A smattering of brown and red leaves is carried across her path, the last gasp of autumn being lazily ushered out by old man winter, obviously in no hurry to drape the Las Vegas valley in his seasonal cloak. Chloe lifts her head upwards, taking in the brightly lit sky trying and failing to hide behind a passing collection of clouds, strewn about by a southeasterly wind which offers a playful bite to her rosy cheeks. Stuffing her hands into the pockets of a gold-colored nylon jacket she hastens the pace set by a pair a simple, no frills black sneakers to catch up the considerable figure of her stepmother lumbering ahead her headed towards a parking lot covered by an expansive aluminum awning and stopping in front of a silver Nissan Rogue, a small SUV which chirps as the remote unlocking system is activated. Sliding into the passenger seat the younger woman straps herself in, slamming the door shut behind her. The bigger and elder woman follows suit and brings the little four-cylinder engine to life with a turn of the key.
“Before you put the car in gear,” she advises, “always check your rear-view mirror. There might be somebody behind you”.
The engine whines as the vehicle is put into gear and slowly backed out of the tenant reserved parking space. Jessica Benton pulls down the grey cloth sun visor to shield her eyes from the returning sunlight, having escaped from the thin sheet of cloud cover and steers towards the exit leading to the street.
“I’m going to take you to the school parking lot”, she says. “It’s a weekend so it will be empty, and you’ll have room to practice”.
Turning from the back-alley way of their apartment complex the woman veers left onto Donna Street and brings it to a halt at Carey Avenue, no more than 50 yards from the rear of the complex. Donna and Carey is a notorious section of North Las Vegas, long plagued with petty crime, gang violence, burglaries and random assaults, a by product of the city’s mis-guided efforts to fight homelessness by way of several section eight housing projects. An attempt by the combined city and federal governments to create affordable living by subsidizing a portion of the rent for lower income families with the remainder to be paid by the ever-generous Uncle Sam. It may have sounded good in theory, but in practice it proved anything but with many ‘undesirables’ acting quickly to take advantage by falsifying applications and employing other means of fraud allowing them to live by gaming the system.
The stoplight shifts from red to green and Jessica turns onto Carey past the long column of dilapidated apartments in which they live. Chloe’s gaze wanders to her right, focusing on a large undeveloped patch of land littered with tumbleweeds, rocks, dirt and trash tossed by pedestrians looking for a shortcut to Las Vegas Boulevard, most likely the Silver Nugget – a run down casino that has become a fixture in ‘North Town’. Turning her gaze back towards the apartment complex she notices a Hispanic mother walking along the sidewalk, hand in hand with her child, a little girl she guesses to be no older than four years. The pair are bundled in matching pink heavy jackets and knit caps, skipping energetically along the sidewalk. With a sigh she closes her eyes, her mind cycling through faded memories from her own childhood. Unfortunately, such simple, pleasant experiences proved difficult to come by and the few she could recall displayed an uncanny knack for turning sour.
Chloe unlocks the blue plastic covered chain securing her pink Huffy to the bicycle rack in the school parking lot, mere steps from the entrance through which hundreds of young adults burst in a teenaged jail break. She pays no mind to the excited chatter discussing various subjects but mostly centering around their after-school plans. Footsteps come and go, passing her by, kicking up loose bits of chilled blacktop, courtesy of a typical late fall afternoon, while she entwines the chain around the chrome, banana shaped seat post and drops her yellow bookbag in the metal wire basket clamped to the high-rise BMX styled handlebars. Stepping over the downward sloping top tube she grips the carnation rubber grips and plants her foot onto the faded matching pedals and pumps away. The small bike picks up speed in accordance with her efforts, allowing her to bypass the same students who had passed her by moments before and she pedals out of the lot, zig zagging through loading busses with obnoxious black smoke billowing from vibrating tail pipes, and weaving through cars attempting to back out of their spaces. Looking up to the bright, cloudless sky a relieved sigh whistles through tight, lightly chapped lips, gratitude for having made it through another day at Jim Bridger High.
She rides along the sidewalk which, despite the advice of local law enforcement, she believes to be the safer option given the numerous horror stories almost cheerfully hawked by the evening news. The air clears as she exits onto Bruce Street and grants her grateful nostrils a reprieve. Passing by a row of cars, having slowed down in observance of a school zone mandated 15 mph limit the 16-year-old approaches a crosswalk attended by an elderly man wearing an almost maddeningly bright yellow safety vest and waves to him as he gestures her across the second entrance to the parking lot which spans the length of the institution. Glancing over her left shoulder, looking past the slow-moving herd of hardtops, hatchbacks and heaps towards a row of modest homes lining the opposing side of the street. A woman whom she guesses to be approaching 50 waits patiently for the arrival of her child, her grey-white hair bristling ever so slightly in the gentle breeze. She recognizes the woman as the mother of a classmate and waves, but her greeting is ignored by the stern-faced parent, preferring to focus on her own child.
