Running Loose by Chris Crutcher Page B

go to a shrink.”
    “You mean a psychiatrist?” I interrupted. “You went to a psychiatrist?”
    She nodded. “Actually he was just a psychologist. But I had to. It was the only way I could live with Mom. Talk about confrontations; we had confrontations like most people have lunch. Every day it was something. Every night I’d go to bed crying and swearing I’d never speak to her again, and the next day she’d bait me about something: grades, dates, not wearing makeup, wearing makeup, you name it. And finally she’d say the right thing, and away we’d go. I thought I was nuts. I mean, really crazy. None of it made sense, but I couldn’t get out of it. I just couldn’t understand why it worked the way it did.”
    “So what happened?”
    “So I got an ax and chopped her up into little pieces and fed them to the neighbors’ cat.”
    “Right,” I said. “What happened?”
    “Well,” she said, “after I’d been going to Greg—he was my shrink—for about four months, he decided Mom was a certifiable loon, and he started working on me to let it go.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Just let it go,” she said. “We sat there one day, and he had me identify all the warning signals, like ‘You didn’t wear that skirt with that blouse, did you?’ or ‘You know Jimmy won’t respect you if you go to bedwith him yet’ or whatever. Then we decided when I saw one coming—and there were a million—I’d let it go. Not invest. Agree with her, space out, change the subject, pour myself a bowl of cornflakes, whatever. None of the confrontations were about things that were important to me anyway.”
    “So how’d it work?” I was sucked in.
    “It drove her nuttier than she already was, but it let me off the hook. She and Daddy split up shortly after that, and I came with him, and that ended it.”
    “So what’s this got to do with me and Lednecky?” I said. Nobody ever said I wasn’t thick.
    “Well, if you’re anything like me, you’re going to want to defend your point with the rest of the kids at school when it comes up, which it will. You’ll get all hot and end up going over and over it with your mom and dad and Carter and me and anyone who’ll listen, at which point you will become a pain in the butt.”
    I had to admit that a few conversations had run through my mind already.
    “But the truth is, the war’s over. You did what you did and you were right and all the people who care about you are with you and you don’t have to regurgitate this until June. It can be over if you want it to be.”
    I stared at the bright white lines shooting under thepickup and nodded slowly. It was worth thinking about. I sure needed some kind of plan for Monday. I wasn’t looking forward to that at all.
    “And another thing is,” she said, “I don’t want to waste my time with you on this. If you want, I’ll quit cheerleading to show support. I just do it for exercise anyway. But I don’t want us getting weighed down.”
    We decided there was no reason for her to quit cheerleading. If she did, she wouldn’t be able to get out of school for away games.
    She sure did seem grown-up.
     
    When I dropped Becky off at her place, I felt pretty good. I hadn’t absorbed all she said—I’m a pretty slow study—but I knew she was with me, and that’s what it was really all about for me. I drove up to the reservoir, where the old highway that used to run to Modoc disappears into the water. It makes a natural loading and unloading ramp for water skiers and fishermen, and the city has widened it out and bordered it with small logs to make it accessible. I pulled into it and shut off the lights. The moon was more than three-quarters and lying low on the horizon, and I could see Ramsey’s Peak silhouetted against the sky. The water was pretty calm, and the reflection of the moon bobbed and weavedlightly in the ripples.
    I sat there contemplating Life After Football when the pickup cab lighted up, and I checked my