Jerk, California Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  part one - sam

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  chapter fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  chapter twenty-one

  chapter twenty-two

  part two - jack

  chapter twenty-three

  chapter twenty-four

  chapter twenty-five

  chapter twenty-six

  chapter twenty-seven

  chapter twenty-eight

  chapter twenty-nine

  chapter thirty

  chapter thirty-one

  chapter thirty-two

  chapter thirty-three

  chapter thirty-four

  chapter thirty-five

  chapter thirty-six

  chapter thirty-seven

  chapter thirty-eight

  chapter thirty-nine

  chapter forty

  chapter forty-one

  chapter forty-two

  chapter forty-three

  chapter forty-four

  chapter forty-five

  chapter forty-six

  chapter forty-seven

  chapter forty-eight

  Teaser chapter

  reading group questions for discussion

  other books you may enjoy

  SPEAK

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2008

  Copyright © Jonathan Friesen, 2008

  All rights reserved

  eISBN : 978-1-440-65124-3

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  acknowledgments

  I’m so grateful for special people placed on my journey. Like signs along the road, they pointed me in the right direction. I especially want to thank the following:

  Wendy: You are an amazing woman, both for who you are and what you endure! I love you. Emma, Isaac, and Si, you also have sacrificed, and bear the burden of “writer’s children” with poise and patience.

  The circle of friends around my family who provided support and encouragement while I was “away”: You made this book possible.

  Angelle and all the great folks at Penguin: Each of you has blessed my trip.

  As have my parents: Your generosity allowed me to meet deadlines, and know my three blessings were in good hands.

  Joel: Our walks mean more than you know.

  Word Servants and advance readers: In the early stages, your encouragement kept the project moving forward.

  Lauraine and Deidre: You believed in me long before I believed in myself. You are gifts to me.

  Cec: My mentor and friend, you’ve touched my life in ways I can’t express on this page. Thank you for letting me fail, and for telling me the truth, no matter how wonderful it was.

  Most of all, I’m grateful to God: I see your fingerprints on everything. You turn tears to joy, and curses into blessings!

  dedication

  To Wendy, who chooses to stay

  part one

  sam

  chapter one

  “SAM HAS IT. QUESTION IS, HOW BAD?”

  The pediatrician smiled. Like he got off on destroying a kid’s life. Like children frequently went to sleep normal and woke up monsters who couldn’t keep their damn bodies still.

  He stared at me, waiting. My right hand twitched. He pointed and continued. “The disease has seasons. One day he’ll flail like a windmill in spring. Then the wind’ll die and you won’t see anything for months.” He turned to my mom. “There are some experimental drugs—”

  “Who the hell is supposed to pay for those?” my stepdad said.

  The doctor rose. “I can see you need some time, Bill.” He shook my six-year-old hand, gave my stepdad a pat on the back, and slipped out of the examining room, leaving the three of us to stare at my jerking hands and shoulders.

  “What’d he say, Mom? Bill? When’s it gonna go away?”

  Bill stood and paced the room. “Go away? Your twitches won’t ever stop.” He cursed and kicked the doctor’s swivel chair.

  I stared at Mom. “Never? Not even when I’m older?”

  Mom scooted her chair in front of mine. “He says you have Tourette’s.”

  I mouthed the word, and she leaned forward and stroked my arms. Gentle at first, then harder and harder and mixed with tears. I knew she was trying to rub that bad word out of me.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “It means,” Bill said, “you can forget about ever running my machines.”

  My hands squeezed the jacket Bill gave me, the green one with Tar-Boy on the front and a cement mixer on the back. I pulled free of Mom and grabbed Bill’s pant leg.

  “I can stop it. Please, Bill.” I started to cry. “I’ll be still. Promise!”

  Old Bill turned his back, Mom closed her eyes, and even at six years old I knew I was alone.

  chapter two

  “YOU’RE QUIET IN GROUP TODAY.”

  Leslie, the social worker, stares at me. I look around at the others. Eight guys rest their heads on the table.

  “Everyone’s quiet,” I say.

  She places her young elbows on the table and rests her young head in her young hands. “But you’re somewhere else, aren’t you, Sam?”

  Bryan snores from across the circle, and I point at him, but this woman’s eyes won’t go away. I glance at the clock—ten more minutes.

  “I wish I were somewhere else. How many more weeks do I have to come?”

  Dumb question. I know exactly. Ten. In Old Bill’s barn hang fourteen sheets of paper covered with smiley-face suns. Ten of those sheets aren’t yet blasted through with BB-gun pellets.

  Leslie smiles the smile people use at funerals. “One of the ways we build friendships is by answering questions. A good way to do this is through small talk. You respond with something cheery about your day or your family.”

