Free Tangled by Carolyn Mackler Page A

time.”
    Now this was really starting to suck. After fourteen years as a sergeant, my dad had no tolerance for juvenile delinquents. Also, it was just a few minutes after ten, so he was still asleep.
    “Your number, Dakota.”
    I recited the digits. As he dialed, I prayed it would go through to voicemail. I prayed Coach would tone down the description of the fight. I prayed my dad would take Natalie’s death into consideration.
    “Hi, Mr. Evans? This is Curt Ritter, the wrestling coach over at the high school.”
    Coach covered the receiver for a second and mouthed, Wait for me out there . Then he pointed to the bench press. As I limped outside, he closed the door.
    After a few minutes, he emerged from his office. His broad face was stern. “Your dad wants you home right now,” he said.
    I stood up slowly. This was going to be fun. Peoplesometimes say I have a temper, but believe me, it’s nothing compared to my dad.
    Coach escorted me out of the weight room. When we reached the door, he said, “I expected more from you, Dakota.”
     
    I tossed my coat onto the passenger seat and pulled out of the student parking lot. It was ten twenty on Friday morning. It’s not like I love school, but no one wants to get suspended. And now baseball season was fucked. The guys were going to kill me. I’m always good for a run or two. Maybe three if I’m pumped.
    It was all that prick Timon’s fault. Timon and his parents. What were they thinking, picking a poem that Natalie wrote for Jake? Did they hate me that much? They weren’t exactly warm and fuzzy to me at the funeral, but her dad did shake my hand and her mom gave me a weepy hug. Plus, they can’t deny that I took Natalie to junior prom and two Winter Balls, and they even brought me up to their camp in the Adirondacks last summer. If she was so into poetry, I’m sure they could have unearthed a few words she’d put together about me. She was always carrying around that journal.
    Then again, Natalie used to joke that she only wrotein her journal when she was mad at me. Her family probably read it after she died. They probably think I’m an asshole. Maybe I was an asshole at times, but Timon didn’t have to rub my face in it, telling me how Natalie got my necklace from some guy she had a fling with in the Bahamas.
    I should drive over to the Birches’ house and find Timon, finish what he started. He’s tall, but he didn’t seem that tough. Except, knowing Timon, he probably would press assault changes.
    When I hit Allen Street, I turned left. But instead of going the direct route to my house, I cut onto Holley, which runs into Redman Road. That’s the long way. I’m not such an idiot that I’d race home just to get the shit kicked out of me.
     
    I ended up climbing the locks. They’re over by the canal, near the college parking lot on the way to Redman Road. It’s a tall steel tower on the south bank of the Erie Canal, about thirty feet above the water. There’s a ladder running up one side. A few times, on warm nights, some of my buddies and I have climbed up here to drink. I’ve heard about SUNY students getting wasted on the locks and jumping into the canal. Judging by the color of the water, you’d have to bepretty gone to do that.
    My biceps were strained and my knee was bruised, so it killed to grasp the rungs. But once I was at the top I could feel the stress easing up. I was planning to hang out here for a few minutes, get a small buzz going, enough to help me face my dad.
    The sky was clear blue, just a few clouds up north near Lake Ontario. I could see a guy jogging along the towpath, a bottle of water in his hand. A woman was walking her dachshund on the other side. His snout was low to the ground, following some scent.
    I took a sip from my sports bottle and peered over the edge. Man, it was a long fucking way down. I’m surprised that those guys who dive from here actually live to tell. If I jumped off, it’d be instant suicide, especially