Chasing Tail Lights Read online

  Chasing Tail Lights

  ALSO BY PATRICK JONES

  Things Change

  Nailed

  Chasing

  Tail Lights

  PATRICK

  JONES

  To Jacqueline Ross, this one's for you.

  Copyright © 2007 by Patrick Jones

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First published in the United States of America in 2007 by

  Walker Publishing Company, Inc.

  Distributed to the trade by Holtzbrinck Publishers

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Walker & Company, 104 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Jones, Patrick.

  Chasing tail lights / by Patrick Jones.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Seventeen-year-old Christy wants only to finish high school and escape her Flint, Michigan, home, where she cooks, cleans, cares for her niece, and tries to fend off her half-brother, a drug dealer who has been abusing her since she was eleven.

  eISBN: 978-0-802-72152-5

  [1. Family problems—Fiction. 2. Self-esteem—Fiction. 3. High schools—Fiction. 4. Schools—Fiction. 5. Drug traffic—Fiction. 6. Incest—Fiction. 7. Sexual abuse victims—Fiction. 8. Flint (Mich.)—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.J7242Cha 2007 [Fic]—dc22 2006027657

  Visit Walker & Company's Web site at www.walkeryoungreaders.com

  Book design by Amy Manzo Toth

  Typeset by Westchester Book Composition

  Printed in the U.S.A. by Quebecor World Fairfield

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  All papers used by Walker & Company are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in well-managed forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Chasing Tail Lights

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This was a tough book with some difficult themes, so thanks to Amy Alessio, Zandra Blake, Sarah Cornish, Jessica Mize, Vanessa Morris, Patricia Taylor, and Tricia Suellentrop, who read and made suggestions on early versions of Chasing Tail Lights. Shout out to fellow Flintoid Jon Scieszka for his important contribution, and to Jacqueline Woodson for steering me in the right direction. I got lots of teen input on this book, so special thanks to Sibongile Sithe, Lauren Houston, Kaitlin Flynn, and Stephanie "non-box" Goralski for great guidance. Also thanks to groups of teachers and students: Daria Plumb and her students at Dundee (MI) Alternative High School, Hilary Lewis and her book discussion group at the Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh (PA), and Laura Gaj-dostik and her students from Hudson (WI) High School.

  Thanks to other students and teachers I've met on the road doing school visits, which inspire me that I'm on the right path. As always, thanks to Erica Klein for giving me the time and confidence to write fiction.

  Chasing Tail Lights

  1

  september 28, senior year

  "Christy, is that a siren?"

  "It's Flint, Cuz, 'course it's a siren," I shout to Anne. She laughs, then passes the joint back to me. The sirens are from a police car speeding down 1-69 beneath us. Those officers below have no time to check out two seventeen-year-old girls getting high up on the bridge as the yellow sun drops low in the sky. My best friend, Anne, wears the world's thickest black-rimmed glasses and the mall's tightest black T-shirt, while I'm bogged down in my brother Robert's baggy hand-me-downs set off by my short, spiky dyed-red hair. We're stashed behind a big-ass green sign telling drivers how to get the hell out of Flint. It's a direction I plan to follow when this senior year ends. I take the last sip from a can of Coke, take a deep hit from the joint, then press my forehead against the silver wire mesh to stare at the flashing red lights.

  "You wanna roll someplace your last free Friday night?" I ask. Even though her parents could hand her the easy life, Anne's doctor father insists she get a job. Rather than hanging out with me doing nothing, she starts next weekend working for one of her dad's friends at some country club. With her new job, it means I won't have as many sleepover nights at Anne's, to my disappointment and her dad's delight. He'd prefer if I were Anne's imaginary best friend.

  "I'll be there," Anne says with a confidence in her voice I dream of having. Even if we do nothing but drive, chasing tail lights for real in her red PT Cruiser rather than pretending up here on this bridge, that'll be fine. We'll make our usual drive-bys of "the unattainable" Glen Thompson's house, but I wish we could make laps and chase tail lights all weekend. I'm not looking forward to Sunday morning after church, when my family jams itself into Mama's cramped, crappy old Cavalier to visit my brother Robert and celebrate his daughter Bree's tenth birthday. Trapped in that tiny space with my family, I imagine, is like life in a prison cell.

  I nod, then shout. "Usual spot." The spot's the curb in front of my house on Stone Street. It's hard enough, even after two years of Anne's friendship, letting her into my life, let alone my home. Or rather, the place I stay with my family. It's a home in name and address only.

  Anne motions for the joint back. "Christy, tell me, how long you've been doing this?"

  "What do you mean?" I respond slowly; I'd always rather ask than answer questions. I take a hit to kill time, brain cells, and the cold, hard concrete facts all around me.