“Alright Chloe, we’re here. I need you to pay attention while I tell you what to do, ok?”
“Alright”.
With her attention directed to the various dials and indicators lining the face of the black plastic dashboard the elder woman quickly explains the purpose of the lights, dials and switches in front of her. The woman’s southern drawl and rapid-fire manner of speaking make it difficult to understand portions of the process and leaves the teen’s mind scrambling to collect every bit she can in hopes of being able to assemble a subjective Cliff’s notes version. A vibration emanates from the pocket of her jacket, alerting her to an incoming text message. Pulling out the smaller, nearly obsolete iPhone7 she brings the heavily cracked screen to her face. Her brown orbs blink while trying to discern the contents of the message and her heart skips a beat recognizing the familiar name of Christian Underwood atop the memo advising the tender grappler of an upcoming booking along with the date, time and location along with instructions for the pre-production meeting as well as the name of her opponent, Johanna Krieger.
“Who is that?”
A group of teens rambunctiously ambling about the cockpit of an open top BMW peer over the edge of the navy blue M5 sport sedan for a better look. The driver, a young man sporting blue eyes and crew cut blond hair gestures towards Chloe riding her bicycle on the sidewalk having just exited the parking lot.
“Her,” he insists, jabbing his index finger in her direction. “The goblin on the bike”.
Another young man, belted into the passenger seat glances in the direction of his friend’s finger and his face bursts into a sunny grin of surprise. “Holy shit”, he exclaims, pausing to run his hand through a wafting array of delicate dark brown hair. “That’s the little bitch who caused the coach to make us run extra laps in PE, that’s Chloe clusterfuck, slow down! Slow down!”
Obliging, the driver slows the vehicle to an unhealthy crawl for one of the finest examples of German engineering allowing the passenger to his right and two more in the back to anxiously fumble about a pair of gym bags. Their hands rifle through the sports related gear and re-emerge with several cans of beer.
“Heads up clusterfuck!”
Her head turns in recognition of the malicious nickname pinned on her by schoolmates, just in time to take a plastering Budweiser to the forehead. The impact, combined with the element of surprise proves potent enough to knock the girl from the bicycle and onto the manicured front lawn hugging the corner of Bruce and Carey. The pilsner projectile is followed by a salvo of suds aimed at her. Most miss their target although a few manage to connect with her body as she takes cover behind the robust trunk of a Maple tree looking to escape the cocktail crossfire. A few more cans bounce off the tree until a loud tire squeal accompanied by the symphony of pumping pistons noisily signals their departure. The Bimmer, trailed by billowy clouds of white smoke and chased by the acrid smell of burnt rubber quickly zooms out of sight and the tearful teen, free of her agitator’s attention plops down on the lawn against the Maple, sobbing pitifully
“Not like that dumbass!” The roar of her stepmother’s vociferation prompts Chloe’s heart to leap into her throat and she stomps on the brakes bringing the car to a screeching halt. The elder woman angrily slams the transmission into park and trains an accusatory glare onto her stepdaughter. “You forgot to put it in gear stupid! How many times do I have to tell you? Apply the gas gently or you’re going to run somebody over! Put your stupid fucking foot on the God damned brake first, then shift into gear and then you apply the gas, do you hear me?”
Her heart still pounding Chloe nods mutely, her thoughts scattered by the emotional train wreck swirl about her consciousness, picked up and carried aloft by her ‘instructor’s’ incendiary admonishment. Like study hall in an earthquake, there is no focus, and no concentration, only the chaos wrought by an anxious mind. Try as she may to heed the instructions given her, competing voices force their way through the threshold of her psyche, each of them thrashing about with one another over the next seat aboard her train of thought.
Who is Johanna Krieger? Is she as dangerous and mean as Amber hinted at on Twitter? How can she prepare for someone like that?
Who was it that placed the peppers onto her burger and what if they decide to target her again?
Why is she being booked against a killer like Krieger in the first place and by whom?
Press the gas and then shift the car into gear?
