CHAPTER FIVE
Flight of the Blue Car
[I
see red.]
The red car is in for a much bigger
adventure than the blue guy could ever do. The red car is always better because
it’s a faster color like Fire Engines. You don’t know how important the red car
is until the blue is dead and gone. The red car will sometimes remember his
friend Mr. Blue, but thinking about him will never bring him back. That is why
the red car sometimes hates the blue car in his memories. Remembering is stupid
and boring.
I found a ladder on the outside fire
escape, which is way too high up for me to reach, but I have a plan. I always
have plans, don't you know? Kind of close to the ladder is a tree, which is not
the strongest but also not the unstrongest. I grab a hard box from the play
yard and stand on it. Hmm—too
small. I grab another box because that will make it two times big, and when I
stand on it, I am tall enough to climb onto a branch. I jump up, and the boxes
fall down, but lucky I am in the tree now.
I hit my knee on the bark, and it’s got
blood but I don’t care. I hate band-aids, mostly I hate when people try to put
them on for me. The blood falls down to my sock. I climb to the next higher
branch stick, and I am close enough now to get onto the ladder. The branch is a
bit skinny for climbing and bends when I stand on it. I think I have to do this
lightning fast so the branch doesn’t snap, so I get down low and BURST my
energy like a rocket. I jump and grab onto the ladder like a cat. That was
tricky, but I won.
I climb up the ladder fast, fast, fast. Now I am where I want to
be—I’m on the roof. Did you know
most of the roofs in San Francisco are flat? I did. Even if they look pointy at
the front it’s all fake—they’re
flat behind the front. I wanted to climb this roof the minute I came to this
school, but I never got the chance. Well, today is my day. Red car and phoney
are in my pocket, so I get them out. The phone lights up under all that tape,
and I see a picture of a stupid man giving a kiss on Mrs. Garcia’s cheek. I
slide open the lock, and there isn’t a passcode. Her doesn’t have any games
that I like, so I open her music. She has two songs the same as me but a
hundred songs I hate.
The green square with the speech bubble is for texting. There’s a
red circle in the top corner, and it says the number two. I tap the green and
it opens a page with texting from a guy who’s name is Will, and there’s a love
heart picture beside the word. He wrote a text that I can’t read, so I press
some buttons, and it spells words automatically which makes me seem very smart.
I press send. Oh! I know! I will add a photo to send to him. I open the albums
and send a picture of Mrs. Garcia kissing a different man than the one when the
phone was locked. OK, enough time wasting. Now it’s time for red car and phoney
phone to have the ride of their lives.
I walk to the edge of the roof.
[I
see you.]
I lift the walkie-talkie to my mouth and press the button reluctantly.
“Hot dog,” I confess (famous last words).
I sense the principal is shining her shoes, readying herself to
kick us to the curb. It must feel good to be right all the time. I run outside,
but I can’t see him anywhere before help arrives. I ask one teacher to look in
the bathroom and another to check all the staircases. The principal bursts from
the building like mints in a cola bottle, and I can tell she’s absolutely
livid.
“He’s gone! He’s out!” she says with
her beady eyes melting a hole in my already deflated soul. “I shouldn’t have
let you talk me into keeping him here a single moment longer, Zoe. I had faith
in your ability to change him.”
I interrupt her rant, “Can we talk
about this later? Right now we have a child to find, which I am sure you’d
agree is more important.” Suddenly something falls from above and crashes into
a thousand pieces on the cement.
“What the f...udge?” I alter
my speech to remain professional. On the ground before me is a red toy car,
wrapped in tape, connected to a device that once was a phone. The blood drains
from my face, and I look to the roof of the building. F-Word. Dallas is
laughing and yelling, “Blast off!”
I slowly grab the principal’s arm and
calmly whisper, “Don’t make any sudden movements, don’t talk, just stand here.
I’m going to tell you something, and I am trusting you not to react. I need you
to act as natural as possible—can
you do that?”
“Yes,” she whispers confusedly, “What
is going on?”
“Dallas is on the roof,” I murmur.
