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  CHAPTER 6

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  AT HOME AGAIN, I water the avocado tree, just in case there’s still some life in the roots. I know a little about plants, and you gotta be hopeful about them even when they look dead. ’Cause plants just have this special kind of life force. They want to grow again. That’s more important than spending money by using too much water, so I let the hose run a long time before I stop. There’s a little Phos-Chek on one of our walls, but Dad says we’ll need a professional to remove that. So I go inside, set up my computer, return the trophies to the shelves. Somewhere out there, the fire is still burning, but we’re safe now. I think about how nature’s bigger than anything. It’s the number one thing in the world, really. No matter what’s going on in anyone’s life, if nature wants you to stop what you’re doing, you have to stop what you’re doing. Here in Canyon Country, nature can slap some perspective into you whenever it wants. You’d think knowing how much you can lose and how quickly, you would feel like, Why should I do anything when I could lose it all tomorrow? But actually, I feel the opposite. I mean, I’ve known for a long time that you gotta be intense about stuff, since anything can happen in the future. I remember when I was six, I overheard my stepmom telling Dad that she wanted to have a “real child” with my dad, meaning a kid from the two of them, like I wasn’t her real kid . . . which I guess I wasn’t. So I went to my room and thought about my mother, who I couldn’t even remember, and I felt like maybe my dad didn’t love me anymore, and maybe all I had left was my mom. And maybe I had to take care of myself. I didn’t cry. I just sat there on the floor in my room—the room I have now—and stared straight at a blank wall until my dad came in and asked what I was doing. Then in a few months, my dad kind of asserted himself, plus he got me Sinbad, and things settled down. But I never forgot that sometimes you might end up alone—like what if something had happened to my dad at work and I ended up with my stepmom? So the moral is that family is the most important, but you also gotta have your dog, you gotta have your hockey, you gotta have these super-important things in your life, ’cause it might turn out that you got nothing else.

  But. You also gotta do your homework. So I do mine halfheartedly—it’s some equations that I grind my teeth while I do. Then Dad and I do our weekly cleanup. I’m responsible for the living room, dining room, and kitchen. It takes a couple of hours, with Sinbad following me from room to room. I give him a rawhide bone, and he lies down and chews while I work, and then when I move to a new room, he follows with his bone. Afterward I usually open all the windows to get the smell of household chemicals out of the house, but the air outside’s smoky. I decide it’s a bad idea to take Sinbad for a walk with the smoky air. Instead I play tug-of-war with him for an hour. He would go on for five hours if I let him. I pull as hard as I can, and one time he lets go and I fall backward. I can’t tell if he did that on purpose, but I laugh.

  I sit on the floor and put my arms around him and talk to him like he’s a person.

  “I know you’re wondering why we’re not going for a walk, but we can’t today. It’s been crazy. We coulda lost our house,” I tell him. “I’m still processing. But I love living here anyway. It’s the perfect place to live, except for the fires. But everywhere has something wrong with it. This place is pretty great, you have to admit. You like it here, right?” He lays his paw on my knee like he does sometimes when I ask him a question. I think that just means I love you, and it’s his answer to everything—there’s literally no question you can ask him that I love you isn’t the answer to.

  I hand Sinbad his bone, and then pretend I’m going to steal it. He lopes toward the door, then turns to look at me to see if I’m serious. When he sees I’m not, he lies down and chews. I play video games for about thirty minutes. I got a used Xbox from eBay that I bought with my own money two years ago. So I play once a week, just ’cause it was a lot of money for me and I really wanted a console. But to tell the truth, I’m kind of meh on video games. I just like them ’cause sometimes I need to unwind. Then I remember that I haven’t eaten and turn off the game.

