. Now I was dealing with his garbage on top of everything else, as if I needed an excuse to hate myself. That was the easy part.

I ran until my lungs burned. When I couldn’t gulp another breath, I doubled over and puked in the grass. The sickness came in waves. At first I’d think it was done, then my stomach made other plans.

As I wiped my mouth, I glanced at the concrete valley surrounding me. Somehow I’d landed in a skate park. Who knew the Rez had an awesome spot like this? Man, if I’d lived here as a kid, I’d have been skating here every damn minute, popping ollies off those sweet-looking ramps. Maybe I’d actually have mastered the art of kickflipping. I wasn’t learning any new tricks now. I was seventeen. In other words, old.

Seventeen used to sound light-years away. What would I be doing then? Touring the world and partying with my band in true rock-star fashion? I didn’t have a band. I hardly picked up my Gibson. It was scratched to hell. The E string was busted and I needed a new amp. Of course, Dad had promised to get this stuff for me. Like most of his endless promises, it never happened.

I walked up the half-pipe and crouched at the top, dangling my feet over the edge. My ribs ached. All of a sudden, I was sweating like crazy. It felt like I was suffocating. I unlaced my sneakers and peeled them off. Tossed them in a pile next to a Red Bull can that somebody had crushed on the pavement.

The street lamp clicked on and off, as if it couldn’t decide what to do: light up the peach-colored concrete, or fold the park in a darkness so thick it almost had a taste. I sat there, feeling sorry for myself. Thinking about Pippa, telling her all kinds of embarrassing shit I’d never say out loud. Take sex, for example. I should’ve waited instead of rushing into it. At the time, it was just something to get over with. No use lying.

Would she ever talk to me again?

Everybody at school used to make fun of us. They called her my girlfriend back in fifth grade. Whatever. They were idiots. And it’s weird because I wouldn’t even touch her whenever we said goodbye. It became this big joke. She’d grab me and I’d back away, fake coughing like her hugs were a cloud of Black Death.