Southbound Surrender Read online

  “No.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Hudson says as he backs away from the fence. I know it’s serious because Hudson doesn’t back down from anything. He’s usually the one people are backing down from even though he’s never come close to punching anyone in the face. I think he’s secretly afraid of how bad it would hurt to punch someone – I know I am – but I’d never dream of mentioning it to him just in case he decides he wants to practice on me.

  I jump on my bike and rock the kickstand back. I know my bike’s going to be a dead giveaway, but there’s no way in hell I’m confronting Piper’s dad after I just watched her lather her almost naked body through the fence. I’m not technically on his property so I can’t be slapped with trespassing, but I definitely don’t want to find out if I could go to juvie for being a peeping tom. I make a mental note to research that when I get home.

  My bike roars to life and as I’m about to throttle the engine, I feel Hudson climb on behind me and wrap his huge arms around my waist.

  “Are you kidding me?” I yell above the rumble. There’s nothing I hate more than riding tandem with Hudson. I can only imagine what it looks like with the huge man child behind me. It’s the third time I’ve been forced to do it.

  The first time involved a fuming Mrs. Hawley after we devoured a pie that wasn’t meant for us. The second time involved a screaming Jill Havens, a trombone, and cockatoo named Larry. Don’t ask.

  “Damn you!” I yell.

  “Just drive.”

  Chapter 2

  “Philips?”

  I pull my head from underneath the motorcycle tire to see my dad’s outstretched hand holding a screwdriver. He’s holding it with the handle facing me and a smile plastered on his face, just like he always does when he hands me a tool. He’s still wearing his blue work shirt with his name embroidered right above his heart in case anyone forgets: Big Dave. Believe me, no one forgets Big Dave. The last three years have served as a reminder of this since he’s the custodian at Xavier High School. Big Dave looks just like you’d expect him to. He’s lean, like runner’s lean with long, stretched out calf muscles, and is maybe 5’8” when he’s wearing shoes. So naturally, Big Dave was a clear and easy choice for a nickname. I have Big Dave to thank for jeans that always require a belt and the metabolism of a race horse, except I’m not running any Triple Crowns. He tells me I won’t complain when I’m older, but I find it hard to believe considering I pound protein drinks any chance I get to no effect.

  “Thanks,” I mumble and pull the screwdriver back underneath the Harley Davidson.

  “How many hours you think yet?” Big Dave asks as he leans his head over the handlebars toward me. I close my eyes and let out a big sigh.

  “I didn’t know we were talking in hours now,” I reply without looking at him. We’re not even close to finishing the restoration on this ’78 classic Shovelhead. The motorcycle has been in our garage since I’ve stopped wearing Spiderman pajamas. And no, it wasn’t last week.

  “What’s it been? Five years now?”

  “Try seven,” I reply. We have this conversation every couple of weeks, and it always ends the same way. Big Dave denying that it’s been seven years.

  “No way. We haven’t had this old beauty for seven years,” he says as he pats the black seat I replaced just last week. I can still smell the earthy scent of the leather – the new car smell that I’ve only ever smelled when Big Dave let me test drive a brand new Chevy Camaro on my sixteenth birthday. The stodgy salesman knew Big Dave wasn’t going to be bringing that Camaro home, but he gave him the keys anyway. Big Dave can be pretty persuasive. It dawns on me that we had this same conversation when I was taking off the old seat last week, which tells me that Big Dave is either slipping, or he has an angle. Big Dave doesn’t slip.

  “Should I say what I usually say or do you want to tell me what you’re fishing for?” I set down the screwdriver with a clank and shimmy my body away from the bike.

  “Say what you usually say,” Big Dave grins.

  “Oh geez, Dad. It’s been seven years. You got the ol’ Shovelhead when I was only ten. Don’t you remember?” I lay it on thicker than usual, and I can’t help returning his smile. This is where the father ruffles his son’s hair in one of those cheesy Hallmark movies. I realize that most seventeen-year-old boys don’t know a thing about Hallmark movies, but sadly, I do.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem,” I say as I wipe my greasy hands on my work jeans and stand up. “So what’s up?”

