Todd Strasser: Blood on my hands

“I don’t think we should,” I said.

“Oh, come on, don’t be a wanker,” she said, using one of her funny British words. “They’re all the way down at the other end. Everyone’s looking that way. They probably wouldn’t even notice us.”

I agreed reluctantly, but no sooner did we set foot on the field than a blond guy standing with some people near an EMS truck waved and shouted at us: “Hey! Get off the field!” While I hesitated, Jeanie, who had been experimenting lately with bold rebelliousness, said to ignore him and keep going. Meanwhile, the guy started jogging toward us, still waving his arms.

“Hey! You can’t just walk on the field!” he called.

“Yes, we can,” Jeanie called back. “They’re all down the other way.”

“One loose ball and they could be on top of you in an instant,” he yelled.

I started to jog off the field. Jeanie made a big show of rolling her eyes and then began strolling slowly, clearly letting him know that she was going to take her time. Just then a loud roar came from the crowd and we turned to see a horde of brutes in helmets and jerseys stampeding toward us. The one in the lead had the ball cradled in his arms.

In a flash, Jeanie and I were running for our lives. We’d just gotten off the field when the roar turned to cheers and the ball carrier crossed the goal line not ten feet behind us.

“See?” The blond guy chuckled and grinned. He had nice teeth and a thin but athletic build. “What are you, like fifth graders or something?”

Jeanie was medium-size and slender. But I knew that the reason he’d asked was that I was so small. “Beg your pardon,” Jeanie huffed with annoyance, and pointed at the brick high-school building. “We’ll be here next year.”

“Oh, yeah?” The blond guy looked surprised, and I couldn’t help noticing that his gaze was mostly on me. “That really true?”

I nodded.

“Okay, Shrimp, see you next year.”

I might have minded being called shrimp if I hadn’t been so used to it. Jeanie and I got our drinks at the snack bar, and to be honest, I didn’t give any more thought to the blond guy, who was obviously older and no doubt dated older girls.

But later, after the game, my friends and I passed the EMS truck, and there he was. Our eyes met and I had the strangest feeling that he’d been waiting for me.

“Enjoy the game?” he asked.

“Not really,” I answered truthfully. Our eyes stayed on each other.

“Hey,” he said, “you guys want to see what the inside of an EMS truck looks like?”

My girlfriends and I shared curious looks. None of us cared about the truck, but we were all interested in attractive older boys, especially the ones who paid attention to us. The blond guy opened the back of the truck and pointed out the stretcher and medical kits and oxygen tanks.

“What’s the oxygen for?” I asked.

He seemed glad that I’d asked. “Smoke inhalation,” he said. “For people in fires. Firefighters, too. They get overcome by smoke.”

“Have you ever saved anyone?” asked a girl named Mary.

“I’m not old enough to be an EMT, but my dad’s the captain of the squad, so I get to hang around with them.”

A moment later a man came around behind the truck. “Close it up, Slade, we’re leaving.”

Slade said he had to go, and my friends and I headed home.

“He likes you,” Jeanie said to me as soon as we were out of earshot.

“How do you know?” I asked, even though inside I was thrilled, as this confirmed that it wasn’t all in my imagination. “You could tell,” she said.

A few days later Slade was outside on the sidewalk after school. He asked if he could walk with me. Even though he was two years older, he had an easy, relaxed way that wasn’t threatening. He was there the next day and the next, and soon we were texting and calling and doing things together.

A month later we were boyfriend and girlfriend. I was the only girl at Soundview Middle School who was seeing a sophomore from the high school. To me it didn’t matter how old Slade was, but a lot of my classmates were in awe.

Sunday 1:13 A.M.

MY PHONE VIBRATES. It’s Slade. I leave the playhouse and sprint across the yard and to the street. A pair of headlights is rolling slowly toward me. I grab the passenger-side door and get in. Slade starts to drive. I’m too overwhelmed to speak. Overwhelmed by what’s happened, overwhelmed by suddenly being close to him, by again sitting in this seat where I spent so much time when we used to drive to parties and keggers and secret hiding places.

“Thank you so much,” I manage to croak.

“It’s okay.” He’s got alcohol on his breath. It’s not surprising for a Saturday night, but should he be driving? I’m in no position to ask. The memory of Katherine’s body keeps coming back. Knowing her, I’d suspect that it was a ruse, a nasty trick. But it wasn’t. I felt for her pulse; I saw those wounds and all that blood. Unless it’s some kind of crazy dream I’ll wake up from at any moment, it’s real. I take a deep breath and force myself back to Slade.

“I… I meant everything I said on the phone.”

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t look at me. Just drives.

So I tell him what happened tonight. How I found Katherine.

“You picked up the knife?” he asks, surprised.

“It was dark and I wasn’t sure what it was, and the next thing I knew, they were taking pictures…”

“Of you holding the knife?”

“Uh-huh.” And I tell him how I thought of Sebastian and what everyone was bound to think and how Dakota said to call the police and I got scared and ran away. “That’s when I called you. I didn’t know what else to do. What do you think I should do?”

He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Go to the police, Cal. Tell them what happened.”

“They’ll never believe me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“After what happened with my brother? And with my fingerprints on the knife? Are you serious?” I feel myself getting worked up.

“Calm down,” Slade says.

I take a deep breath. We ride along in the dark, and thank God he’s driving straight and at a steady speed. I don’t know where we’re going, but I know why he wants me to turn myself in. Because he’s honest and forthright and does the things you’re supposed to do.

“I won’t stand a chance. It’ll kill my mom. I can’t do that to her.”

Ahead, a police car with flashing lights screeches around a corner and races toward us. Panic seizes me and I duck below the dashboard and watch the red and blue lights illuminate the inside of the pickup’s cab. The police car zooms past. Back in the seat, my pulse still racing, I tell Slade, “We can’t drive around like this. People know about us. It won’t be long before the police start looking for you.”

He drums his fingers against the steering wheel. We go over a bump and the pickup rattles. I flinch, impatient and jumpy. This is a small suburban town and I feel like we’re a moving target. “Talk to me, Slade. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Keeping his eyes straight ahead, he says, “You said you wanted to explain why you broke up with me.”

“I do, but not driving around like this. Make a left, okay?”

“The old EMS building?”

“Uh-huh.”

Just before the bridge over the train tracks, Slade turns into a driveway. The ride gets bumpy. The asphalt has broken up and there are ruts and potholes. Ahead is the old EMS building, empty now that emergency services has been transferred to the new town center.

Slade drives to a far corner of the parking lot, where trees block the moonlight and it’s almost as dark as it was in the playhouse. I lower the window and hear the distant hum of traffic from the thruway. Across the lot the old EMS building is dark and empty. Sometimes Slade and I hung out there with the EMS crew, playing pool or just talking and passing the time.