Her eyes grow wide, and I’m pretty sure
she just shit her pants a little bit. “Are you serious?”
“Don’t look up,” I say, as she is
frozen like a deer in headlights.
“What if he jumps?” she says, as though
I hadn’t already thought of that possibility.
“We will get him before he has the
chance,” I lie through my teeth.
“How?” she says, almost inaudibly.
How indeed. I need to think fast.
“We have to look as though we’re
still searching for him. Get some staff out here, and just direct them to look
for him like we did yesterday. Make him think he’s winning,” I convince myself.
“I am going to climb up on the roof.”
“Don't be stupid. You can't get on the
roof,” she whispers bluntly. “Call the fire department for God’s sake!”
“Not yet—trust
me,” I say, without fully believing what I am about to do. “Call them when I
catch him, and not a moment before.”
Why did I volunteer myself for this? This is the stupidest plan I
have ever hatched, and with one wrong move both of us may need scraping off the
sidewalk. This kid may literally be the death of me, and here I go like a lamb
to the slaughter. The principal rallies the crew, and I hear them starting the
fake search party. I run to the fire escape, extend the ladder as quietly as
possible, and climb on and on not stopping to look below.
When I reach the top I see Dallas
standing on the other side of the roof looking towards the city. He’s singing
with all of his heart, and I see the lengths to which he's gone in order to get
a moment he can call his own. I don’t want to scare him—I’m trying to be sneaky, not stupid. When I get within ten feet, I
know it’s time to say something.
“Buddy,” I say quietly.
“I won!” he laughs, “You better watch out, or I’ll fly like the
car.”
The moment passes in slow motion, as I
realize the gravity of the situation. There is no time to be afraid, and by the
look in Dallas's eyes, he’s definitely not 'home' right now. I cease talking to
the boy, and I begin conversing with his demons.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“I am the boss,” he snarls.
“Dallas, listen to me,” I assert confidently, “Dallas, take the
wheel.”
He jumps on the spot, arms flailing.
“What’s your name?” I say.
“D… Damn you, asshole!” it screams.
“Dallas. I see you, Dallas. You’re called Dallas,” I say,
trembling.
His eyes close and face winces.
“I’m Dallas,” he says through clenched teeth, and he returns to
me, so slightly. I need to seize the moment—and
fast.
“Have you ever played this game? It’s called Undead Pirate Ransom.
They’re zombies, and also pirates. I think you’d like it,” I mention casually,
my heart beating like a hummingbird's wings. I sit down in my place and put the
phone’s volume on full blast. Zombies moan words like, “Argh!” and, “Shiver me
timbers!” The sound of swords brandishing fills the air, and Dallas follows it
like catnip. He runs towards me.
“Let me see!” he says, trying to take the phone.
“No way, I’m playing right now!” I retort, grasping my phone
tighter than ever before.
“Can I be next?” he begs.
“I guess. But you have to watch me now, so you know how to play,”
I reason.
Dallas sidles up beside me, and without a second’s hesitation, I
extend my arm and scoop him into my lap. My phone leaves my hand, and bounces
twice on the roof. I have him, thank God, he’s safe with me for now—but I need backup before he escapes. I can’t risk the walkie
talkie, so I scream more desperately than I ever have before.
“HOT DOG! I have him!”
The principal is mid-call to 911, and I wait, painstakingly on
this roof with Dallas. He’s kicking and screaming—I’m
going to need superhuman strength to hold him until the fire truck arrives.
Finally, I hear sirens.
[I
see red.]
I’ve been tricked! The Evil She
is trying to kill me again, just when I thought her was nice. There’s no such
thing as a nice killer, so she is now the most evil person I have ever knowed.
I have no breath left, and I’m trying to scream to tell everyone I’m dying, but
no sound is coming out. I think this has to be the start of what dying feels like.
I have to kick and scratch her so I don’t die before they all find out who the
bad guy really is. This lady whispers lies to me, she follows me everywhere,
and she takes away my choices. I have to tell the police about her as soon as I
can talk again.