  “Nothing, I just like hearing you say those words. I like to think about you with your scruffy hair that hung over your forehead and your Spiderman pajamas that you wore holes through.” He pats me on the shoulder and leaves his hand there. I know Big Dave is about to get all sentimental and spiritual on me. I can see it in his eyes. They well up and crinkle at the corners. Wait for it…

  “Sixty pounds soaking wet,” I reply. I know this is going to send him over the edge.

  “Maybe sixty-one pounds if you were holding one of your Transformers,” he says with a glint in his eye as he squeezes my shoulder.

  “All right, Dad. What is it?” I let him leave his hand on my shoulder because I know it’s his way of connecting his spirit with mine. He closes his eyes and nods his head. Except I don’t feel anything, like usual, but I let him get on with it anyway. Big Dave has been like this since I can remember. He claims he had his spiritual enlightenment when I was just three, so I’m pretty used to the transcendent stuff he likes to pull every once in a while. It doesn’t bother me or freak me out. And it just so happens that it takes a whole lot to embarrass me unlike most normal teenagers. I think Big Dave got pretty lucky with that one if you ask me. Just a few more seconds, and he’ll let go.

  Except, he doesn’t.

  “Dad,” I start.

  “Shhh,” he whispers.

  I let him do it because I know I’m all he has. It’s just been the two of us for the last sixteen years. My mom died in a car accident when I was a baby. A head-on collision killed her instantly. The Corolla crunched up like an accordion, Big Dave says with a mist in his eyes. But that time, the accordion didn’t come back apart. I’ve always thought the accordion analogy was a bit off, but as I’m sure you can probably guess, I hate everything about accordions. I was in the backseat of the Corolla, secured and strapped in my car seat. I came out of the wreck without a scratch on my body but with a hole in my heart where my mom used to be. That’s what Big Dave says anyway.

  I love Luella and everything, but I’ve always wondered how I could miss someone I can’t remember. I have tried over the years to learn all I can about her, but there’s nothing. Big Dave threw out most everything after she died, out of grief I guess. I tried looking up the police report or some news article about her accident, but I never was able to find anything.

  Big Dave misses Luella more than I can imagine and because of this, I give him five more seconds before I move his hand. I can only be so patient, and I know if I don’t move his hand, I will miss dinner and my plans with Hudson later tonight. Big Dave finally opens his eyes and looks at me with sheer exhaustion I’ve never seen before. I notice a few shards of gray in his hair, and I suddenly wonder when Big Dave got so old.

  “You’re still thinking about going to college, aren’t you?” he finally asks.

  “That’s what most high school seniors with a 3.9 grade average and 2280 SAT score are thinking about doing,” I reply with an unintentional bite in my voice. “Only two percent of test-takers get that score, Dad. I feel like I have a responsibility to society to do something with my life. I should use my brain for the greater good. Maybe I’ll go to med school.”

  “Society,” he repeats in a contemplative voice. Most parents would love for their kids to go to med school, but not Big Dave. I know what’s coming next. His philosophy on life and the world is about to come vomiting out, but all I can think about is that I have about fifteen minutes before the lasagna is ready
to come out of the oven, and how I still want to get this tire back on its rim. That’s what happens when you don’t have a mom and your dad only makes frozen pizza. You get desperate one summer when you’re twelve and watch the cooking channel at your best friend’s house until the early morning hours when he’s asleep. Insert major badass accolades here.

  “I’m just thinking about it, Dad. I haven’t applied anywhere yet, even though I should have already. I’m getting harked on by both the counselors,” I say, trying to ease him out of this. College is a sore subject for Big Dave, even though he has his MBA from Cornell University. When he applied for the custodial position at Xavier, they offered him a teaching position instead, which he quickly declined. He’s probably the most overqualified custodian in the state. Make that the nation. He only applied at the school so I could go there on a full scholarship. He’s wanted me to go to Xavier since I can remember not because of the education, which would make the most logical sense. Big Dave sent me to Xavier because that’s where he met my mom.

