RECYCLED MEMORY Read online

  Now wasn’t the time for sadness; it was the time for combat.

  “You lost, little pussy? This area is reserved for men, not a sissified punk like you.”

  The rough booming voice of Buck Calhoun stilled my hand from touching the bike further. I dropped it to my side and turned to face the brutish man.

  “I came for your boy Range. He disrespected me earlier, and I’m here to make it right, Old Man River. Go get his ass, and I promise I’ll take it easy on him.” He grumbled deep within his throat, but I held my ground. He didn’t scare me.

  “Billy Badass, huh?” He snorted.

  He looked me over from head to toe, never once revealing what was going through that twisted mind of his. He studied the expression on my face the longest. Absently, he played with his beard that was secured with a rubber band and kept me waiting for what felt like hours. If he thought his little stall tactic was going to keep me from whooping his boy’s ass, he was sadly mistaken. The longer he kept me waiting, the angrier I became, until I was coiled tight like a cobra, ready to strike at anything that dared to get close. The pace of my breathing picked up, and my fists flexed at my sides in clear view of the giant behemoth. My reactions did not go unnoticed, yet he continued to make me wait a beat longer.

  “Yeahhhh, that’s it… That’s what I’m looking for, hard-ass,” he croaked before flicking his chin toward the front entrance of the junkyard. “Let’s go.”

  Finally, it sunk in to the idiot that I wasn’t playing around, and it was time to get down to business. He walked in front of me at a steady pace, never once checking to see if I was following. The wingspan of his massive back was stretched across the black T-shirt he wore, barely large enough to contain his oversized muscles. Like most criminals his age, he had a wide array of tattoos intricately designed to cover every bare inch of his milky white skin. Buck Calhoun was indeed an intimidating man, but my father had taught me long ago—the bigger they come, the harder they fall.

  “RANGE! Get out here, boy.” We stopped short and stood in front of the office. Within seconds, the object of my rage stood before us with a stupid-ass smirk on his face. Range.

  “I see you found a new friend,” he spoke to the criminal.

  “Says you disrespected him. Wants payback,” Buck announced.

  “You don’t say. Well, that’s interesting.” The fool actually yawned like the entire conversation was boring him to tears. “What do you think, Buck? He earned the right?” The right? What the fuck?

  “Hmm,” he contemplated. “Fuck no, he ain’t earned it. Thinks he can take it.” The biker scum smirked to his little protégé.

  “Pity. His daddy shoulda taught him better.” The fuck?

  “To the circle,” Buck commanded.

  Hello? I’m standing right here! It was like they were speaking their own language. The dirty, unkempt boy stood taller in his ripped-up jeans and holey sneakers. He didn’t deny the accusation or try and talk his way out of it; he just went along with whatever Buck said. No way could he think he could take me; that was just plain dumb. I was bigger and stronger, not to mention the obvious: I was the better fighter. I’d taken on boys twice my size and always came out on top when it counted. The kid was going down; he just didn’t know it.

  The two of them walked ahead of me, gabbing away like two women at a beauty salon. Before long, we stood on the far side of the junkyard and away from the browsing customers. The rugged terrain had been flattened evenly and cut into a precise circle of compressed dirt. It was well worn, as if used frequently by several people over a long period of time. Obviously, this was the spot that Buck had referred to as “the circle”, and they were both very familiar with its purpose. Buck stood off to the side while Range removed his threadbare shirt and started to stretch.

  “What is this shit? Are we gonna throw down or what?” I moved toward the circle but was pulled backwards by a strong grip before I could reach the inside.

  “The circle of combat,” Buck began slowly, “is where we prepare our minds and bodies to face any enemy who’s earned the right to challenge. To protect our family, our brothers, and ourselves, we must be ready to spill blood… or die trying. The circle is our training ground, sacred and vital to the brotherhood. You won’t be able to run or hide once you enter the grounds. Is that understood?”

  “Whatever, Buddha. Let’s get this party started already.”

  “Hmm.” Buck spat on the ground in front of us. “You got a lot to learn, boy.”

