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threw my skateboard off the bridge like it was a hot potato, burning my hands. I didn’t see it hit the water. I didn’t look. I jammed my dirty hands in my pockets and pretended like I had never had a skateboard.
    I instantly regretted it. Did anyone see me throw it? Someone on the River Walk? Someone in a car? Would someone think it was something else? A falling person? A baby? A murder weapon?
    Why did you do that? I snarled at myself through gritted teeth.
    But it was too late now. And losing the board did one positive thing. It changed who I was. I was no longer a skater. Now I was just some dirty kid walking over a bridge.

    I reached my mom’s car. It was parked on the street, outside a PJ Schmidt’s Seafood Restaurant. People in coats and ties stood outside on the sidewalk. A digital clock on a bank down the street said 11:37.
    I unlocked the car with the remote. I got inside and started the engine. But no. I had to stop. This was my chance to take a moment, to think for a second, to figure out the best thing to do. Call the police. Call home. Call someone. I thought about my skateboard. How would I explain to the police why I’d thrown it in the river?
    But never mind that. I had to tell someone. I should call 911. If I didn’t, I would be in worse trouble. That’s what they always told you: Tell the truth or things will only get worse. But was that really true? What if it wasn’t even your fault? Or what if it was something that couldn’t be undone? In that case, it didn’t matter if I told or not. Telling someone wasn’t going to help the security guard. And think of what it would do to me and my family. Think of what it would do to my brother Henry.
    Then, for one second, I saw the security guard in my head. I saw him running sideways like a crab.
    I pushed the image out of my mind. I had to think clearly. What would my dad do? What would a normal family do? We could get a lawyer. My parents already had lawyers for their separation. Maybe that was the thing: Get a lawyer first, then call the police. That’s what sports people did. And celebrities. And it usually worked. Didn’t it?
    But none of these issues mattered to my body. My brain could have debates all night long. My body didn’t care. My body wanted only one thing: to get the hell out of there.
    I shifted the car into drive. I pulled into the street and almost rammed an SUV that had stopped to let some people out. I missed it by inches. A woman, dressed in a low-cut dress, glared at me like, What’s your problem? I didn’t respond. I slowly backed up and tried it again and this time cleared the SUV. Would that woman remember seeing me? Would the people on the bridge remember me? Would the police be asking people?
    I pulled up to the light. I could see the poster, a police sketch of my face:
    WANTED: SKATEBOARDING TEEN,
    BLACK HAIR, BLUE EYES,
    DIRTY FROM TRAIN-HOPPING,
    LAST SEEN WALKING ACROSS THE HAWTHORNE
    BRIDGE ON SATURDAY NIGHT.
     
    They would totally have me. People would remember. Or would they? When the light changed, I eased down on the gas. I turned up the heat in my mother’s car. I was freezing; my whole body was shaking. I turned the heat up full blast.
    I clicked on the radio. I tuned in KEX 1190 “News Radio All the Time.” When they found the body it would be on the news. It would be everywhere. But I couldn’t listen to news now. I turned it off. Then I turned it back on and tuned in KRCK FM. The DJ blabbered something about “Party Town Saturday Night!” I turned it off and looked for a CD. I wanted something quiet and gentle, something to calm me down. I found one of my mom’s Dave Matthews CDs. I stuck it in, but before it even started I punched it back out.

    On the freeway, I seriously began to lose it. My brain, my thoughts—they spun wildly in every direction. For the first time in my life, I understood how extreme stress could drive your brain to impossible places. It could warp your thinking, pointing you