  "Standing up here, chasing tail lights," she asks in a stoned giggle. It is kind of a silly thing for an almost honor student high school senior like me to do: staring at cars wondering where they've been and where they're going. Since I don't drive, I can only dream.

  "I don't know," I say, but that's a lie. There's no need to tell the truth, best friend or not. Everybody's got their secrets; I carry mine like a jagged stone in my shoe. But when I'm up here, I let go of my life, recall my past, and ignore my future. I've been coming here since fifth grade, just after my daddy died. Daddy was a truck driver for a while and "chasing tail lights" was an expression he used. When he felt lost, he'd follow the tail lights of the truck in front of him, until they took him somewhere safe. Daddy had lots of expressions, just like he had lots of jo
bs. He's been dead over half my life, and sometimes when I allow myself to feel, I feel he took half of me with him. I don't want to turn eighteen in December; I need to be eight again.

  "It don't cost nothin'," Anne adds, eagerly waiting for me to pass the joint back. She readjusts her funky Day-Glo green Flint Country Club hat. She's got beautiful long straight jet-black hair, but she covers it up like she's ashamed of it. But then, she's not ashamed of her body, wearing a tight, tiny black DKNY tank top, which I'd never do. Anne's a puzzle and a friend; she's the center of attention while I'm her audience. This seems to work out best for both of us.

  "Nothing but time," I say after a long pause. Time is what we're both trying to fill, dateless and mateless on homecoming eve, a ritual that matters nothing at all to either of us. Neither of us ever plan to come home to Flint Southwestern High once we graduate in May.

  "Time I got, money I don't," Anne says as I finally hand the joint over. Her parents give her a fancy car to drive, nice clothes, all stuff that I don't have, and I try so hard not even to want. Wanting things you'll never have is the worst feeling in the world.

  "I could do this for hours." My body's starting to tingle with warmth. The loud roar of the vehicles racing under us is soothing, not distracting. I stand on this ribbon of gray built for bikes and people, and watch the cars and trucks zip down the highway. The bridge is totally covered in a fence. It's like a big cage, but it sets my mind free to plan, but mostly dream.

  Anne points to an exiting SUV. "What kind of ride is that black one over there?"

  "That's an Escalade, like Ryan drives," I reply, but this SUV isn't as tricked out as my brother Ryan's ride. I have three brothers. Robert's twenty-four. While he doesn't live with us, his daughter, Bree, does. Mitchell's at home; he turned sixteen this summer. He looks so young in some ways, but acts much older in how responsible he is. Then there's Ryan, three-plus years older than me at twenty-one. He lives in the basement and comes, goes, and does as he pleases. Both Robert and Ryan are my half-brothers, different fathers from each other, and from me and Mitchell. Robert never knew his dad, but Ryan's dad must have been something. While there's not a single photo of my daddy around the house, Mama's room is loaded with pictures of Ryan's dad. He wasn't around long: just enough to pose for photos and beat the crap out of Ryan.

  "I need me an SUV," Anne says, and I stifle a laugh, since people like Anne don't seem to know the difference between want and need. The people on her side of the freeway, the area dubbed the Miller Road mansions, can't really know anything about those of us who live on the other side. We live less than two miles from each other with this bridge as the connection, but our worlds are far apart. Our neighborhood was where factory workers lived during the good times; but there are no good times anymore, few factories and fewer workers. Flint's a ghost town full of living people, although day by day, shooting by shooting, the ghosts are taking over.

  "You'll get one, Dr. Williams," I say. Anne loves when I rib her about becoming a doctor, like her father wants. Anne wants it too, but she hates agreeing with her dad.

  "You too, Speedy," she says back. My tenth-grade English teacher, Ms. Chapman, thinks I should run track, but calling me speedy is like calling Mama tiny or calling me beautiful.

  "Gotta go!" Anne says, after checking the time on her thin silver cell, since her watch is always set to 4:20. She takes gum, perfume, and eye drops from her small glossy black purse.

  "Later, Doctor," I say sadly, knowing no one except my niece, Bree, even cares if I come home. I drop the empty Coke can, and kick it off the bridge through a hole in the wire mesh. It lands in the back of a white Ford-150 pickup, off for an exciting adventure, while I haul my skinny ass home for some everyday drama.

  sophomore year, september

  "Miss Mattory, we're awfully sorry to wake you."

  My ugly, home-dyed red head snaps up when I hear my name. Seconds later, I wish to bury it into the ground as the ugly sound of laughter fills my first-period sophomore English class.

  "Christy, I asked what hook you are going to read for your fall project?" Ms. Chapman, tough-as-nails English teacher, stands he-fore me, hands on her hips, disgust on her lips, and my glazed sleepy eyes under her stare. Standing over me, she looks not six, hut sixty feet tall.

