Karma Police: Karma Police Book Two Page 4

  **

  I leave the house with Mom. She says, “Good luck” to Frank.

  After she closes and locks the door, I ask what happened.

  “Frank’s not feeling well. He lost his job yesterday and isn’t sure what happened, so he’s going into work to see if he can’t fix things.”

  I stay quiet, too busy calculating his odds of getting his job back. I’m hoping he can, and not just because it’s my fault he lost it. No, the main reason is so he’s not home. Too much Frank won’t be good for anyone. The quicker he lands on his feet, the safer their household will be.

  Mom looks at me. “I know what you’re thinking. That he got drunk again.”

  I’ll let her continue. Not like I’m going to tell her what I’m really thinking.

  “You should give him a chance. He’s not a bad guy.”

  “Really?” I say, pointing my bruised cheek. “Do good guys hit kids?”

  I hit a nerve. Her eyes are watering, and she looks torn between protecting her son and standing by a man she loves for reasons I — and maybe even she — can’t quite comprehend.

  “I know. He shouldn’t have hit you. He said it was an accident and apologized. I told him if he ever did it again, that’s it. It’s over.”

  “He didn’t apologize to me,” I say, feeling Tommy’s resentment bubbling up.

  I get a flash. This may be the first time he’s hit Tommy, but he’s had other accidents in the past. He’s hit Stacy a number of times, and yet she stays.

  “I don’t care about him hitting me. I don’t want him to ever hit you again. Why do you stay with him?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.” She grabs a tissue from her pocket and blows her nose, fighting hard to stop the tears.

  I hate upsetting her like this. I can tell how much she cares for Tommy. It’s clear in her eyes. I saw it in how quickly she rushed to help clean the spilled milk. I can hear it in her trembling voice.

  “Try me,” I say.

  She looks back at the house. I turn, see Frank standing in the front window, curtain parted, staring at us.

  “Can we talk about this later? How about I leave work early and pick you up from school? We can get ice cream and talk about this whole thing. Okay?”

  Her hopeful smile, the pain and love in her eyes — how can I say no?

  “Okay.”

  She hugs me tight. It feels good.

  I’m not sure if it’s remnants of Tommy’s love for his mother surging through my system, or if these are my honest responses to her warm embrace.

  I have no memories of my own parents, let alone loving hugs. There’s something so comforting about being squeezed by someone who loves you so much — a warmth like no other sensation.

  She pulls away and kisses me on the head. “I love you, Tommy.”

  “I love you, too, Mom.”

  She wipes tears from her eyes, then says, “I’ll see you later.”

  To our right, two houses away, I see Old Man Wilbur, the neighborhood gossip sitting on his porch pretending to read the paper, when everyone knows he’s spying on the street. I’m annoyed that he stole our personal moment, and is documenting it in his tiny round head. If I were in an older body, I might even go over and tell him to mind his own business.

  Stacy gets in her car, waves back at me one more time, then heads to work.

  I walk to the bus stop without looking back. I’m sure if I did, Frank would still be staring from the window.

  **

  The bus stop is on a sidewalk along 112th Terrace, a fairly busy road in the subdivision.

  There are twelve kids here, most sprawled along a guard rail in front of a small lake opening to back yards on either side. While all the kids are sitting within one small area, divisions within the cliques are easy enough to see if you look.

  Then there are a few outcasts at the far end of the rail.

  I pass by all the groups, trying to get a feel for whether any of these are Tommy’s friends. Only after reaching the end do I realize he’s not pals with any of these kids, including the outcasts. He’s all by himself, utterly alone.

  You’d think he’d have at least a friend or two, seeing as these are all neighborhood kids, but no. It’s not that the kids don’t like him, though I get that vibe from a few people eyeballing me as if wanting to start something. For the most part, Tommy seems invisible.

  I sit on the guard rail, grab the Skeleton Crew book from my backpack, and read it until I hear the grinding brakes of the bus pulling up.