  He finally let go of my shoulder, and I stepped into the circle ready to face off with Range. He wasn’t smirking or looking to Buck for guidance. He was focused on my face, hands up, legs locked in a fighting position. He might have looked the part of readied opponent, but the fucker didn’t stand a chance. I stood toe to toe with him and raised my own fists in front of my face.

  “RANGE!” Buck yelled. “Evasion techniques.”

  Just as I was about to swing, Range lowered his arms and placed them behind his back. It was a good ploy, but I wasn’t falling for it. Like Buck said, once you stepped into the circle, there was no running or hiding. I didn’t see him as a defenseless boy without the use of his fists; I saw the enemy, and the enemy was mine.

  I swung left. He ducked.

  Right. He ducked lower.

  Upper cut. He pivoted back and somehow ended up behind me. I was out of breath, sweaty, and hadn’t laid a single hand on the kid. Desperate to strike a blow, I lunged forward with outstretched hands and landed directly on my face. I could taste dirt from eating the ground; the dryness forced me into a coughing fit just so I could breathe. Me face down on the ground was the perfect opportunity for Range to kick me or jump on my back to hold me in place, but nothing happened as I expected. I looked up to see him walking away, shirt in hand and head lowered as if he was the one who’d lost. He’d beaten me fair and square, with honor, dignity, and respect.

  That wasn’t supposed to happen.

  I was yanked to my feet by my shirt collar, my body limp from defeat, and my mind in turmoil. Buck made his point. I was a pussy who couldn’t even beat one skinny little boy with ruined clothes and shoes with no laces. I felt like crying. I missed my father so much at that moment, I didn’t know what to do or say. He would know how to help me figure things out, how to be better than the next man. I needed him with me today, but he was gone… and I was lost.

  “What are you fighting for, boy?” Buck asked a simply question to which I had no real answer. “WHAT ARE YOU FIGHTING FOR?” he repeated on a yell.

  “I don’t know, alright! I don’t fuckin’ know.”

  He let go of my collar, and I turned to walk away. Defeated. I didn’t get far before he spoke again, but I wasn’t listening. The sound of my heart as it shattered into pieces was my only companion. I welcomed it this time, just this once.

  “Come back when you figure it out, boy.”

  EIGHT

  Maribel

  HE’D ORDERED ME TO go home right after he’d told me his name. Marcus.

  It felt good on my lips as I practiced saying it over and over again while I stood on the side of the road. I should have listened, followed his instructions and kept on walking. But where would I go? As long as I maintained my grades and remained at the top of the student body, my parents never questioned my whereabouts. The only thing home meant was more studying and an empty house full of distracted servants. Fun times. My parents were probably at some country club entertaining wealthy alumni of the hospital, and Lord only knew where the golden princess was. My guess? Somewhere in a disgusting back alley with a boy’s hand up her skirt and his tongue down her throat. Just the thought of it made me sick to my stomach to the point I wanted to retch. She could have her stupid boys. I had no use for them in my life.

  Then why are you still waiting for Marcus?

  My inner voice was spot on. He didn’t need or want me to stick around. He’d said so himself. Two steps into my long walk home was when I saw him exiting the re
ar entrance to the junkyard. How long had it been since I last saw him? Fifteen minutes tops? He was a complete mess, which was putting it mildly. His face was caked with dirt from his forehead to his chin. His shirt was ripped on the collar, and his hair was sticking up all over the place. If I hadn’t known any better, it looked as if he had been in a fight. But who the hell fought in a junkyard? My mind conjured up all sorts of different scenarios of what could have happened. Maybe a stack of cars did actually fall on his head and he had to dig himself out with his bare hands. I dismissed that notion quickly; I would have heard the crash from this distance. Perhaps the owner was angry that he didn’t use the front entrance and beat him up to teach him a lesson? I made a mental note to find out exactly who Buck from Buck’s Junkyard was so I could give him a piece of my mind. Screw his stupid sign with its stupid arrows pointing in the other direction. He had no business treating kids that way; it had been an honest mistake, for fuck’s sake. It could have happened to anyone, including me. I was so busy planning for the demise of the man who owned the junkyard, I didn’t notice that Marcus was no longer walking in my direction. He was standing in front of me… pissed. I dropped the stick that I was using to poke around in the dirt to the ground and put on my happy face. He wasn’t expecting to see me still standing outside by the side of the road, so I had to come up with something fast.

