Ellison
I’m still losing on bull I had nothing to do with. Drix’s words continue to echo in my mind. He said so much to me, many things, but some of his words feel weighted... I had nothing to do with... I’m used to taking the fall...
Rain taps against the windows, and I finally find the strength to throw off the covers I had yanked over my head. My head is foggy, and as I sit up my body is heavy. I hate California. I hate California rolls. I hate flying from California to Kentucky after eating California rolls. I hate whatever virus I contracted, and I currently hate my revolting body.
My mouth is a desert, and the water bottle on my bedside table is empty. No doubt I could text Mom for more, no doubt I could open my mouth and whisper her name and she’d come running, but maybe moving out of this room of the Black Death will help me recover.
I open the door and go down the stairs, my feet cold against the hardwood. The house is unusually quiet and unusually empty. Bet there’s a black flag hanging on a pole out front, warning the world of the plague.
In the kitchen, there are multiple vases of flowers on the island. With a cold bottle of water from the fridge in hand, I pause when I spot my name on the cards. My forehead furrows, and I open the card attached to the red roses.
Elle,
I hope these roses bring a smile to your face like you bring a smile to mine. I miss you. Get well soon.
Andrew
The card falls from my grip, and I place a hand over my mouth. I haven’t barfed in hours, but that note made bile crawl up my throat. Like he honestly cares. Wonder who forced him to write that note and why.
Searching for another sign of life and proof that the aliens I dreamed about last night didn’t invade earth and kill everyone but me, I wander through the house in the direction of Dad’s office. If there’s nobody there, then the world is definitely lost. There’s always someone in this house at work.
Not a good sign when one of the double doors is open. I step in, and it’s eerily empty.
“Mom?” my voice is pathetic and scratchy. “Dad?”
I should head back upstairs and check my cell, but I’m too tired. Instead, I choose the next best thing—the phone on Dad’s desk.
When I was a kid I used to love to play in Dad’s massive, cushy leather chair. I’d go round and round until I was so dizzy that if I laid on the floor the earth tilted. I drop into Dad’s chair, and the last thing I want is anything that will make my head confuzzled to the point of puking, so there’s no spinning. At least the type that’s on purpose.
I pick up the receiver, dial in Mom’s cell, and she answers mid-first ring. “Hello?”
“Where are you?” I sound like I swallowed sharp rocks.
“Elle? Why are you calling from your father’s office phone?”
“Because I’m calling from Dad’s office.” Duh. “I was looking for you guys. Where is everyone?”
“Your dad isn’t allowing anyone in the house. He wants you to rest, and he didn’t want a lot of noise disturbing you. Are you feeling better?” she asks with the right mix of Mom terror, deep concern and love. “Are you feeling worse? Robert, she’s in your office, and she’s feeling worse.”
My mouth tips up with her familiar panic. “I’m on my feet. That’s better.”
Technically, I’m not on my feet, but I did use my feet long enough to travel here.
“Your dad and I are in the back sunroom meeting with Sean. I’m coming in.”
“Finish what you’re meeting about. I’m okay. I’ll hang in here for a bit.”
“Okay, but I’ll be in soon.”
We both hang up, and I lay my head on the desk as my stomach dances in a very mean way. Maybe I’m dying.
I’m still losing on bull I had nothing to do with.
Between fevered dreams about aliens and complete human annihilation, I dreamed of Drix and those words.
I’m still losing on bull I had nothing to do with.
What does that mean? Was it just words that fell out during so many other words? But that doesn’t feel right. Drix is methodical. I open my mouth and thoughts tumble out. Drix, on the other hand, thinks. Overthinks. The opposite of me.
I pick up my head, and the world has a fuzzy haze. My body’s hot, and I drink half of the cold water. I move the mouse on Dad’s computer. The time and date appear in the corner, and it’s like someone kicked my already sore stomach. Crap. I’ve lost not just time, but I’ve lost track of days. The big trip to DC is this weekend.
It was supposed to be parties and fund-raisers, and Dad said I might meet the president. The president. I would have had thirty seconds. I was going to fill those thirty seconds with something profound, something amazing...something that would have left my father proud.
I sigh as another wave of dizziness hits. I’m obviously not making Dad proud today.
I’m still losing on bull I had nothing to do with.
“What did you mean, Drix?” I whisper.
I pull up Solitaire on Dad’s computer, but three clicks in and my brain starts to hurt from focusing, so I turn the chair away from the screen. Behind Dad’s desk are binders. A ton of binders. Dad loves to have all of his political stances printed out with bullet points. It helps keep him organized and on task, but he’d better hope the environmentalists never find out how many trees he’s killing.
In a corner of binders on the floor is one labeled Second Chance Program. Below it is another binder labeled Hendrix Pierce.
I’m still losing on bull I had nothing to do with.
“Congratulations, Elle,” Dad says as he enters the room. Even though it’s Wednesday, he must be having a down day as he’s in a T-shirt and jeans. “You hit one of your first milestones of your career in politics.”
I use my toes to slowly spin in his direction. “Did you congratulate me on being sick?”
“Politician plague. Shake enough hands, kiss enough babies, and your immune system will finally meet its match.”