  Somehow, I’m first in line when the bus opens its doors, and I step aboard. We’re the first stop, so the bus is empty. I decide to take a seat in the back.

  I focus on my book, mostly to avoid eye contact with anyone until we get to school. A few kids sit two rows ahead of me, but nobody else comes all the way back.

  Do they hate Tommy that much?

  I pretend to read, though it’s hard to focus on the words. I can feel people staring. I hear muffled giggles, and “oohs,” obviously about me, but I can’t figure out what I did to draw their attention.

  Did I wear some criminally out-of-fashion shirt? Do I have a booger hanging out?

  I look in the window, catching enough of my reflection to give my nose the all clear.

  The bus slows then settles. This next stop has double the number of kids. The doors hiss open, and there’s a swell of anticipation in the air. Everyone from my stop is turning back to look at me.

  What the hell is going on?

  Kids from the second stop climb aboard.

  All eyes turn to the newcomers. Then the newcomers look toward the back of the bus, at me, just like everyone else. Their eyes are wide.

  I hate where this is going.

  Then everyone’s attention turns to the front of the bus as a tall, zit-faced muscular kid wearing a retro Iron Maiden shirt climbs aboard. He has long bright red hair and angry red eyebrows. He’s glaring right at me.

  Who the hell is this? And why is he giving me a death ray stare?

  A name pops into my head: Evan Glassman.

  Behind him, four other kids, including two girls — obviously a part of his posse — are also staring.

  “Oh, shit, what is he doing?” says one of the girls, a pretty blonde cheerleader type, laughing at me.

  Evan comes up to me. “What the fuck you doing in my seat, dickbag?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t know this was your seat,” I say, looking up at Evan and his group. Everyone is looking at me like they’re waiting to watch him rip me from limb to limb.

  “Bullshit.” Evan reaches out, grabs my book, and tosses it up the aisle.

  “Hey!” I say, jumping to my feet, pissed.

  I try to see where my book went, but Evan’s goons are blocking my view.

  His eyes widen, seemingly surprised that I stood up to him. “What?”

  “Give me my book back.”

  Evan looks behind him, likely checking to see if the bus driver is paying attention, then turns and punches me hard right in the chest.

  I fall back into the seat, gasping for air.

  Laughter from his friends, who are blocking the driver’s view. So long as he’s quick, Evan can do whatever he wants.

  He leans forward.

  I’m too busy catching my breath to defend myself.

  Instead of hitting me again, the bully grabs my collar, yanks me forward, and hurls me down to the floor. “Get out of our fucking seats, faggot!”

  My knees feel like someone smashed them with a hammer.

  The bus driver, a large black woman with large shades calls back, “Please take your seat.”

  Is she talking to me? Sorry, lady, I just got thrown from my seat! Why isn’t she calling out the junior thug and his friends who are all laughing as they take over the back two rows?

  “Okay,” I say, still trying to catch my breath.

  I stand up, looking up the aisle, searching for a seat.

  I don’t see my book. One of the other kids m
ust’ve grabbed it. Maybe they’re gonna play keep away to torment me further. Fuckers.

  I start up the aisle.

  While most of the seats only have one,or two kids sitting in them, and there’s room for three per row, many of the kids refuse to make room, or look at me. A few even occupy more space and deny me a seat.

  What the hell? Does everyone hate me?

  I make my way toward the front of the bus, unable to find a seat, or anyone willing to share.

  The bus driver raises her voice. “I said find a seat!”

  I’m burning inside. I want to say something, but it will only sound whiney, and give these assholes what they want — to see Tommy in pain.

  I make my way to the front and find a homely looking girl with giant glasses. She’s from my stop. I think her name’s Wendy. She doesn’t look at me, but stays in her spot next to the window, not denying me space.

  “Can I sit here?”

  “I guess,” she shrugs, even though she doesn’t seem particularly happy about the arrangement. Even the outcasts hate Tommy.

  I take my seat.

  “Thank you,” the bus driver says. I look in her big mirror to see the exasperated expression of someone with no time for bullshit.

  The bus rolls forward.

