Draw the Line Read online

  Someone gasps as Buddy trips Kobe, but he recovers. I lean into the window to cut the glare from these inside lights.

  Now the crowd out there is moving around. . . . What’s happening? Wait, the manager steps between Kobe and the bubba rabble. Holds up his hands in an everybody-calm-down way. Okay, good. A couple of the waiters go outside. Kobe looks pissed, but at least he’s stopped trying to clean the damn car.

  “Oh, well,” some wise-ass says next to Audrey. “Thought it was gonna get exciting there for a minute.”

  “What’s your problem?” she says. “This is way too exciting already, all right?”

  Some electric guitar riff still blasts through the speakers above us—makes everything even more surreal.

  “Hey, they’re coming back inside.” Trent’s now standing right behind me.

  The two brave waiters who went outside hurry back in. Craning my neck, I can just make out Kobe and the manager turning away from the car. With a cell phone to his ear, the manager hustles back. But I can’t see Kobe anymore. Who’s that in his way? My chest is tight.

  As others return to their tables, I move closer to the door for a better view.

  “Where you going?” Audrey says.

  “I can’t see what’s happening,” I say. “Can anyone see?”

  The manager is back inside now, rapidly talking on his phone. Kobe is nowhere. My heart pounds in my ears.

  There’s too much of a reflection, too many people out there.

  What’s . . . ? If that guy would just move I could see. Move. Move! Okay, there’s—Kobe’s trapped. But he’s screaming at Doug, pointing in his face.

  “Hey!” I slap the window with my hands. Doug’s twice his size! Why is he . . . ?

  I push my way out the door and stop by the first row of cars.

  “Back off!” Kobe pushes Doug.

  The bubbas go “Oooooh!”

  “Shit, the fag touched you?” Buddy says. “Fuck knows whose dick’s been in that hand.”

  I take a few steps closer but stay between cars.

  Squinting at Kobe, Doug slurs his words. “What the hell’s your problem? Ain’t my puke.”

  “The problem is you, asshole.” Kobe’s voice cracks. He’s shaking.

  Some guy yells at Doug, “This the dude who called you a cow pussy?” He busts out laughing.

  The other guys crack up.

  Doug scowls at Kobe. “You ain’t worth my time.”

  “C’mon, Doug,” some bubba says. “You gonna let this homo make a pussy outta you?”

  Doug eyes the guy, then steps closer to Kobe, bumping him with his chest.

  “Get away from me!” Eyes wild, Kobe shoves Doug back with both hands.

  “Shit!” Doug’s so drunk he stumbles a little.

  Kobe, what the hell?

  “Whaaat? Faggot’s in deep shit now!” Buddy yells, a grin cutting across his face.

  “Dang!” someone says. “He’s messin’ with the wrong dude.”

  Glaring, Doug checks out all the bubbas yelling at him to “Kick his ass!”

  Everyone starts chanting, “Doug, Doug, Doug, Doug . . .”

  He nods. “Fuck this shit.” Turns his whole body and rams Kobe, who slips but gets up. Kobe, don’t push him back!

  Doug pins Kobe against the car, hard.

  I gasp and run forward. “No no no.”

  Doug spins Kobe around and garbles out, “God hates fags.” He grabs the back of Kobe’s skull, then smashes his face against the trunk with a loud THUD!

  “NO! Leave him alone! STOP!” I yell.

  The crowd’s whoops and hollers drown me out.

  Doug pummels Kobe’s head against the vomit-covered trunk. Again and again. Kobe doesn’t move, his skinny, limp arms flopping by his sides.

  Waving my hands, I dash to the car. To Kobe.

  “Stop it! STOP IT!” I shriek.

  Everyone turns.

  Oh, god. Oh, my god.

  Buddy jumps behind me. “What’s wrong, that your boyfriend?”

  Others circle around.

  I freeze.

  Can’t breathe.

  Still gripping Kobe, Doug looks down at me, his face red and sweaty. He tries to focus his eyes. “Huh? You? Why are . . . ?”

  Blood drips from Kobe’s mouth. Maybe his eye? Can’t tell—bloody saliva hangs down his chin.

  I shake.

