Also Known as Rowan Pohi Read online

  Cody grinned. " Apeshit!"

  My brother was like a myna bird when it came to repeating my father's curses. If he heard a swear even once, it got stuck in his head forever.

  "Don't say that," I told him.

  "But Daddy did."

  I ignored him and glanced at my father. "So what did you do?"

  "I says, Okay, fine," my father said. "You wanna play stupid, I can play stupid too. I had Jimmy take out the new water pump and put back the old one. What a fruitcake!"

  While my father was talking I tried not to stare at his hands, which were bigger and darker than the rest of his body. It was as if a larger man's hands had somehow been grafted onto his arms. At CarWorks, my father's hands got coated in every kind of oil, lubricant, and engine grime you could imagine. After twenty years, all those greasy fluids had soaked into his skin. He used a special soap that washed off the filth, but only the top layer. The other stuff was still there just below the surface. His hands would never be deep-down clean.

  Turf finally caught the fly she had been chasing. She curled up a few feet from the table, allowing us to hear the sound of the trapped fly buzzing around in her mouth. You'd think Turf would swallow it, but she kept that fly in there, alive, flying around. Cody giggled.

  "That is one wacked-out cat," my father declared.

  After supper we cleaned the kitchen. He turned on the Sox game. I put on my gym shoes and went out for a run.

  Running right after supper seems like a bad idea, but it didn't bother me. You've got an iron stomach, Mom used to say. My belly might be stuffed with spaghetti and garlic bread, but I didn't want to miss running, not for anything. It was the one time of day that really felt like mine.

  We didn't live in the worst part of the city, but our neighborhood had definitely seen better days. Running down Robertson I passed two liquor stores, a pawnshop, and a bank, followed by Luquer's, a secondhand clothes store. The next block was a row of apartment buildings and then a huge, faded brick building.

  Welcome to my high school.

  The school was named Riverview High, except a few years ago they erected two wide office buildings on the west side, eliminating any view of the river. I guess nobody thought to change the name. Through the chainlink fence you could see the parking lot all torn up by construction. The school board passed an improvement plan to add parking spaces and a running track, but it got halted last year due to the newest round of budget cuts. In two weeks I would begin my sophomore year.

  I passed the school, crossed onto Cherry, and headed south toward People's Park, which ran along the reservoir. I did four long blocks, then crossed diagonally through Wilson Square before heading west on Birch. It was a clear evening, and I found myself chasing a lazy red sun.

  Some people do complicated things when they run: monitor their stride, breathe in rhythm, and keep their hands low. For me, running has always felt as natural as walking or breathing: I just ran. I never thought a lick about it. And I was fast too, faster than any kid in my grade.

  The reservoir appeared on the left. Sunlight glistened on the water while I ran along the boardwalk. This was my favorite part of the day. I pretended the lake was mine. Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed ripples in the water, probably a fish rising to the surface to feed. Maybe later I'd take my imaginary girlfriend out in my imaginary boat and do some fishing. Fish like to feed at twilight. I got a whiff of chicken cooking on a grill, and the smell made my mouth water, even though I'd already eaten.

  I ran along the reservoir: stride, stride, stride, stride. A line of huge ancient elms blocked any view of the sunset, but glancing in the other direction I could see the distant buildings of Whitestone up on the hill, looking down over the city.

  I tried not to think about Whitestone, but I couldn't help it. Beyond the hype and the snob factor, it really was a terrific school with A-list teachers. First class all the way, Mom used to say, and I had no reason to doubt her. More than once I wondered if I might fit in better at a school like that. At Riverview, kids called you geekster or nerdling if you dared show any interest in history or literature, so I had to hide that side of myself. Kids at Whitestone really wanted to learn, from what I'd heard, so there was nothing wrong with paying attention or speaking up in class.