“What the hell are you doing, trying to kill somebody?” The piercing clamor of her stepmother shreds the rampart of reverie ripping into her thoughts and scattering them like shrapnel. “Jesus, you really are stupid! No wonder you had to drop out of school. How many times do I have to tell you to pay attention when you drive? All of the money your father and I spent on your schooling and…”
Unclipping the safety belt, Chloe, unable to withstand the pandemonium of violently conflicting impulses, suddenly slams on the brakes, jamming the shift knob into park. Teary eyed, she bolts from the vehicle, her face reddens from exertion as she rapidly treks across the lot, her pink sneakers spraying gravel in their wake. Her stepmother remains seated, looking on in bemusement as the girl bounds across the primary entrance and approaches the corner of Bruce and Carey where she finally slows. Glancing over her right shoulder she recognizes the still manicured lawn from a little over a year ago when she was assaulted by a quartet of beer throwing bullies. The Maple still stands, an open invitation from an old friend, a shoulder to cry on which she gratefully accepts. She drops down onto the grass, her chest, sweaty and heaving as she wraps her arms around her knees and buries her head in them, weeping feverishly. The silver Nissan now driven by her stepmother approaches the corner near the friendly Maple, but the distraught damsel ignores the half-hearted gesture of her stepmother to join her in the vehicle, prompting her to drive off without so much as a wave goodbye, leaving the teen alone in the efforts of regaining her composure. Moments turn to minutes while she struggles to overcome the turmoil within but eventually, she manages to turn the tide, forcing the crashing waves of self-loathing back to the depths of her sub conscious and allowing to turn her attention onto other matters.
“I’m booked for a match this weekend”, she sighs, nestling against her rooted companion. “Against Johanna Krieger. I don’t really know who she is but everybody on Twitter is acting like I’m going to get hurt, always asking if I’m ok. They say she has a really nasty attitude and then Krysta Wolfe said that she’s a three-time champion”.
Tilting her head Chloe gazes skyward where a flock of birds catch her attention. She watches them fly through the cloudless sky as the dusk blanket of sunset is slowly pulled over it, draping her wistful sentiments in a canopy of focus. Her gaze turns downward as her thoughts return to the coming weekend.
“Amber says I need to face up to my fears, to not let this upset me, and she’s right. I mean, this is my job, right? I mean, I didn’t win last time, but I did get paid, so I have to treat it seriously. But how can I prepare for somebody who beats people up for fun, especially when I don’t have a gym or trainer? And what do I do if Johanna decides that she wants to hurt me?” A murmur of capitulation slithers softly through pursed lips while she contemplates her predicament. “Amber, Amy and Adrienne all offered to help me but…” her voice trails off as she buries her head once more. “I don’t want to put them out or make them mad. I know they’re not my friends..., we barely know each other, but they’re nice to me. They treat me like a human being rather than a bug-eyed loser and that means so much to me”.
The gentle breeze from earlier in the afternoon returns, kissing the tip of her short nose and jostling a handful of burnt orange leaves loose from the branches above. One flutters down, landing genially atop her head. Reaching up she removes the leaf from her voluminous chestnut mane, cradling it tenderly before her wide, burnished eyes. Quietly she studies the gift from her friend, veined and lobed, yet round and symmetrical. The lobes, four in all, are pointed along a serrated margin with the petiole slightly longer and red. A widely recognized symbol of Canada, the Maple leaf has also come to symbolize unity, tolerance, and peace. An omen? Unity and tolerance are most certainly in short supply in the kill or be killed world of pro wrestling, but peace, can it be made?
The creak of an infrequently oiled screen door breaks her trance, persuading her to turn around as the figure of an elderly man, the owner of the old, wooden, two-story house and yard of the tree under which she sits approaches. Clad in simple overalls with a plaid button shirt he treks slowly down the sidewalk leading from the main door. He pauses, looking down at her through gleaming grey eyes, smiling in recognition. “Hello Chloe”, he says in a cracked, raspy voice. “Come to see your old friend again?” he asks, rubbing a wrinkled, leathery hand along the hard plates of bark. Startled, she starts to rise, but a gentle hand on her shoulder inspires her to remain seated. “Trees have always been the best listeners”.
“I – I’m sorry Mr. Blake. I – I…”
He waves her attempted apology off. “When I said you were welcome to sit under this tree any time you wanted, I meant it!” He snaps. “As far as I’m concerned it’s your tree”. Drawing her breath to speak she is again cut off with a waving hand. “Sure, I planted it, but you’ve taken a liking to it more than I ever did, and I believe the feeling is mutual. The last thing I want to do is keep friends apart. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to take my walk before it gets too dark out”. Ambling along the path he stops once more at the edge facing left down Bruce Street towards the school. “One more thing,” he adds, “success is 99 percent failure… so keep up the fight and you’ll be fine in the end”. With a parting smile he begins his walk.