  Doug drops Kobe on the car and moves toward me. He slurs, “What the hell?”

  Oh, god.

  More people close in.

  What the fuck have I done?

  I JUMP AS SOMEONE GRABS my shoulders and yanks me back. It’s Audrey.

  Doug steps away, his cap crooked, eyes locked on mine.

  Kobe’s sprawled on the car.

  “Good Lord!” Audrey’s voice sounds distant. But she’s right next to me, one hand covering her mouth.

  Someone snatches my left arm. “Come on.”

  “Lemme go!” I pull away. “Stop—”

  “Whoa!” Trent holds up his hands. “Just me.”

  I inhale. “Where’s—” I turn around, dizzy. Doug’s gone. Kobe’s limp on the trunk of the car. Just lying there. “Trent, did you see?”

  He hooks my arm, spins me around, and looks me over. “You hurt?”

  I shake my head. “No. But—”

  Audrey grips my other arm. “C’mon,” she says. “We need to . . .”

  A car revs up, headlights blinding. I slip. They steady me.

  Buddy blocks our way, almost a shadow backlit by the headlights. He glares at me, then spits in my face.

  Trent gasps. “What the hell?”

  I try to wipe spit and chewing tobacco away as Buddy takes off into the mass of people. Gooey stink gets in my eye. I clean my face with my sleeve.

  Trent and Audrey hurry me along.

  We head through the parking lot. People blur past in all directions. Some run to get away, but some head to see what’s happening.

  I keep wiping at my face.

  The manager appears. “Out of my way!”

  “Kobe’s messed up bad,” someone says.

  “Police are on the way. I’ll . . . I’ll call an ambulance, too.” He pulls out his cell as he hurries on.

  A guy right in front of us elbows his friend. “Outta here, dude. Ditch the beer. Let’s go.”

  “Crap.” The other guy tosses his beer can to the ground and splatters our shoes.

  It’s like the world is moving in slow motion.

  I stumble as we step sideways between two parked cars. Everything’s tilted. “Is Doug following us?” My pulse races.

  “Lift your feet, Adrian.” Trent balances me. “You need to walk.”

  “But . . . Doug?” I twist to look back.

  Trent says, “C’mon, Audrey, let’s just get him inside Boo.”

  Sounds of loud talking and engines starting and cars honking surround me. Can’t breathe.

  Behind us a girl screams, “Kobe!”

  I gasp. “What now?”

  “Come on, Adrian.” Audrey tightens her grip on my arm. She’s shaking. Or is it me?

  Cars drive around us, or try to.

  We make it to the door. Two girls ask, “What’s happening?” People bunch around the doorway.

  Trent guides me by my shoulders around scattered chairs and tables with half-eaten food.

  “Here, sit.” He angles me toward a chair near the wall.

  I grab the armrests to steady myself, my palms slippery with sweat and Buddy’s spit. “Are we safe?”

  Audrey sits next to me, eyes wide. Alert. “Better here than out there.”

  Trent shakes my arm. “Hey! Adrian! You’re panting.” He inhales deeply. “Breeeathe.”

  I gulp air and look around. “We need to go!”

  Trent squats down in front of me, his hands on my shoulders. “Okay, you really need to calm down. It’s over. All right?”

  “But—”

  “It’s over.” He stares right into my eyes. />
  The voices from outside quiet down as faint sirens cut through. They get louder. Blue and red lights flash through the windows onto the walls all around.

  Two police cars.

  And an ambulance.

  My knee. I forgot I banged my knee on that table—how long ago was that? It hurts again.

  “Please, will you stop pacing?” Audrey says.

  I didn’t know I was. “Why won’t they tell us anything? What time is it, even?” I ask again of no one in particular.

  I reach for my phone but feel my empty pocket and remember that, too.

  Trent holds up his phone: 7:42. “Been about twenty minutes since the ambulance left.” He stands and stretches. “Bunch of bullshit.”

  Unconscious but breathing. That’s all we overheard. That’s not enough. At least Kobe must be at the hospital by now.