  Room 14 is a morgue. Powder-blue walls and no window. Only the tick of the clock and the buzz and flicker of the fluorescent light remind me I’m still alive.

  I slump down in my seat and cross my arms.

  Socially maladaptive. According to the special-ed teacher, that’s wh
at I am. Sentenced to a semester in Leslie’s “Sunshine Club,” I’m one of the lucky ones up for parole at Christmas break.

  I glance at the lifers. Ken and Kerry, autistic twins; Larry, who slugged a cook. Not sure how cramming in a tiny room for an hour after school will turn any of us into charmers.

  The word maladaptive scrawled in invisible ink across my forehead just stole another hour of my life. Today, I don’t have the time.

  “I can see you’re defensive, but look around you, Sam.” Leslie’s eyes plead. “These boys are here to be your friends.”

  Another snore from Bryan.

  “Let’s try a role-play. I’ll pretend I like you.” She perks up and clears her throat. “Remember, small talk. Answer with something general and light.” Her smile widens, so do her eyes. “I’d love to hear something about your family.”

  I check the clock, look back at her, and nod. “My dad is dead. Don’t worry about it, because he was a loser drunk who dug holes for a living. But he was generous. Kind enough to leave me this damn disease as my inheritance.”

  Leslie’s smile is gone, her face frozen.

  I push back from the table.“He left my mom for some other gal and then got himself killed.” I stand. “And his replacement, Old Bill, is almost as bad. Any other questions?” I pick up my backpack and walk to the door. “Do appreciate the small-talk lesson.”

  Bryan’s snore catches on something ugly, and he wakes with a “Huh!”

  Before the door closes, a quieter Leslie goes to work on another victim. “You’re quiet in group today, Bryan.”

  I jog to my locker, drop to the ground, and change into running shoes. I push through the front doors of Mitrista High. Outside, air hangs heavy, full of October mist. My lungs suck in the soup.

  I stand and stretch and jog out of town. It’s quiet. Birds, frogs, crickets—thick air smothers them all. The paved road ends and shoes hit gravel. My pace evens. My brain clears.

  Shouldn’t have come down on Leslie. Ain’t her fault.

  I jog through Bland—population sixteen—past three houses and Crusty’s Coop, and reach tiny Pierce. It’s only a minute’s run from our farm on the near side of town to the Shell station here.

  Two cars filling up? Today’s 10K must be a bigger race than I thought.

  Behind me, gravel pops and crackles, and I glance over my shoulder. Three school buses approach. I drift to the road’s edge as they rumble by. A minute later, a string of twenty more overtakes me. I reluctantly fall in line behind them, and we all turn left into the Northwoods Wildlife Refuge.

  The race won’t start for an hour, but already a crowd gathers. I dash through the parking lot and join the onlookers beneath a string of colored pennants. I weave through the people until I reach the rope cordoning off the runners’ starting area. The grassy field is littered with athletes from all over Minnesota, and above them stretches a large banner.

  NORTHWOODS 10K OFF-ROAD CLASSIC

  Kids wearing numbers small-talk easily. They laugh and stretch and check the sky.

  I lean against the rope that separates me from them. I glance up, too. It will rain. It will rain hard and fast and their running shoes will stick in the mud. The sloppy path through the woods will make for a slow race. But it will be a race, and I don’t have a number, and I’m on the wrong side of the rope.

  A woman hands me a program with the list of runners. I scan the schools, the names. Over two hundred numbers today. I trace the list with my finger and locate the Cs. Sam Carrier would have been number thirty.

  “Carrier?”

  I look up. Coach Lovett approaches. Mitrista’s new running coach weighs in at over three hundred pounds. But for an extra thousand a year, I guess a shop teacher will do most anything.

  “From what I hear, you’d win this race. What’s holdin’ you back, son?” I look over his shoulder at Mitrista’s four entrants. Two shove each other; darn near a fistfight. Coach follows my gaze. “Lord knows we need ya.” He turns back toward me. “Mailed you off a sports waiver. You get that signed?”

  I exhale slow and kick at the dirt.

  “Just need one of your folks’ signatures,” he says, and taps my shin with his shoe. Coach steps nearer and whispers.“Your stepdad never has to see it.”

  I blink hard, and my mouth gapes. Coach smiles.

  “When I took this job from Coach Johnson, I asked him for the name of Mitrista’s best runner. Don’t you think that runner should be on the running team?”

  “He told you about Old Bill?” I ask.

  “Told me a lot of things about you. Didn’t understand the half of them.”

  I stare down at the rope, feel the first drops of rain on the back of my neck, and nod. “Farm needs work, and he don’t want me doin’ extras. Besides, keepin’ a secret from him ain’t that easy.”