  I turn, looking for my book, actually Stacy’s book, which she had as a teenager, and let Tommy borrow.

  I don’t see it.

  All I see are a bunch of giggling faces and darting eyes, a bus filled with kids complicit in screwing with Tommy.

  Evan is glaring at me from the back. He catches my eyes, raises a finger, and makes a slicing motion across his neck, mouthing the words, “You’re dead.”

  Great.

  We make a few more stops, and more kids board the bus. I try to ignore the giggling and whispers behind me. But it’s clear that I’ve become the highlight of everyone’s morning.

  I pore through Tommy’s memories and realize that until now the boy has managed to fly under Evan’s radar. The bully had moved to town last year and had pushed around a lot of kids since. Somehow, Tommy had avoided tripping his wire.

  Until today.

  Way to go, Ella.

  When the bus finally gets to school, I’m torn between getting off as quickly as possible — easy since I’m in the first row — and staying behind to look for my book, which is likely lying on the floor under one of the seats. I don’t want to lose Stacy’s book. I can feel Tommy’s sentimental attachment. Or hell, maybe I’ve developed an attachment. Either way, I want to feel it in my hands.

  I let Wendy off, then sit and wait for everyone else to disembark.

  As the procession makes its way, I keep my head down, not wanting to meet any stares or acknowledge their mocking. I hear the snide comments: You done did it now, dork; Way to go, Tommy; Man, that was dumb.

  My heart races as the back of the bus begins to empty. I know Evan and his crew are going to say something, but with the bus driver sitting a few feet away, I figure I’m relatively safe.

  Then I feel something hit the seat beside me.

  I look down, it’s my book, or what remains of it — cover ripped off, and several pages shredded. What’s left looks like a dog has been playing with it all morning.

  Evan leans toward me and whispers, “Here’s your book, faggot.”

  Then he punches me hard on the arm.

  I resist the urge to cry out and give him the satisfaction of knowing he hurt me.

  I look up and meet his eyes.

  Again he mouths, “You’re dead.”

  Then he steps off the bus, and I’m all alone, fighting my tears.

  **

  Despite the rocky morning, the school day’s okay. For one, Tommy’s best friend, Danny, hung out with me at lunch in the hall outside art class, commiserating over the morning’s events. As lonely as I felt on the bus, having at least one friend helped me feel less alone.

  Danny is a big-time geek, but not an outcast like Tommy. His brother, Dale, is on the high school football team, so he inherited some coolness by association. Having a popular older brother also insulates him from the bullies, and has emboldened him to be quite a smart ass.

  “You want me to do something?” Danny had asked.

  I told him thanks but no. Just having him to share a laugh with was helpful.

  Fortunately, Evan isn’t in any of Tommy’s classes, and when the 3:30 end-of-day bell rings, I don’t have to take the bus home and receive my death sentence. I stand in the car line with Danny, who is waiting for his brother to get him.

  “You sure you don’t want a ride with us? I mean, you’ll have to watch Dale practice, but hey, there are hot cheerleaders. High school cheerleaders,” he says with a grin.

  “Thanks, but Mom wants to talk to me about something. Plus, ice cream.”

  “Sorry, dude, cheerleaders beat ice cream all day every day.”

  I laugh. Then an awful thought finds me. What if Tommy doesn’t remember this morning’s incident? He needs to be on his guard tomorrow, otherwise Evan might blindside him. While we’re having ice cream, I can ask Mom to take me to school in the morning. But what about on the way home?

  Maybe I can get a ride home with Danny and Dale tomorrow. It’s only one day, but maybe that’ll be enough for Evan to forget about Tommy and find some fresh meat to mess with.

  “Hey, can I go with you tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow we’re going to Grandma’s after school. Maybe next time?”

  “That would be awesome.”

  Mom’s car pulls up, and I say goodbye to Danny. Time for a talk about Frank.

  With any luck, the assassin found and killed him. Maybe we’ll come home to an empty house. Sure, Stacy will be upset and probably scared, but they’ll both be better off.