  Thank goodness this Officer Storch is leaning in the doorway, between us and the outside. Protection. Here inside Boo the music’s finally off, but the silence just turns up the pummeling in my head. Bright fluorescent lights are on full blast. Two weary waiters keep moving around, cleaning tables.

  I can’t wrap my head around any of this.

  The police have been talking to people one by one, at least the ones that didn’t hightail it out of here right away. We and about five others in here are the last few. Guess the drunk “witnesses” are being interviewed next door at Bubba’s? Did they arrest Doug? No one’s telling us a damn thing.

  I hug my arms around myself. Hate this shivering.

  What the hell possessed me? I barely know Kobe! And what could I possibly do? I’ve never seen anybody beaten like . . . No! I shake my head and push out the images. Just have to inhale deep, like Trent says.

  So. Wrong.

  Unconscious but breathing.

  Is that gonna be me? What am I going to do?

  “I can’t take this.” I go to the window, stare at the cops around Kobe’s car.

  Audrey comes over and wraps her arm around me.

  Another police car pulls up and glides to a stop. The headlights cut off and a bulky cop steps out of the driver’s side; Officer Storch leaves us and hustles over to greet him. All the other police gather around him too.

  Audrey inhales. “Looks just like him, doesn’t he?”

  “Who?” Trent asks, squinting through the window’s mirrorlike reflection.

  “Doug,” she says. “That one must be his father.”

  My stomach flips.

  “I was wondering when he’d show up,” Trent says. He leans over to me. “Remember. You didn’t do anything. Okay?” His voice quivers a little. “Just take it slow.”

  “What’s gonna happen?” I ask.

  Even with our own faces reflected in the glass, I can tell Doug’s father is staring right at us. I turn away.

  After a couple minutes, Officer Storch hurries back to us. “All right, folks, our sergeant just arrived and wants to wrap this up.”

  I glance at Audrey, who mouths, Sergeant?

  Storch steps over to me. Looks me up and down, studying my chopped hair and stained shirt. He has a slight sneer. “You’re Adrian Piper, right?”

  My mouth tastes like chalk. “Yes, sir.”

  “Come with me.”

  My feet move like I’m pushing through sand as I make my way out the door.

  “This way,” Officer Storch says.

  I follow, leaving Trent and Audrey inside Boo. The air is dry and warm out here, but my skin is cold. Storch heads through the parking lot toward a police car parked away from the others. What’s happening? Why are we—oh, okay. We’re not getting in. He goes around to the far side and leans against the hood. I stop and stand a few feet away, facing him.

  The car blocks our view of Boo’s windows, preventing everyone inside there from seeing us. But clustered around Kobe’s car, Doug’s father and the other cops have a clear view of us. At least we’re out of earshot—I hope.

  On the street, just a few yards away, traffic zooms by.

  Another cop comes over and pulls out a note pad. Her face is square and pale, with a mouth like a tiny, pinched line. She squints at me, trying to figure out my hair and all, I guess. I look down. My heart hammers.

  “This is Officer Perry,” says Storch. “She and I are going to ask you some questions.”

  I clasp my hands in front of me and nod. The buzzing yellow streetlight casts greenish shadows under their noses and eyebrows, making their eyes almost disappear.

  “Your name?” Officer Perry says.

  I swallow. “Adrian Piper.”

  “Age?”

  “Sixteen.”

  She scribbles. “Got any ID?”

  Storch cuts her off. “How ’bout we get all that after we talk a bit?” Still leaning against the hood, he crosses his arms and peers at me. “So, I understand you claim to have witnessed part of the incident?”

  “Is he okay?” I say before I even realize the voice is mine.

  “Who?” Storch asks.

  I’m all queasy. “Kobe.”

  “Kobe Saito?” Officer Perry says. “The boy who was taken to the hospital. That right?”

  I nod.

  “Listen up,” Storch says. “We’re asking the questions now, all right?”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Excuse me?” Storch says louder.

  “Yes, sir.” I glare at the ground, my face hopefully in shadow.

  Officer Perry holds her pen, ready to write. “What exactly did you witness?”

  I take a breath and tell them every detail, plain and clear. My own voice sounds distant.

  I need to know if they caught Doug. But I don’t dare ask.