  Though it’s only eight, Dad already seems to be in bed; his door is closed. But as I walk past his room, I hear something strange. He’s crying again. Sobbing, in fact. I just stand there, kind of amazed. I’ve never heard my dad cry this hard before. Is it still the divorce? I want to knock on his door, and my hand hovers near the wood. But do I want to knock on the door for him, or for me? I decide it’s for me, and that he wouldn’t like me bothering him just now. In fact, it would embarrass him. I finally just return to my room and close the door and switch on the ceiling fan to drown out any noise I might hear from Dad’s room. Half an hour passes. I sneak out again, and he’s still crying.

  So I keep checking his door until he’s snoring. I don’t even feel like eating anymore. I’m not sure what this crying means. I feel like I should tell someone, like someone who works with him, that maybe he’s not entirely okay at the moment. On the other hand, it’s none of their business. Or is it? I go back and forth. He’s got a lot of pressure out there in the streets, and if he’s not in perfect condition, maybe he’ll be making the wrong decisions. Is that the way it works? I just don’t know. I mean, I’m only a kid.

  CHAPTER 7

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  THE NEXT MORNING in history class, everyone’s slouching in their seats. School’s almost out for the summer, and nobody’s taking classes seriously at all. History is the class I like least. You’d think history would be super fascinating. I mean, a lot of crazy stuff must have happened in the past, but the textbook and my teacher make it seem like nothing interesting has happened, ever. Whenever it occurs to him, my dad finds something for me to read, stuff he says is real history. Maybe from WikiLeaks, maybe from someone smart he agrees with, or maybe from someone smart he disagrees with. He makes me do this ’cause he says when he became a cop, he was surprised to find that he didn’t know anything at all about the real world. It was all a surprise to him.

  The only class I like this year is science. My teacher loves anything to do with science, whether it’s astronomy or zoology or biology. She’s just amazed at every big and little thing in the world. Once in a while, she’ll tell you some crazy fact just to freak you out. Like did you know a cumulus cloud can weigh as much as dozens of elephants? Interesting, right?

  When the last class lets out, I stand around with some of the kids as we wait for our parents to pick us up. “ ’Sup,” says a guy I don’t even know. He might be from seventh grade—he’s from the junior high adjoining my school. We actually share one of the buildings.

  “ ’Sup,” I say back.

  “You play hockey, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “My dad wants me to start playing sports. What do you think about hockey?”

  “It’s a big commitment,” I say. Plus he looks older than me, so that’s pretty late to be starting hockey.

  “Yeah, I don’t want a commitment. If I have to do sports, I just want something that might be fun. Is there even hockey over the summer?”

  “Yeah, there’s in-house hockey all year.”

  “Do you have to be good for in-house?”

  “It depends on the team. I’ve been on some awesome in-house teams, and I’ve been on some bad ones. You skate?”

  “Can’t I learn?”

  “Yeah, sure, it’s easy. If you’re just thinking about how fun it is, it’s the greatest thing in history, actually.”

  “Cool. I hear you’re pretty good.”

  “I guess so.” I kind of flush with pride.

  “Cool. There’s my dad. See ya. Good luck with your hockey.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” That happens periodically, where someone I don’t even know comes up to me and starts talking about hockey. I guess I’m known as the hockey kid. It feels good ’cause they’re kind of respectful, and they give off a nice vibe. It’s like they want me to do well. It’s kind of like when I see that ten-year-old ice skater that Ivan work
s with. I hope she gets to nationals someday. I would be super happy for her.

  My power skating starts at four fifteen, so Dad picks me up at school with all my gear in the car. Then we drive to Ice House in Panorama City. My main rink is Garland Ice Rink in Burbank, but to go to the best coaches, sometimes you have to travel to different rinks. I also go to the Ice Palace sometimes to skate with a guy named Sasha. It’s funny that they named it “Palace,” ’cause it’s the most truly rinky-dink rink ever. It looks like it was built in ancient Egypt. Sometimes if I’m feeling sensitive, I can hardly breathe in there ’cause it smells so toxic. And the locker room is even worse than the dungeons at Garland. You feel like you’re in solitary confinement. I get claustrophobia in there, and I start to worry about what would happen if the door got locked and I couldn’t get it open. It’s irrational, I know, but I feel it every time.