  Coach steps back. “Reckon not. But it’s a shame to see all that speed go to waste. Think on it.” He turns, takes one step back toward the team, and stops. “When it rains, that trail will be either grease or quicksand. Bad footing takes a runner down. Sure’d like to know where the slick spots are.” He faces me, smiles, and leans forward. I lean in, too.

  “How’d you like to give the trail a quick run? We could use a scouting report.” He pats my back. “Don’t need a waiver signed for that.”

  I straighten.

  I’d be running for the team.

  My hand clenches, crushes the program, and my shoulder leaps three times.

  Coach takes off his cap, runs his hand through thinning hair. “What in the world is that?”

  He saw. He asked. Coach Johnson must not have told him. Probably seconds until he takes back his offer. I lift the rope, duck under, and dart past him toward the trailhead.

  The sky dims. Moments later, rain falls straight and hard. It lands with giant, soaking glops.

  Runners dash for cover beneath the race tent. Spectators race to their cars. I stand and let water bounce off my jerking shoulder, stream off my sniffing nose. I’m in nearly constant motion. Today, like every day, seven seconds of still is all I get.

  A megaphoned voice fights through the storm. “Due to weather conditions, the Northwoods 10K Classic is postponed! Race postponed!”

  Whoops and groans go up from beneath the tent, and numbered kids streak back into the rain, hurdle the rope, and thunder toward waiting buses. I give my head a violent shake. I’m left alone.

  Minutes pass, maybe more. Soaked cotton suctions onto my skin, but I don’t want shelter. I want to feel the chill. I want to feel something. I spin around, watch raindrops dance in the puddles, and think how close I was to running a race.

  I slosh into the starting area. The clearing is a small lake, and water licks my shoelaces. A number floats by. I scoop it up and put it on—stretch and smile like a numbered kid should. The downpour eases for a few seconds, and I can faintly make out where the course bottlenecks and disappears into the woods. With the tree cover from there on, it’d be a drier run.

  In the first grouping, Sam Carrier. He holds the fastest time of any senior this year—

  A splotch of red shifts against the trees. A figure stands near the entrance to the course.

  I look around. Shadows mill about the tent, but that’s all.

  “Hey,” I holler. “You probably didn’t hear. They called it!”

  The kid doesn’t move.

  I walk nearer. “You can’t run this course in this rain. It washes out. Ten more minutes and they’ll cancel it for today!” I squint toward the road. “Your team’s probably waiting for you in the bus!”

  I turn back. The guy in red is gone.

  I blink hard and splash through the clearing.

  Late afternoon with skies this dark? Kid’ll get lost for sure.

  “Hold up!” I dart in after him.

  Can’t be more than a few steps ahead.

  I run my hard, angry run, but fifteen minutes pass and I haven’t caught anyone. No way he’s still in front of me. He probably n
ever started in—

  A flash of red rounds the next bend.

  I push harder but don’t gain.

  Use your head, Carrier!

  I duck onto a footpath that snakes through dense tree cover. Sticks and brambles crunch beneath my feet, and tree limbs gouge and scratch my arms. I pop out of the woods and rejoin the trail as the kid passes. He screams, startled, and races by me. It’s not a boy scream.

  Can’t be.

  I grit my teeth and pull alongside her on a straightaway through a field.

  “What are you doin’?” I huff.

  “I’m running a race.” She speaks easily, her breath barely audible.

  I’m quiet except for the squeak of my waterlogged shoes. I pick up my pace, glance to my left. Our arms bump and we reenter the woods.

  “You know nobody else is?” I say.

  “What?” she asks.

  “Running a race.”

  She pulls up. I try to stop and turn, but my feet slide on a tree root. Both feet flip up, and I land on my gut in a puddle of mud. I groan, push up to my knees, and look up at her.

  I watch raindrops trickle down her cheek; see them kiss her lips before continuing their path down her neck. The drops disappear behind the red shirt and shorts that cling tight against her, before they emerge and trail down her legs, drip off her body. Lucky raindrops.

  Her body is beautiful and she runs fast and I can’t remember who spoke last.

  “Weren’t you racing, too?” She looks at me, all of me. I wish I were covered with more mud. My opponent cocks her head, gently bites her lip.

  I look down. “The sky is dark. I thought you might get lost.”

  She moves close. I glance up, but I’m still on my knees and I can’t find an appropriate spot to put my gaze. I drop my eyes to her ankles.

  Even her ankles are pretty.

  “So you ran through the woods to make sure I’d stay on the trail?”

  I nod.

  She laughs. It’s cute. “Where do you go to school?”

  “Mitrista.”

  “Well, Mr. Mitrista, I run for Minnetonka, and I don’t need your help. But I am training, and I do need these miles.” She whispers, “Thanks for the push.”