  “Oh, hey, Marcus. You didn’t happen to see an earring around anywhere, did you? I think I lost mine and can’t seem to find it.” He studied the stupid smile on my face for a moment, then tilted his head a little to the left, then to the right.

  “You’re not wearing any earrings, kid.” Shit. Fuck. Shit.

  “Oh, silly me.” I reached up and felt my earlobe with my fingers. “Guess that explains why I couldn’t find it. What would I do without you?”

  He ended my little rouse by shouldering past me and walking away. He tried to hide his face, but it was too late. I’d already seen them. Tear stains. Two distinct lines, like footprints in the snow that showcased the track marks in the dirt that covered his face. They started from his eyes and stopped just below his square cheekbones, where they must have been wiped away in a hurry. They were the last thing I ever expected to see on the face of a boy like Marcus. He was the tough guy, willing to take on five boys at one time, by himself. Tall and strong, he wasn’t afraid in the face of danger, yet something or someone had wounded him. The slump in his shoulders and the less than confident strides he took with each step told me as much. He wasn’t willing to fight, to stave off whatever he faced in that junkyard. Those were not the actions of a brawler, someone I knew him to be from just one meeting at school. I rushed to walk beside him, silent but very much in keeping with his long strides. It was a public road, so he very well couldn’t tell me to leave, not that I would listen. We were, after all, heading in the same direction. There was nothing he could do to stop me.

  We trekked along quiet and introspective, neither one of us in much of a hurry. I found it odd that he didn’t look in my direction, nor did he ask me where I was going. He was rude and angry, not one bit friendly, yet I found his presence next to me on this lonely highway comforting. I wasn’t stuck in my room studying physics or hiding out from my narcissistic sister with her over-inflated ego. Mrs. Klein was definitely going to shit a brick when I told her how I spent my Saturday morning.

  First, I got lost in the woods and had to run before a killer huntsman found me and forced me to be his sex slave for the rest of my life. Then I followed a total stranger—okay, maybe not a total stranger, but still—to an unknown location and proceeded to wish bodily harm on him. If that wasn’t enough to have her rethink her career choice as a guidance counselor, I’d drop the bomb of all bombs and share how I became a full-blown stalker and waited for said stranger to return once he left. I was a goddamn genius at this friend-making shit. Who knew? I tried to stifle the silly little school girl snicker that bubbled up from my throat, but it was no use. Before long, I had completely stopped walking and was doubled over, knee slapping, out of control hysterical with laughter. I took off my glasses and wiped away the wetness leaking from my eyes from all the delirium. I angled my face toward the sky and smiled to the heavens above. I amazed myself sometimes.

  “Now I know why the chicken crossed the road.” I sniggered.

  Marcus didn’t return my smile or my laughter.

  “Look. My nan’s house is right over there.” He pointed toward the modern neighborhood that was a few yards away. “Best you find your way home now, kid, before it gets too late.”

  The distance was still too far for me to tell which house belonged to him and his nan. The neighborhood was quiet, unimposing, and welcoming to anyone willing to take a closer look. Unlike my home, with its ten thousand square feet of coldness, I could see myself safe and happy in a place like this. My mother would welcome me home each afternoon with a plate of warm cookies and a look in her eyes that said she’d missed me. My father would return from work shortly after five o’clock, briefcase in hand and the day’s stress forgotten at the door. My sister and I would whisper in each other’s ears about the cute boy from school until we all sat down for our evening meal together. I should feel grateful for the life my parents had afforded me, the luxury to have whatever I wanted. Sadly, the one thing I wanted was something money couldn’t buy but was the easiest thing to obtain. Love.

  “Thanks for walking with me halfway home, Marcus. I really appreciate it.”

  Always pays to be polite, they say.

  “I didn’t do shit, Polly Pocket. You followed me all by yourself.”