  The tuition costs a cool twelve grand a year, and even though I could have applied for scholarships based on income level like Hudson, or what I would have preferred, intelligence, Big Dave wanted to earn the right for me to attend. Employees’ kids get free tuition, so he became an employee. His whole job history goes back to his spiritual enlightenment, which goes back to Big Dave meeting a wonky therapist-slash-spiritual healer when he was depressed after my mom died. Depressed, I’m guessing, is an understatement. And wonky is probably another understatement. Shaman Amy has since moved to the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains where she lives in a cabin with no running water or electricity. Shaman Amy lives on the fruit of the land and channels the spirits of the gods.

  I wish I could stop in to have a word with Shaman Amy. I think I have a lot to thank her for.

  “Big Dave, are you going to help me get this tire on its rim before I have to get the lasagna out of the oven?” I ask. I use his name in hopes of snapping him out of his trance.

  “Beef recipe or turkey recipe?”

  “Beef, extra mozzarella,” I reply as I turn back to the bike and grab the screwdriver, thankful that Big Dave let the whole college thing go for now. It’s going to be a long year. “Have to keep bulking up.”

  “For what?” Big Dave bends down and pretends like he’s being useful. The reality is that Big Dave hasn’t helped with this bike all that much in the last year even though he knows his way around any garage with his eyes closed. Being a mechanic is another one of his passions – he doesn’t call them jobs, they’re passions – along his spiritual journey. He’s taught me everything, at least almost everything anyway, that he knows. I think he’s leaving out some of his best kept secrets just to keep me in this garage, tinkering at this metal monstrosity. Plus, he promised me the Shovelhead once we’re done with it. He could’ve had this bike finished within six months of getting it. I could’ve been driving it eighteen months ago. Instead, I’ve got the dirt bike.

  “No single reason.” It’s not a lie. There are two reasons why I need to keep bulking up; the most important has striking green eyes and the most kissable lips. The other reason is that I want to bench my weight by the time I’m eighteen. Pretty lame, I know, but every guy has to have goals. It doesn’t help that my best friend has a body of a god, which he barely lifts a finger for, and consequently, most girls go heartthrob over. He needs to start using his strength to his advantage, and I decide that we should have another talk about it tonight. Boy to man.

  “Ah, so there’s more than one reason, but I’m guessing she is the number one reason.”

  “You’re probably right, Big Dave. You’re probably right.”

  Either his spiritual enlightenment crap has actually worked, or I’m an open book for everyone to read. Either way, I’m screwed.

  ***

  I’m waiting for Hudson, like I always do, on the front steps of our white, fourteen hundred square foot ranch where I’ve lived my entire life. Well, almost my entire life. Big Dave and I moved here when I was three, after he quit his high-paying executive job with a ridiculous amount of stress and matching paycheck. He was in his early thirties then, and I guess it’s a pretty big deal to be a Vice President at that age. He paid for the house in cash and his custodian’s salary ensures we have plenty of food on the table, clothes on our backs, internet at my disposal (it took some coercing, but I convinced him five years ago), a regular old cellphone, and the basic necessities of life, which to Big Dave, doesn’t amount to much. Don’t get me wrong, Big Dave isn’t lazy or dumb or unmotivated or some whacked-out hippy. My dad just is.

  Most days, I’m okay with his philosophy because I’ve never met any other parent, or adult, like Big Dave. Dad is unequivocally happy without a care in the world, and he’s accomplished what he set out to accomplish: a stress-free life. He’s nothing like my Aunt Linda, whose stress-inducing presence can be felt the second she gets within ten feet of you. Aunt Linda drives a pristine black BMW and is a Sales Manager for a pharmaceutical company in town. She also harbors a serious amount of tension in her neck and upper back. I can tell by the way she walks around, all stiff with quick jerks of her head. Just thinking about Aunt Linda stresses me out. I know I don’t want to be like Aunt Linda, and I know that being a doctor could possibly be one of the most stressful jobs there is, but I know I would be good at it.

  As the Dodge Neon slows and pulls up in front of our house, I promise myself that I’ll at least apply to a few colleges and leave my options open. In case I decide I want to be good at something in life.

  “Have fun and don’t worry about coming home tonight,” Big Dave calls through the window. “Sow your wild oats. Live a little!”