  As we’re driving, I remember I’ve got to do a one-page paper on something for my writing class, and right there in the car I decide to write about my dad. I’ve known about it for two weeks. The paper’s due tomorrow. . . . I like doing papers last-minute. So I have some questions to ask Dad. He seems at peace as he drives, filled with a sense of mission when he takes me to skate.

  I tap my fingers on the cup holder, then ask, “Can I ask you some questions about work? Mr. Falco said we have to write a one-page essay about someone in our family. It’s due tomorrow. And I’m writing about you.”

  “Who’s Mr. Falco again?”

  “My writing teacher. It’s this special class they’re letting some kids take if they want. Dad, please?”

  “It’s for school?”

  “Yeah, for Mr. Falco.” He doesn’t answer, and I add, “He’s from New York. Queens. He’s studying for his master’s.”

  “What’s he studying? What? Are you kidding me?! Did you see that guy roll through that stop sign?”

  He does that all the time, whenever he sees a driver do something dangerous.

  “He’s studying writing.”

  We stop at a light, and I see his eyes drift to the sidewalk, always alert for what’s happening on the street. That’s just habit with him.

  “I want to ask you some questions,” I say.

  “Sure, you can ask me anything.”

  I think for a moment as we jump on the freeway. There’s some weird, rusting metallic art sculpture off the grass to the side. The idea of it probably seemed better than it turned out.

  “So lemme think,” I say. “I want to write about police work. So to start, how often do you get attacked?”

  “Well, like someone physically ramming into my body or hitting me or pulling out a weapon? I dunno. Maybe once a year. When I was working the streets, I got into more fights, just because I had to arrest people. Believe me, there are some strong guys out there who don’t want to be arrested. They try to grab your gun.”

  “So then if somebody doesn’t comply, you have to shoot them?”

  “If you shot everybody who didn’t comply, you’d shoot a hundred people in your career.” He shakes his head. “Nah, I’ve never shot my gun. The huge, overwhelming majority of cops never shoot their gun in the line of duty.”

  “So how do you arrest somebody who doesn’t want to be arrested?”

  “Throw him to the frickin’ ground and arrest him. It isn’t pretty.”

  “Oh. And what about people who talk back to you? Do you arrest them?”

  He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “If you did that, you’d spend your whole life writing arrest reports. You arrest people for breaking the law. Being rude isn’t breaking the law.”

  “So do people argue with you about getting a ticket?”

  “Sometimes. The thing about being a traffic cop is, you have to be the kind of person who knows exactly what you just saw, and you have to project that to the person you stop. Plus, they know in their hearts what they did. Some of them argue. It wastes everybody’s time, but I like to let them get it out of their system. Then I give them the ticket. Sometimes they actually thank me for listening to them.”

  “Cool. But how rude are they?”

  “A small number are unbelievably rude.” He drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “I don’t stop people for unimportant stuff. I stop them when they’ve presented a danger, like when I think they might be driving impaired or they’ve gone through a red light. I’ve been called racist by every race. I’ve had people tell me I only stopped them because they have a nice car, and other people who tell me I only stopped them because they have a beat-up car. Some of them yell at me, they insult me, they bring up stuff that has nothing to do with me, and nothing to do with the fact that they just sped through a crosswalk with a pedestrian in it. So I let them swear at me, and then they calm down and sign the ticket.”

  “It doesn’t get you mad?”

  “Lately it gets me tired. I’m tired. Sometimes I just feel so tired.”

  “And what about Metro? Did you ever want to join them?” Metro is the elite section of LAPD and is basically their SWAT team.

  He slides into the left-turn lane and seems to be thinking. I don’t say anything, ’cause I remember how Mr. Falco says that when you’re interviewing people, you have to keep your mouth shut and let them ramble and see where they go with it.

  “I’m a good cop, and I believe in what I do. I think I make the world a safer place. I mean, there are sixty million police-citizen contacts a year in America. I’m just a bit player. But I think I make a difference.”

