Trent Reedy - Divided We Fall

“No, I was just leaving,” TJ said.

“Travis, you don’t have to go,” JoBell said.

“He does—” I started to shout, but JoBell put her hand over my mouth. At first this made me madder, but then JoBell backed me up against the wall, pressing her body tight to mine and smiling.

“If you calm down and be nice,” she whispered in my ear, “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“How will you—”

She kissed me, her tongue flicking around in my mouth, and she drew in my breath. “Are you cool now?” she finally asked.

I nodded.

She kissed me again real quick. “Good boy. I’m going to get another drink.”

When she was gone, I leaned my head back against the wall with my eyes closed. “Wow,” I whispered. When I opened my eyes, my cheeks went red-hot right away. The entire party had stopped to watch me and JoBell. Samantha giggled and flashed me a thumbs-up.

“I’m jealous,” Randy said.

Becca was down on the floor, wiping up a spilled drink. Her eyes met mine for a second, then she got up and headed toward the basement, leaving a soggy pile of paper towels in the middle of her punch.

TJ stepped up to me and my whole body tensed. “You still here?” I said.

“I’ll leave if you want me to since you live here now,” TJ said.

“Good.” I jerked my head toward the door. “Get the hell out of here.”

He nodded. “I know we don’t get along, but I want to tell you I’m sorry for what you’re going through. Sorry about your mom and that you’re caught in the middle of all of this. It isn’t fair to you, man. You’re really… I mean… I have a lot of respect for you, the way you’ve dealt with things. If you ever need my help—”

I folded my arms. “With what?”

“I don’t know. A place to crash, a ride or something while your truck’s in the shop. A place to hide.” He shrugged. “Let me know.” He started for the front door.

I wasn’t prepared for TJ to act as cool as Cal or Sweeney. For the longest time, I didn’t know what to say. “Hey, Travis!” I yelled finally. “Why don’t you stay and have another beer. You don’t have to go if you don’t want.”

Skylar shouted from the living room, “Hey, everybody shut up!” He was peeking out through the curtains. “Who’s going around outside with a flashlight? There’s some guy… Oh shit. Cops!”

“Yeah, thanks for the offer, Danny, but I think I’m leaving anyway!” TJ started running for the sliding door in back, but stopped when he saw the police officer standing there, knocking on the glass.

“Oh no,” Brad said. “I really don’t need to deal with this right now.”

I didn’t care. They could bust me. I was already in trouble everywhere outside of Idaho. A few charges in the state couldn’t make that much of a difference.

Someone shut off the music as Sweeney sighed and opened the patio door. The cop stepped inside.

“I hope you’re all of age.” He smoothed his mustache. “Otherwise I think a lot of y’all are in real trouble.”

Another officer with a big belly came in through the front door. “We have two other squad cars out there, so don’t nobody try to run, either.”

“Let’s go,” said Mustache. “Let’s see some IDs.”

Since I had nothing to lose, I handed mine over first. Mustache looked at the photo, then looked up at me. He frowned. “Hey,” he said to Fatty, showing him my ID.

“Whoa,” Fatty said. “Sorry. Didn’t recognize you.” He laughed a little. “Grown your hair out a little since the last time I saw you, er, since you were on the news.” He looked down. “Sorry about your mother.”

“Yeah,” I said.

Mustache hooked his thumbs under his belt. “Listen, Sheriff Crow is a real good friend of ours. He says you’re a good guy, someone we can trust. So, tell you what. We came out here because one of the neighbors complained about the noise, said they were pretty sure there was underage drinking going on over here. If you’ll keep it down, we’ll let them know they should mind their own business.”

“Meantime,” said the fat one, “don’t none of you be driving tonight.”

The cop with the mustache rubbed his nose. “Hey, um, you know you all must have spent some serious money on this party. Beer’s getting hard to come by. You mind if I take like a six-pack with me?” He slapped me on the shoulder. “I like a cold beer as much as the next man.”

Sweeney rushed to get the man his beer. Mustache handed back my ID, and with a nod to his buddy, they both left.

For what seemed like a long time afterward, nobody said anything. My eyes met TJ’s. He looked at me like, What the hell was that all about? Then everybody started cheering and celebrating.

“Wright, you are the coolest!” Mike Keelin said, holding up his beer to toast me.

Aimee Hartling let out a long breath of relief. “Oh, I so couldn’t handle a possession ticket. Thanks, Danny, for whatever you did.”

That’s the thing. I hadn’t really done anything. We all should have been slapped with expensive tickets for drinking under age. Instead, I was being congratulated by everyone. I slammed my beer and then opened another. I thought maybe if I drank as much as I could, it would numb me to everything, to my friends having fun while I felt miserable, to missing Mom, to how much I wanted to kill the damned Fed.

I thought wrong.

“Hey!” Someone shouted from the living room. “Sweeney, something’s wrong with your screen. The game just blanked out.”

I staggered in to see what was up.

Black letters came on over a gold background.

“What now?” I said.

“Hey, quiet everybody!” JoBell yelled. “If they’re cutting into ESPN, this is something serious.”

Sweeney turned up the volume.

“This is an ABC News special report. Live from Philadelphia, here’s Brian Logan.”

The image switched to a man standing in front of dozens of police cars and other emergency vehicles, all with their lights flashing. Sirens screamed in the background. “It is my sad duty to report to you that moments ago, President Rodriguez was shot three times on his way into a convention center where he was about to address an audience regarding compromise amendments to the controversial Federal ID Card Act. The shooting has been captured on video, I’m sure by a number of comm cameras. The video we are about to play for you is graphic, and may not be suitable for sensitive or younger viewers.”

They cut to a video of President Rodriguez smiling and waving at onlookers while comms flashed photographs. He leaned down to shake a little girl’s hand, stopping for a moment to say something to her. Next to him, a man in a black suit held his finger to his earpiece. He spoke into his microphone, then grabbed the president’s arm, yanking him upright, away from the little girl.

A quick blast. President Rodriguez’s chest tore open. Another round sliced through his neck. His head slumped sideways, and a third bullet ripped into his face and burst from the back of his skull. Then the video was a blur of people screaming and running around.

“Oh no,” Becca said.

“This is not good.” Timmy shook his head.

“Quiet! I want to hear this!” said Samantha.

The image cut back to the reporter. “As you can see from the video, despite the fact that we have no official confirmation that President Rodriguez is dead, there can be little doubt that his wounds were fatal. Other videos that we have seen, but which we will not show you, clearly show extreme damage to the president’s head, neck, and chest to an extent that no person could survive. We have no word yet on the apprehension of an assassin or assassins. But the atmosphere here in Philadelphia tonight, and I’m sure around the nation and around the world, is one of fear and deep sadness.”