  Two girls waved as I passed a girls' softball game, and I waved back. I felt airy and loose and free. I wasn't winded either, not even a little bit. I felt like I could keep on going forever. It was a perfect August evening. At that moment, running in the opposite direction from home, feeling it get farther and farther away, I could almost understand why Mom had kept going and didn't turn back.

  I passed Jitterbug's Coffee Shoppe and spotted the sign for Vanderbilt Boulevard half a block ahead. That was my signal to turn right.

  I wasn't really angry at Mom for leaving. I couldn't hold it against her. Not after what my father did. I could understand why she skipped out on us. Almost. But I couldn't do what she did. I didn't feel like I was better than her; just different. Whenever I went out to run, I curved like a boomerang, traveling far and wide but then bending around and heading toward home. I always came back.

  THREE

  THREE DAYS LATER I FOUND IN OUR MAILBOX A SLENDER envelope with a single sheet of paper inside.

  Dear Rowan,

  We appreciate your interest in Whitestone. During the past two years we have worked hard to bring in a more diverse student population. After carefully reviewing your application, plus the enthusiastic letter of recommendation from Mr. Ramón García, the admissions committee has decided that you would be a strong addition to our learning community. Congratulations, Rowan! Allow me to extend my personal welcome to Whitestone Preparatory School.

  A detailed letter will follow. Please do not lose it! This letter will contain important information pertaining to necessary medical forms, the academic calendar, scheduled tuition payments, and school uniforms. The first day of school is August 26. I look forward to meeting you then.

  Sincerely,

  Melody Ryder

  Director of Admissions

  PS: This acceptance is conditional upon our receiving a satisfactory transcript (including grades) from your previous school in a timely fashion.

  Sitting on the cement stairs, I slowly reread the letter. A car alarm started beeping, but I didn't even look up. When I was convinced that the letter was real, I ran inside, grabbed my phone, and texted Marcus and Big Poobs.

  Urgent. Meet at IHOP 3:30.

  When I got there it was after the lunch hour but too early for dinner, so the restaurant was nearly empty. The hostess let us have our favorite booth by the window.

  "He got in!" I blurted out.

  The blank way Marcus and Big Poobs stared at me, you would have thought I was speaking Mandarin Chinese.

  "He got accepted!" I repeated.

  "Who?"

  "Rowan! He got accepted at Whitestone!"

  Marcus smiled. "Bullshit."

  Big Poobs wasn't buying it either, so I had to whip out the acceptance letter. They lunged at it like two piranhas hitting a piece of bloody meat—I swear, they practically ripped it in half—and still didn't believe me until they held that letter in their hands and read it with their own eyes.

  Then all three of us erupted. We started laughing, high-fiving, power-bumping, whooping it up so much the waitress gave us an evil look and marched toward our table.

  "Shut up!" I hissed at Marcus and Big Poobs. Today of all days I didn't want to get thrown out.

  "Sorry," I mumbled to our waitress.

  She glared at me but took our drink order and left.

  "That is money!" Marcus softly exclaimed, pointing at the letter.

  "Not bad." I was trying to be cool but couldn't keep the goofy grin off my face.

  Big Poobs looked both happy and bewildered. "What the...? I mean, how did—?"

  "It worked!" Marcus whispered softly. "We did it! Rowan rules!"

  At that moment four Whitestone students ent
ered the restaurant and settled in a few tables away. The sight of four actual flesh-and-blood Stonys caused us to lose it completely. We collapsed into uncontrollable laughter, especially Big Poobs. He howled silently until he had tears running down his fat face.

  "But now what?" Marcus finally said.

  The waitress brought our drinks, and for the next minute we sipped without saying a word. We didn't know what to do next, not really. Deep down none of us ever thought Rowan would actually get accepted to Whitestone.

  "I propose a toast," Big Poobs said, lifting his root beer. "To Rowan Pohi!"

  "Hear, hear!"

  I fired a finger gun at Marcus. "That letter of recommendation from Ramón García did the trick."

  "Yeah, Señor García laid it on pretty thick," Marcus admitted. "Did you know that Rowan started a tutoring program for underprivileged kids?"