Dad stops short of his desk, and his face falls. “You look bad, Elle.”
I try to flash him my perfected fake smile. “Why, thank you.”
Dad rounds his desk and places the back of his hand against my forehead. “You’re burning up.”
“I’m fine.”
The I’m-sorry glance he’s giving me says it all, yet he still talks, “You’re not going to DC.”
Not what I wanted to hear. We had big plans for my birthday in DC, and that’s what I was looking forward to the most—spending time with Mom and Dad.
“I win this election and you’ll be in DC all the time.”
If he wins the election... “Am I doing okay? With the election?” Has doing close to everything he’s asked of me and being miserable the entire time been enough for him to forgive me?
Dad tucks my loose hair behind my ear. “Your mom and I are proud. You’ve followed every direction, and Sean came by to tell me we’re leading in the polls. Hugely. You’ve played a big part in that. Even Sean’s impressed.”
I sit a little higher. At least I do in my head—in reality I might have slumped lower in the chair. Regardless, I love my dad. Just love him.
“I know your mom and I have been tough on you, but we know life, and we understand hard life. I came from nothing, you’re mom had so many demons she had to slay to make it out emotionally alive, and look what we have now. We love you, more than we could have imagined loving anyone. We want the best for you.”
My mom and dad didn’t want children. They were so emotionally scarred from their childhoods that they weren’t convinced that adding to the human population was a good idea. But then there was me. I was a surprise—a happy surprise, I have always been reassured, but a surprise. One, as Mom has said, they have worshipped since seeing two lines on a pregnancy test. I believe them, but sometimes their love is a little intense.
“Let’s get you back in bed before you puke in my office.”
I start to move, but then my eyes fall on Drix’s binder again.
I’m still losing on bull I had nothing to do with.
“Hey, Dad?”
“Yes, I’ll carry you.”
“No, that’s not what I was going to say.” But doesn’t sound like a bad idea. “Why did you choose Drix for the program?”
Dad’s eyes narrow. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m curious. How did you know he was the one to take the risk on? Your program was going to succeed or fail on his shoulders. How did you know he was the one? You promised to help end the school-to-prison pipeline, so why did you think Drix was the one to prove it?” I fan myself as a wave of unwanted sick heat hits my head. “When so many things hang in the balance, how did you know you were making the right choice?”
Dad leans back against his desk and crosses his arms across his chest in a relaxed position. I must be doing something right because he’s going to answer. Typically, my father blows these types of questions off—at least with me.
“If I talk to you about this, then it stays between us. Part of doing this type of job is learning how to keep information to yourself.”
“Got it.”
“Do you understand the pipeline theory?”
I read about it when Dad proposed the program, and people thought it was a waste of money. “Teens act out at school, sometimes being thrown out over something such as cursing, sometimes something worse. While out of school they commit a crime. They go to juvenile detention, and even though they have classes there, they fall behind in their studies. They get out, don’t do well in school because they are behind, act out, get suspended, commit a crime while on suspension, and end up in juvenile detention again. Rinse and repeat until they turn eighteen and end up in adult prison.”
“That’s the gist. How did I choose the spokesperson? By making an informed decision. We looked at teens from several different stages of the pipeline. Ones who had already been in and out of the system several times, to some who were on their second offense, and then there was Hendrix. First offense, a serious first offense, and a history of suspensions at school for fighting. His home life had instability, and teens like him have greater chances of staying in the system once entering.”
A painful squeeze in my chest. Fighting. Drix said he was scared of returning to who he had been. “But why choose him?”
“He didn’t fight the charges. Within forty-eight hours of being arrested, he pled guilty. He showed signs of remorse, showed signs of concern for his future, and had an older brother who stepped up and promised to help once Hendrix was released from the program.
“Unfortunately, there isn’t a lack of teens to choose from, but with so many eyes on an unpopular idea, we knew we had to be conservative with our choices. Make choices with teens who had a better chance at success so we could expand the program to all. Any teen we picked was a risk, but Hendrix was a controlled risk. We had a feeling from day one if we removed him from the situation he was in, showed him who he could be and then returned him to his brother, he’d succeed. His success and his willingness to be the face of the program will pave the way for other teens to escape the pipeline.”
Individual attention. Individual care. Individual plans created for the individual teen. Lots of money, and anything involving lots of taxpayer money isn’t popular, even if it helps save lives. But my dad, he’s not the guy who makes the choices for the greater good. He understands society won’t work until the voiceless have a voice.
That’s good because my dad is my hero, and I’d be crushed if he was anything less.
My fever-induced slow-moving brain rolls through Dad’s explanation, and my eyebrows knit together. “Drix didn’t have a trial?”
“No.”
“How do you know he did the crime?”
“As I said, he confessed.”
My head begins to pound, a blinding pain, and I rub my temples.
“You just turned a scary shade of white, Elle, and I don’t like it. Your doctor said you shouldn’t push it.”
“You’re my doctor.”
“Exactly. I’ll feel better if you’re lying down.”
Me, too.
I’m still losing on bull I had nothing to do with... I’m used to taking the fall... Drix’s words are like their own virus mutating in my mind. Drix confessed, so what do those words mean? What could he possibly mean?