  I deliberately don’t say anything.

  “For a while being on patrol was rewarding. I felt like I was saving the world—that’s a pretty amazing feeling. But some of the things you see, some of the people you meet, I started getting sick of it. That wasn’t a side of life I really wanted to see anymore. There was one lady who called over a domestic dispute, and when we got there, she said she was fine. Nice lady. We left, and then later we got a new call to her place. We went there and she was dead.

  “Did you feel sad?” I ask.

  “Hell, no, I felt like I had to get the guy who killed her. And I did.” He pauses, frowns. “But then at night, in bed, I did feel sad. I asked myself, why am I doing this? I have a son, I have a wife, I could have a good life. So I went to traffic. There are still a lot of great officers on patrol, but definitely some of them leave. I have a lot of respect for the good ones who keep at it.”

  We’re pulling into the rink now. The rink’s not in the greatest area, so there’s a tall iron fence around the whole parking lot. I think about how I can put everything together in a report, weave in some things I already know. I think about Dad not feeling work is so rewarding anymore. I didn’t know that about him. I thought he loved his job. He always tells me not to do anything that I don’t love. I look at him, see the lines starting by his eyes. Someday, if I make the NHL, I’m going to buy him a big house before I buy one for myself. I’m going to get him a big TV, ’cause he likes to watch so much. I’m going to get him anything he wants. I say it out loud: “I’m going to buy you the biggest TV ever someday.”

  He looks at me like he doesn’t know what that has to do with anything. But we’re turning into the parking lot. “Focus,” he says.

  I grab my bag, get my mind into hockey. Inside the rink, there are two sheets of ice, a smallish one and a regulation-size one. Ice House has the best locker rooms of any of the three rinks I go to regularly. They’re just regular rooms, so you don’t feel like you’re imprisoned in them or like there might be some pervs lurking about. And they aren’t warm and stuffy.

  I skate onto the ice where people are doing public skating. Aleksei is waiting and barks, “A minute late!”

  “Sorry!” I answer.

  All we do for half an hour are really exhausting drills to strengthen my thighs. Aleksei shouts behind me. “Move, move!” That must be something they say in Russia, because whenever I skate with Sasha, he yells almost the same thing, except he says, “Move it! Move it!” Then when
there are two minutes left, Aleksei holds on to the back of my pants, and I skate across the rink pulling him. Then when there are about thirty seconds left, I pull him as he holds his skates sideways so that I can hardly move.

  When I finally finish, I collapse to the ground. Aleksei doesn’t even say “good job,” just leaves to get ready for his stick time. I crawl across the ice to my water bottle and push myself up with a grunt. My head is crazy hot, so I take off my helmet and pour water onto my hair, then let water dribble into my mouth. Next I go to the back rink and stretch out flat on one of the benches in the small bleachers, lying there while the Zamboni finishes. Way too soon, it’s stick time, and I shove myself up with another grunt.

  While Aleksei pushes a goal over to a corner, I take a couple of laps around the rink. Different coaches are using different parts of the ice. We’re in the left in front. Dad has found his favorite seat underneath the one heating unit that works. Now Aleksei is setting up some tires and homemade training aids—they’re two blocks of wood, with a post attached to the top of them. I call them danglers. They’re to teach you puck-handling. You push the puck through them when you’re going at fast speeds.

  For the next hour, a few other guys and I do a series of fast-moving drills with a puck. Aleksei is a master at keeping everybody moving; you hardly have any downtime with him in charge. He’s skating after me while pounding his stick on the ice, screaming, “Skate! Skate, Conor!! Conorrrrrrr!!!” It seems like he’s screaming at me for a whole hour. “WHY AREN’T YOU MOVING YOUR FEET?!! YOUR FEET! YOUR FEET!” Then it’s over. And the crazy thing is I had a great hour. Aleksei’s stick times are the best! He’s the master for sure!

  CHAPTER 8