  I grinned. "Nice touch!"

  Marcus studied the letter. "Did you read this to the end, Bobby? It sounds like Rowan's not really accepted until they see his grades and transcripts from his last school."

  I sighed. "Yeah, well, that ain't gonna happen."

  "His last school was right here," Big Poobs declared, rubbing his belly. "You know, I could go for a stack of pancakes right now."

  "Is food your number one priority in life?" I demanded.

  "Pretty much, yeah," Poobs admitted.

  Marcus slurped the dregs of his drink. "So what should we do with him?"

  Poobs blinked. "Who?"

  "Rowan Pohi, genius."

  It hit me: at that moment we were talking about Rowan like he was a real live person.

  "I was thinking we're going to have to, like, deactivate him,"

  Marcus suggested. "Not right away but, you know, pretty soon."

  "Why?" Poobs asked.

  I made a face. "Jeez, Marcus, let the poor kid live a little. He was just born a couple days ago!"

  The waitress refilled our drinks and we kept talking like that for the next half-hour, all of us jacked up on sugar and adrenaline and the realization that against all odds our impossible plan had worked.

  Here's what I didn't say to my friends: In a strange kind of way, I wasn't surprised to read that letter. Not really. Because the moment I wrote the name Rowan Pohi on that application, I heard a little electronic blip. Not just inside my brain, but out loud. Like the sound you hear when an instant message suddenly appears on your computer screen.

  Like: I'm here.

  FOUR

  AT QUARTER TO FIVE I LEFT THE RESTAURANT AND HEADED home. The heat had finally broken; the summer air was soft and sweet. I was just passing Luquer's, the used-clothing store, when I noticed the girl coming toward me on the sidewalk. She was tall and leggy, with a purple headband and an impressive mane of hair, blond. I recognized her as that Whitestone girl who'd seen sitting in a booth with her friends at the IHOP a few days earlier.

  Even from a distance you could see how pretty she was. Maybe she recognized me from the IHOP, because she flashed me a sly smile. Nice. I was still riding high from the Rowan Pohi thing and figured the least I could do was introduce myself. But then I tried to imagine it, playing the scene out in my head.

  Hi.

  Hey.

  Didn't I see you at the IHOP the other day?

  Uh-huh. I'm Melissa. What's your name?

  Bobby. Bobby Steele.

  Talk about a conversation stopper! My father and I had the same name. It wouldn't be surprising if she had read about my father in the newspaper or heard someone mention his name. I didn't want to take that risk, so I dropped my eyes and swung past her, like a guy who had more important things on his mind.

  My father grilled sirloin tips for supper. The deck wasn't big enough for a table, so we ate in the kitchen. I turned on the fan and lifted the windows to let in the summer air. While we ate we could hear Spanish music drifting up from one of the apartments below ours.

  "The Indians hunted meat," Cody was saying.

  "Don't talk with your mouth full," my father told him.

  Cody swallowed and gulped down some milk. "They used a bow and arrow to kill some cows."

  The feather in Cody's hair was tilting; I reached over and straightened it.

  "Not cows," I told him. "They hunted buffalo and antelope."

  "Can I go to the bead store?" Cody asked. "Please, Dad?"

  My father grunted. "You got money?"

  Cody nodded eagerly. "I still got ten dollars from my birthday!"

  My father glanced over at me. "Maybe Bobby will take you."

  I groaned. "I'm busy."

  Cody gave me a sulky look. "That's what you always say."

  "Well, I am."

  After supper, my father went to an AA meeting. Ever since it happened, he had been court-ordered to stay away from booze and go to at least three AA meetings per week. He had a special form he had to get signed to show he was there.

  Later that night Cody appeared at my bedroom door, looking a little forlorn.

  "You didn't read me a story, Bobby."

  I sighed. "Oh, all right. C'mon."

  I closed my book and followed him into his room. "Those PJs are way too hot. They're for winter."