  Officer Storch frowns. He and Perry exchange looks. “What you claim doesn’t quite square with others’ accounts. You absolutely sure that’s what you witnessed?”

  I gape at them. “Yes. Absolutely.”

  Perry writes for a moment, then says, “The others we’ve spoken to have a different story.”

  “But how could they? I was right there! I saw it!”

  Storch straightens up. “What exactly is your relationship with the injured boy?”

  My throat starts closing. “We go to the same school. Don’t really know him.”

  “That a fact?” Storch turns to Perry, who flips through her note pad, scanning the pages.

  Oh, god—what have people told them? Lied about? Kobe being my boyfriend? That’s what Buddy yelled out. These cops won’t believe me.

  I clear my throat. “Does it matter how I know him? I wasn’t a part of what happened. I just saw it.”

  “But it sounds like you were a part of it,” he says. “You inserted yourself into the altercation and provoked Doug Richter. Just like this boy Kobe did.”

  “But I told you, Kobe didn’t start it.”

  Storch sighs. “Just how would you know that? As you stated yourself, you joined the fight after it had already begun. You were in the restaurant, with no clear line of vision, when the episode began. Correct?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “So how could you possibly have seen who initiated it?” he says.

  Perry closes her note pad. “We have many witnesses who were at the car before the fight took place, and during, who independently tell us that Kobe Saito came out of the restaurant, went directly to Doug Richter, and verbally and physically provoked him. It seems pretty clear that Kobe Saito, with intent, attacked Mr. Richter, who simply defended himself.”

  “What?” This is insane. “Who’s in the hospital? Doug’s fifty times bigger than Kobe, and Doug was drunk!”

  “Son, you might wanna calm down.” Storch steps right up to me. “You’re making accusations here that you have no way of knowing are true. In fact”—he grimaces—“you smell like beer yourself.”

  “Look at that shirt,” Perry says. “You’re a mess.”

  “I wasn’t drinking! Some guy in the parking lot threw his beer down and it . . . it splattered me. I didn’t drink
it!”

  He looks sideways at Perry, then back at me. “That may be true. May be false.”

  What the hell is this? “It’s true! I’ll take a Breathalyzer test. I can prove it.”

  Storch holds up his hand. “You better take it easy. One thing at a time.”

  Officer Perry tilts her head. “Best to stick with what you know, all right?”

  Storch glances over at Doug’s father and the other cops, who watch us from a distance, then steps back and leans against the car, crossing his arms.

  I try to catch my breath.

  Storch looks at the ground, then up at me. He smiles. “Look, we’re the good guys, remember? We’re not here to place blame—that’s not our job. We’re here to gather facts. And you have to remember, what you think happened isn’t necessarily what did happen.”

  My brain is upside down. How, how can they do this? I open my mouth, but—I don’t know what to say.

  Officer Perry clicks her pen and slips it into her shirt pocket. “Sounds to me like your friend started a fight, and you saw it in progress and simply wanted to jump in and help him out. I understand. It’s hard to think clearly in those situations.” She tucks her note pad into a pouch on her belt. “I’m sorry your friend was injured, but luckily, others stopped the fight before you became physically involved.”

  “I’d say that about sums it up,” says Storch. “Don’t you think, son?”

  I blink. I want to scream NO! But before I can even take a breath, they turn and walk away, as if I’ve suddenly disappeared.

  Or never existed at all.

  LIKE BLOOD, INK IS MIRACULOUS. Whether confined in a pen or free on a brush, it spreads and builds, giving my drawings life. It always has.

  Until now.

  I used to feel the ink flow from me as I drew, as if it were connected to my bloodstream, feeding Graphite and making him strong. My life gave him life.

  It was circular. As the energy flowed from me and I watched what came out, it flowed back. My art gave me life too.

  But now there’s paper in front of me, I’m poised with a pen, but . . . nothing.

  Nothing.

  I ALWAYS THOUGHT MY BEDROOM carpet was simply beige. I was wrong. Up close, as I lie here on my side, face resting on the rug, these thin beams of sunlight coming through the window make the carpet fibers glow, reflecting so many hidden colors. Golden highlights, iridescent blues and purples, even an alien sort of green.