  **

  We’re at Johnny J’s All-Night Diner, a cozy ’50s-themed restaurant along a wooded highway. As we take a spot in a cherry red leather-backed booth, the gray sky opens to let loose a torrent.

  “Guess we’ll be here a while,” Stacy says looking outside as lightning flashes.

  Good, more time for the assassin to find and kill Frank.

  I’d hate to get home while the assassin is there, and risk either Tommy or Stacy getting killed, too.

  As we wait for the waitress in her ’50s poodle skirt to bring us drinks, Stacy calls Frank.

  “Hey, honey, just calling to see how it went. Tommy and I are at Johnny J’s if you want to join us. Give me a call. We were gonna have ice cream, but it’s raining awfully hard, so I think we’ll make it dinner and ice cream. Hope everything went well. Love you.”

  As I sit there watching Tommy’s mom, a part of me wants to tell her about the bus ride. Tell her about the jerks who ripped up her Skeleton Crew book, and how I’ve now made enemies with Evan Glassman, one of the school’s biggest assholes.

  But I don’t want to put any more on her plate than is already there. Plus, I’m not sure if this is the sort of thing that Tommy would prefer not to tell her. Who knows how she’ll react, and if she might make things worse for him at school? Maybe it’s best to lie low for a while, see how things shake out. Maybe the whole Evan thing will blow over. If not, maybe Danny can get Dale to intervene. This is a problem that Tommy can probably handle, if he’s as resourceful as I hope he is.

  It’s hard to tell, though, what Tommy is like. If Frank was almost ever present in his body while I was controlling it, shading every thought with his anger, Tommy is almost the opposite. I can hardly get a bead on his personality, beyond how other people treat him. Well, at least in how Danny and his mother treat him, like a good kid dealing with a shitty situation.

  Stacy hangs up.

  “So, how was your day?” she asks.

  “Okay, I guess. Yours?”

  “Let’s just say I’m glad I could get out early. We ought to do this more often.”

  “Your boss didn’t mind you leaving early?”

  “He’s on a trip this week, so it was just Judy,
and she was cool.”

  “Good,” I say, wondering how we’re going to broach the subject we’re here to discuss.

  The waitress brings our drinks, two cherry colas.

  “Y’all decide what you want yet, or you need a few minutes?”

  “We need a few minutes,” I say.

  I look over the menu searching for something I’m in the mood to eat. Most of the food is greasy fried stuff, but I’m in a young, healthy body, so I can splurge. When the waitress comes back, I order a cheeseburger and fries.

  Stacy orders the same, and the waitress leaves. I slide the menus behind the napkin dispenser at the edge of our table, just under the window.

  Stacy makes small talk, and I endure for a while until I feel like she’s delaying the topic. I cut to the chase.

  “Why are you still with him? You must know that you can do better, right?”

  She looks surprised. Not sure if it’s too adult a comment from Tommy, or simply too blunt for her son.

  “It’s not like that.”

  “What is it like?”

  “I love Frank. He came along at a difficult time in my life, in our lives. Your father really screwed things up. Frank saved us.”

  Ah, Tommy’s father.

  Memories fill in the details. He was a drug dealer, high end, cocaine mostly. But he wasn’t like the drug dealers you see on TV. He wasn’t a gangster. He didn’t carry a gun, at least not that Tommy knew about. He was a car salesman who happened to make some money on the side selling narcotics. We lived in a nice house, Mom was happy, and life was good.

  But then he got nabbed; no one’s sure how. Then we lost nearly everything, seized by federal agents. Tommy’s father was killed in a prison yard fight, which devastated both Tommy and his mom. She had to work for the first time in years, and they lived in a crappy apartment for two years before she met Frank.

  He was a blue-collar guy but made decent money — and was nice, in the beginning.

  “Frank didn’t save us, Mom. You did. You got a job, you worked through all of this. And we were fine before he came along.”

  “Fine? We had a crappy apartment in the state’s worst school district. I can’t even imagine you going to school there.”