  "No they're not," Cody insisted.

  "They'll make you all sweaty." I rummaged through his drawer until I found a pair of summer-weight PJs. "Put these on."

  "Okay. Don't look, Bobby."

  I turned around to give him some privacy and glanced at his bed. He had already picked out the book he wanted to read: Horton Hatches the Egg. It was the same worn copy Mom read to me when I was little.

  I sat on his bed, leaning back against the headboard. Cody leaned against me as I started reading the Dr. Seuss book. He laughed at the pictures, and chimed in whenever we came to the part where Horton says, "An elephant's faithful one hundred percent!"

  Then we came to the part that talks about Mayzie, the lazy mother of the bird egg, who is on some kind of extended vacation. She's having so much fun chilling out at the beach that she decides she's never going to return to the egg to take care of it.

  Cody got very still.

  "You okay?" I asked him.

  He nodded. But after that he didn't laugh at the pictures. And next time we came to the part where he could chime in, he said nothing.

  "You want me to keep going?"

  Quietly: "I don't care."

  "We can stop, if you want."

  "It's almost done," he said.

  I finished reading the book. Cody climbed off me and slid under the covers. He grabbed his stuffed squirrel and turned toward the wall.

  I put my hand on his back. "You miss Mom?"

  Eyes closed, he tucked the squirrel under his chin. I waited for him to say something, but he didn't. It broke my heart that he didn't answer me one way or another. I couldn't give him Mom, but I wanted to give him something. Anything.

  I cleared my throat. "Okay, I'll take you to the bead store."

  He turned to look at me. "You will?"

  I nodded.

  "When?" he asked. "Tomorrow?"

  "One day this week. Thursday."

  He grinned. "I got ten dollars."

  "I know."

  I told him good night and went to my bedroom.

  When I closed my eyes that night, Mom's picture rose into my mind. She had been gone more than a year now, but I remembered her like she'd just left this morning. The smell of her perfume. The way she hummed while she was cooking. Seems like she was always frying a big skillet of onions in the kitchen. There was a big dark mole on her back—Mom's raisin, that's what me and Cody called it. I remembered the dreamy, faraway look in her eyes when she stirred her morning coffee.

  And I will never forget what my father did to her.

  FIVE

  MY PARENTS ARGUED A LOT, BUT LATE LAST SPRING THEIR fights turned nasty. They fought about money, mostly. Mom had gotten laid off at the school where she worked as a special education teacher. Dad had work troubles too. An inspe
ctor said the ventilation system at his repair shop didn't meet city code and shut down the shop for two months. Dad got really pissed. A royal rip-off, he insisted, but finally he realized it was cheaper to update the system than fight City Hall, so that's what he did. It cost him close to ten thousand dollars.

  On that particular night, I was in my bedroom, trying to tune out their fighting while I worked on an essay I had to write for English about The Lord of the Flies. Jack and Ralph. Dark and light. The conch shell and Piggy's glasses.

  What really happened in our apartment that night? It took two days before I had a general idea. Certain things I witnessed myself. Certain things were told to me. But certain things I didn't find out about until I read them in the newspaper. The events that night never formed themselves into a connected story with a beginning, a middle, and an end. Instead I was left with a list of facts.

  For supper that night Mom had splurged on Alaskan king crab legs.

  The crab cost $14.99 per pound.

  She was ironing a blouse when my father came home.

  He got in her face for spending so much money on food.

  Usually Mom backed down when they had a fight.

  That night she didn't back down.

  They started screaming at each other.

  Bellowing so loud the neighbors heard it.

  My father grabbed the hot iron.

  Pressed it to Mom's bare upper arm.

  A piercing scream from the kitchen.

  I ran from my room. Took in the scene.

  The ironing board upended on the floor.

  A bad new smell in the kitchen. Like seared meat.

  Mom bent over the sink.

  Sobbing.

  He had her arm under the kitchen faucet, running water over the injured skin.