  I rub my eyes with my huge hands, but she doesn't disappear. I look over at Anne Williams, a new girl nobody knows, who sits next to me. We don't have much to say to each other, since we don't have anything in common except our silence. Like me, I sense Anne knows the answers; also like me, she knows better than to advertise that fact. She'd rather show off her body than her brain. I show off nothing.

  "The deadline was today to tell me which book you were reading for this assignment," Ms. Chapman continues. "That's five points off. If you don't have it tomorrow, that's ten."

  "But I haven't decided yet," I say softly, so unaccustomed to speaking in class. I want to run to the bathroom, but Ms. Chapman would surely catch me. One book on the list is The Invisible Man by H. G. Wells, which is funny, since my plan for high school is to be the invisible woman. I plan to slip under the radar by avoiding any attention.

  "See me after class," she says, then turns her attention away from me. She's got this pissed-off look that doesn't suit her. She's beautiful: with that perfect smooth, unfreckled skin, long blond hair, and bright blue eyes, like every model in every magazine, not to mention her athletic body, which shows through the baggy maroon warm-up suits she wears every day. I envy and hate her.

  I put my head back on my desk, banging it ever so slightly against the hard grain, wondering why my favorite class—English—had to be firstperiod. Mornings can be the worst, especially Mondays after a weekend when Bree is away. I hate the nights she spends with my aunt Dee and her son Tommy. Most people want their own room, but not me. I wish Bree could always be sleeping safely in our small shared space.

  I try to tune out the voices around me as people rattle off books they'll read. Ms. Chapman wants us to choose a book from this list she prepared, read it, and then do an oral report. I'm terrified; I hate public speaking. Just because Ms. Chapman's a show-off it's not fair for her to expect us to be too. Even if I looked like her, I still wouldn't want to be standing in front of the room for all to see.

  "I'm reading The Odyssey," I hear Anne tell Ms. Chapman. Anne, the big brain I suspect she is, could probably read it in the original Greek if she wanted. I get a sense she's ready for college as a tenth grader. Iknow that last year Anne went to the Summit School, this private school that is just over the expressway bridge. I overheard her tell someone she'd rather go to Southwestern, which I don't understand at all. If I had the choice, I'd be out of here like a sprinter hearing the starting pistol.

  "Great choice! Does anyone else know that book?" Ms. Chapman asks. That's typical of her: she's always asking us stuff. I never answer.

  "It's the story about a man trying to return home, and in doing so, finding himself," Glen Thompson speaks up, and I take notice. When he says something smart, nobody laughs; instead, he soaks up attention and adoration. lean sense some girls in the room hanging on his every word, just like I do. Just like I have since seventh grade. Any day that he acknowledges I exist is a great one. Right now, we're just friends but I'm always dreaming for that to change.

  "Sounds boring," Seth Lewis chimes in. Seth speaks like he's king and we're subjects to his wisecracks. He's also the only boy ever to kiss me, but that was eighth grade. We've had a hate-hate relationship ever since.

  "That'syour opinion, Mr. Lewis," Ms. Chapman says. "What book will you be reading?"

  "Lonesome Dove, since you won't let me do Kiss the Girls or any books I wanted."

  Ms. Chapman just looks at him. I dream of her saying, "Who the hell do you think you are," but she can't. She just sighs and ignores him, which is maybe an example I should follow.

  "What's it about?" somebody asks Seth. Like Glen, he has his toadies.

  "It's a story about the A
merican West," Seth replies. He spits when he talks.

  Glen laughs. "Seth, you live in Flint, Michigan. What do you know about the West?"

  Seth stands up, turns on his heel, then points first at Anne, then draws a bead on me. "Right there, you got everything you need to know," Seth says almost in a shout.

  "Mr. Lewis!"Ms. Chapman tries to head him off, but he's a runaway train.

  "You got the Rocky Mountains," he says, cupping his hands on his chubby chest. He points at Anne's tight black tank molded to her ample breasts. As the laughter builds, he points at my flat white baggy T-shirt. "And you got the Great Plains."

  I do then what I do best: I run. I leap from my chair, knocking my books over, like anything in them even mattered. I run out of the classroom, through the dirty halls, and right out the front door of the school. The fresh fall air enters my lungs but just tastes stale.

  After a quick trip to chase some tail lights and smoke a joint, I return to school after lunch to take my punishment. I couldn't care less. Like middle school, I'll probably wear out the carpet in the school attendance office between being late and not showing up at all. I often dream about running away. While I have plenty to run from, I have nothing and nowhere to run to. As I'm walking back to my locker, I stop by Ms. Chapman's room. I stand outside the door, afraid to go in and afraid not to. She's sitting at her desk talking to some girl. Behind her is a shelf overstuffed with books, track trophies, and a maroon-and-yellow Central Michigan banner.