I throw my head back to crack hers
again, but it doesn’t work. She seems stronger today, and she’s holding me
tighter than any other day. Her leg is over the top of mine, and she is not
letting me win at all. I need some new ideas to make her stop killing me. Wait—is that a siren? The police heared my wishes, and they are taking
her to jail. I hear sirens getting louder, and louder, then they stop. I just
have to survive until they take her away.
[I
see you.]
Dallas elbows me in the side, and he’s
kicking like crazy. He reaches his mouth down to my arm and plants his teeth,
which hurts like nobody’s business. Instinctively, I push my arm into his bite,
which opens his jaw and he releases. His screams are husky, and he seems
breathless. I hear him trying to scream, but it comes out all breathy.
“You’re killing me!” he wheezes, “Why
are you making me die?”
My arms are loose enough around his
waist to know that I’m not actually taking his breath away, but the stress of
the situation seems to be choking him. If I let him go, he’ll jump off the
roof, but if I hold him, he might hyperventilate. Luckily, I see the cherry
picking extension rise up beside the roof. A firefighter climbs out and
approaches us.
“Be careful,” I ask, “He runs. If
you’re going to take him from me, you have to promise that you won’t let him
go.”
“OK—I
won’t,” the firefighter agrees.
“I mean, from the second you take him
from my arms to the second you put him back in my arms you can’t let him go,” I
reiterate hysterically. “He is hard to hold, so make your grip tight enough to
contain him—but you have to make sure he
can breathe. Also, don’t talk to him. Just get him to the ground safely.”
“I promise you, I won’t let him go,”
the firefighter confirms and reaches over to take him. I’ve never let anyone
take Dallas from me while he’s raging—not
even his own mother. What if this firefighter (albeit a 6’3” man) loses grip—just for a second? A second is all it takes for Dallas to run and
jump.
“DON’T LET HIM GO!” I scream with empty
arms, as I watch the fireman carry Dallas from the roof to the cherry picker.
They climb inside, then I hear the hydraulics mark the cherry-picker’s descent,
watching strangers take him as they fade from view. I’m alone on the roof right
now, and I cry from the pit of my stomach. By the grace of God, we both
survived. I’m angry and thankful, relieved and terrified—all at once. I assume the firefighters will come back for me, so I
make a decision to trust their ability to keep him safe. I can’t do anything
from up here, except take in the beauty of the San Francisco skyline, which
will be forever associated with this unfortunate moment in time. Soon enough,
the cherry picker returns and I’m ushered into the bucket with a different firefighter.
Once we’re on the ground, the first
firefighter hands Dallas back into my arms, and I walk him to the front
entrance of the school. I corner him by the doors, blocking his ability to run.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“You’re killing me!” he says,
cowering.
I stand him up again on his feet.
“Dallas, I like you every single day.
It doesn’t matter what you do, I like who you are. You’re safe, Buddy. You’re
safe with me,” I tell him, “What’s your name?”
“Dallas,” he whispers, almost silently.
“I’m Dallas.”
He falls to the floor and weeps, so I
scoop him up onto my lap. He’s not at risk of running now, he’s ‘home’ within
himself. He melts like wax into my arms and cries, as I stroke his sweaty hair
away from his eyes.
“You’re OK, Buddy. You’re safe now,” I
whisper, gently rocking him back and forth. He falls asleep in my arms,
intermittently sniffling as he starts to calm in his sleep. The principal
stands there with her mouth open, not sure whether to be enraged or impressed.
She walks over and sits beside me on the ground.
“He’s not welcome back here, I know,” I
say, trying to save her breath.
“Sorry,” she replies. “His parents are
on their way over.”
I’m a little worried about what might
happen next.
“Zoe,” the principal says quietly, “Are
you OK?”
“I’ll be fine. This is part of the job,” I brush off her concern.
“Maybe you need to rethink your involvement with this family,” she
says carefully, knowing that her suggestion is unwelcome. “For your own health
and safety.”
“Things always get worse before they get better,” I insist. “We’ll
find him another educational placement, and we’ll start again.”
Nobody ever screws up so much that they’re beyond help. I believe
that with all of my heart.