  Don’t flip out.

  Don’t flip out.

  Don’t flip out.

  “Are you going to hold that against me forever? And what’s with you not calling me by my name? It’s Maribel, fuckhead, not kid or Polly Pocket. Maribel.” I started walking away, but I wasn’t done yet. “Next time, instead of saying ‘Thank you,’ I’ll just leave you with a big, fat ‘Kiss my ass’ instead.”

  Now I was done.

  Threw in a little hair flip for good measure and got the hell outa Dodge.

  “What makes you think there’ll be a next time?” he yelled back.

  “We go to the same school, numbskull. Remington’s not that big, so you figure out the odds.”

  I was so done with his tough guy bullshit. The friend experiment had failed miserably, and I was happy for it. Fuck him and his stupid John Travolta chin dimple and perfectly ruffled hair. They could all just fuck right off. I was the smartest kid in my school; I’d figure out another way to make friends without having to beg for them. Dirty, stinking, rotten, dirty boy from hell. Tonight, I’ll ask my father to buy me a dog. Yes! That’s what I’ll do! Buy myself a dog and forget all about stupid, dirty boys with chin dimples that are so deep you could swim in it if you filled it with water. Stupid shit-ass, dirty-faced, good-for-nothing son of a biscuit-eating scarecrow…

  “Hey, slow down. Didn’t you hear me calling you, Pocket?”

  My inner monologue ended abruptly when I felt a hand lightly touching my upper arm. I yanked it away from Marcus’s unwelcomed hold and gave him my best scowl. It was the one and only time that Coke bottle glasses came in handy, aside from being able to see. There was no mistaking my ire.

  “Get your stinking paws off me,” I snapped.

  “Whoa, take it easy.” He held up his hands in surrender. “Just wanted to make sure you knew the way, that’s all.’

  “Of course, I know the way! My intelligence quotient was one thirty-nine when last tested. What’s yours? Ten point five?”

  It was my turn to walk away without looking back. I learned a valuable lesson today, one I’d never forget. Don’t fight for someone who’s not willing to fight for you in return. During my long walk home, with my lab coat blowing in the wind, I mourned the loss of friendship.

  Good riddance.

  NINE

  Marcus

  I REMEMBERED THE DAY Nan and I had received the
call that ruined both our lives in a matter of seconds. My parents had decided at the last minute not to allow me to accompany them on their trip to the Sudan. They were both relief workers assigned to one of the most desolate, drought-suffering areas in the African nation. As agents of the United Nations, they were stationed in Khartoum in the north, the capital, and tasked with setting up vocational training for the citizens who lived there. The combination of civil war and famine had ravaged the country, yet my parents were looking forward to lending a hand to those less fortunate as they had done countless times before. I worried for their safety, but my father assured me that the fighting was further south and that they were nowhere near the warzone.

  “There is nothing to be concerned about, son. It’s all routine,” he said.

  Except it wasn’t.

  With a promise to bring me with them next time, I let them go without a fight.

  Two weeks into my visit with Nan was when things started to get worrisome. Communication wasn’t the best where my parents were working, but it was better than most other places with limited resources. I looked forward to hearing from them at least once every few days via satellite phone, and we were due for a call according to the schedule. The last time I’d spoken with them, they’d said things were going well and they would be back in the States the following week. I couldn’t wait to see my parents again; we had so many plans we had yet to accomplish, and I was anxious to get right to them as soon as they were home. My father had promised to take me hunting in the wilderness of Montana that summer. A teenage rite of passage for every male in his family, he’d called it. The idea of shooting defenseless animals wasn’t my thing, but according to my father, it was a tradition that his father and grandfather had passed down before me. Who was I to argue? Any time spent alone with my dad was a welcomed treat, and I couldn’t wait to sit around the campfire and listen to him tell stories about his adventures as a UN ambassador. He had a way of sucking you in to the point you felt like you were actually there in the thick of shit instead of hearing about it secondhand. My mother used to joke that he had the “gift of gab” and that was the only reason why she’d agreed to go out on a date with him. They were so much in love, always touching and kissing; the world was their oyster.