  “You know we will,” I mutter before I make my way down the steps. Big Dave and I both know I’ll be home in less than five hours, well before midnight, despite the fact that it’s the first big game for the Xavier football team and the historical last Friday night before senior year, which equates to a huge bash at an undisclosed location. The secret location is told only after the football game and always ends with stories about who snuck in a bottle of vodka or who dropped her underwear first. Year after year, the warnings are harped by the school and parents, and year after year, the party somehow goes on without the cops ever finding the group of a hundred seniors. It’s incredibly magical if you ask me. A Christmas freakin’ miracle minus Jesus’s birth.

  “You ready?” Hudson asks as I rattle the passenger door shut. As much I hate riding in the Neon, the heralded girl teenage car, it’s better than riding tandem on my Yamaha. Nothing screams “pansies” more than riding a dirt bike together, so we take the Neon in stride.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply as he veers onto the road.

  “Damn, Cash. What is that smell?”

  “What smell?”

  “The smell like you marinated in smoked leather and lavender. Throw in an orange peel and a dirty sock and that’s what you smell like.” Hudson rolls down his window with a low laugh. “What did that girl do to you? I think I’ll need to have a word with that Piper Sullivan.”

  “Just drive.” I roll down my own window to feel the breeze of the waning summer air blow between us. Okay, I admit, I was probably a little heavy on the cologne, but Piper has stirred something primal inside I don’t want to talk about with another living soul. Not even Hudson, my single-most trusted confidant.

  “Does your dad know where we’re headed?”

  “No, do your parents?”

  “Of course not. You know they want me at the game, but there’s no way I’m setting foot on that field again,” Hudson replies as he leans his elbow out the window. “They’re still on me about it. My mom goes around sighing and pretending to dust the house every Friday night during football season. And my dad, you know him, he’s just silent most of the night. If I pretend to go to the game, at least they find a little comfort in that.”

  ***

  I don’t ask i
f Hudson wants to go to the game because I already made that mistake two years ago when Hudson quit. He stormed off the field based on “principle” he said, but the rumor was that he told the coach to go to hell. Seeing as we attend a Catholic high school and everything, it didn’t bode well with the coaching staff or the administration. He was lucky, according to Principal Watkins, and was asked to stay on the team as long as he apologized. He was their star quarterback after all, but Hudson declined. I got a forearm in the throat when I asked him if he wanted to go to the home opener. We don’t talk about football anymore. As for the rumor, I know Hudson well enough to know he didn’t say it. Rumors, after all, are just that.

  The forearm against my throat is the closest Hudson has been to hurting anyone, at least that I know of. I’m pretty sure I’m right because it’s hard to hide anything from someone you spend most of your waking time with, other than school or work. Hudson helps woodworker John while I clean toilets with Big Dave. I drew the short end of the father-son bonding stick on that one.

  “What’s on your list?” I ask to get Hudson’s mind off football.

  “Pens and a notebook,” he replies. “And a flash drive. I think I lost my other one.”

  “Nothing’s lost until you know the exact moment that you lost it. Otherwise it’s simply misplaced,” I say, eyeing the glow of the clock on the dashboard.

  “Your theory about losing crap is ridiculous.”

  “It’s not a theory, it’s true.”

  “Whatever. Then I misplaced it. All that matters is that I need to replace the stupid thing,” Hudson says as he flips the turn signal. We pull into the parking lot at exactly 7:30 p.m., kickoff time, but I don’t mention it to Hudson because I’m sure he already knows. The red Target bull’s-eye zooms in on us, calling us out as the losers that we are. We’re two seventeen-year-old dudes out back-to-school shopping instead of getting drunk and losing our virginity. We pass the sign and park only a few stalls from the building because nobody else shops at Target on a Friday night during football season. Most of Appleton is at the Xavier game, or the North, East, or West games, the three public high schools in town. This town breathes for Friday night football because there isn’t much else to do in the sleeper town of Northeast Wisconsin unless you’re a farmer who is undoubtedly birthing some calf in a back field, Big Dave who doesn’t watch any sports, or Hudson’s parents who are too heart-broken to attend any more games. Or unless you’re a guy that got kicked off the team and that guy’s best friend.