Wicked Restless

I didn’t help things by acting like an idiot. At least I wasn’t threatening.

Of course, now I can’t find Emma. I drove by her house every morning this week, and their cars were always gone. I looked for her in PE every day, but she was missing from the line of girls racing up the steps or out from the locker room. After my morning drive-by on Friday, when I got a strange look from the woman who lives across the street, I finally broke down and asked Dwayne where Emma was. He checked with the office for me and said her parents signed her out for the week.

I know she isn’t gone because of me. But there’s also that fucked-up little voice in the back of my head that’s working real hard at convincing me that yeah, she’s gone because of me. I creeped her out. Her parents hate me. She’s moved back to Delaware—fleeing the entire state of Illinois because Andrew Harper is bad news.

The only thing that’s made me feel better is skating, and I’ve been extra rough with the guys who’ve shown up to scrimmage this week. One of them finally had enough, and checked me back, then took his elbow to my chin hard, cracking my lip open.

I’ve been sitting on the other side of the glass, spitting, for the last fifteen minutes. Chris, the dude who popped me in the face, stopped by to apologize. I flipped him off.

“Look at baby Harper,” a voice calls from behind me. I twist in my seat, wincing at the deep bruise Chris apparently left on my ribs. I’m able to shift enough to see my brother’s friend House in my periphery. House is kind of an asshole, but he’s harmless. And he was glued to Owen for most of my life; when he moved away, it was kind of like losing another brother.

“Dude, what are you doing in town?” I say, standing, but holding the washcloth to my mouth while I slap House’s hand with my free one.

“Yo, Indiana sucks worse than this shithole,” he says, spitting his tobacco into a cup he’s carrying. That cup—it’s fuckin’ disgusting.

“Yeah, well, I could have told you that. If you want change, you need to go to the city, or some place like Vegas or California, man,” I say, testing the bloodstain on the rag I’ve been holding to my mouth. The blood is less, so I toss the cloth on top of my borrowed equipment on the floor.

“Your lip’s all fucked up, dude. What happened?” he says, reaching his hand toward my face as if to touch it. I smack his hand away, but he does it again. He keeps doing it until I punch his arm. “Look at that, baby Harper’s growing up, and he’s feisty.”

“Dude, whatever,” I roll my eyes and bend down to pick up my things to return to the counter. “It’s nothing. I just took a jab to the face.”

“You Harpers, always getting hit in your pretty-boy faces,” he says, pulling himself up to sit on the counter while I hand my things over to Gary and toss the bloody cloth into the trash.

“Whatever, man,” I say, stepping toward the door and encouraging House to follow. He isn’t quiet, and people are already starting to watch us suspiciously. House—he’s like a warning siren for a shit-storm of trouble.

He follows me out to the parking lot, to my car, and when he whistles, my chest feels a little fuller. There are few people who will recognize this car—my brother and House are at the top of that list.

“Damn, that old man finally sold it. Or…wait, did you lift this shit?” he says, stepping back with his hands in the air.

“Fuck off. Mom bought it, but I have to pay her back,” I say, cracking open the door, not even minding the sound it makes.

“You are the good son,” he teases, pushing me out of the way and sitting in the driver’s seat. “Ohhhhhh, baby Harp. This shit is fast, yo? Hey…you got time? I’m dying to see it open up.”

I glance at my phone as if I have anywhere to be. It’s not quite lunchtime on Saturday, and the girl I’m stalking is nowhere to be found, so I look back up at him and let my grin grow slowly.

“Yeah haaa haaa,” he says, slapping at the top of the steering wheel. He reaches for the keys, but I only open the door as wide as it will go. He gets out with a chuckle, then jukes toward me like he wants to grab my keys. I don’t flinch, because House has been doing shit like that to me for years. Maybe I see him coming now, or maybe I’m just so used to it I don’t juke for anyone any more. I think the latter might be the case, and I also think that’s maybe why I let Chris punch me with his elbow about twenty minutes ago.

House gets into the passenger side, and I buckle up and wait for him to do the same. He rolls his eyes at me, but he does it anyhow. I look around the lot, and when I confirm it’s empty, I fishtail backward from my spot until I hit the roadway, then I punch it and feel the tires grip after a few seconds of burnt rubber and smoke. The back end slides for the first hundred yards, but I straighten everything out—careful not to punch the gas until we hit the edge of town.