Paranoid Park by Blake Nelson

Author:Blake Nelson
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Publisher: Penguin USA, Inc.

I read it once. I read it again. Then I clicked on “history” of my Web browser and saw that I had many local news and local crime Web sites up on my computer. I was getting sloppy. I clicked “delete history” and then checked back to make sure everything was gone.

I thought about other things. My dirty shoes and socks, where were they? In the Dumpster, probably safely gone by now. What about my mom’s car? I had cleaned it the other night, scrubbing the seats and the pedals. How about my story? Who knew I went there that night? Jared. What had I told him? I told him I didn’t go to Paranoid Park.

That was my story: I didn’t go to the park. I had to remember that. I dropped him off, drove around, went back to his house. That was it. I did not go to Paranoid.

But what about my skateboard? Where was my skateboard? Could I say someone stole it? Yes! Someone stole my skateboard and used it in the crime! But no, if the police got that close, if they talked to other people at Paranoid that night, they would know it was me. How about Scratch? Could I blame it on him? He took my skateboard and he hit the guy! No, no, no, I couldn’t blame it on someone else. What was I thinking? That was totally evil.

But maybe I could. Scratch was a street person. They wouldn’t believe him. He wasn’t going to college, he didn’t live in a nice neighborhood, they would ... no, no, no ... It was insanity.... I couldn’t do more bad things. I had to do the right thing. I had to do the right thing, now, before I lost my nerve.

I went to my phone and picked it up. I dialed the police number. 555-788-7778, but that wasn’t the right number. I turned back to my computer, but I had already deleted the site. I tried again. It was ... 555 ... 778-7788? That wasn’t right, either. I tried again. 555- 788-7888, but before it rang I hung up. But that was stupid, what if they had caller ID? What if they called me back?

I flew into a panic. I stood up and began pacing my room. Had I saved anything from that night? No. I still had Jared’s jeans. I had to give those back. What about the people on the bridge? The two women? They hadn’t noticed me. They were busy talking. What about the guy on the bike? He might have. We practically collided. And I was so dirty! How could they not notice me? But being dirty doesn’t mean anything. I could be a mechanic or a guy working construction or something.

I paced. Again, in the midst of the terrible swirl of my brain, the concept came back to me: Do the right thing. I went back to the phone. I picked it up. I stared at the number pad. I’m a kid, I thought.

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