Endgame Novella #4 by James Frey

Author:James Frey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2016-01-21T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN

It was on the front page.

When I woke up, the first thing I did was go to the mail room to check the copy of the San Francisco Chronicle we got delivered each day. It was clean. I felt light-headed with relief. There was a story on page three about the march (they called it a riot), but no picture and no mention of me. One man, Officer Scott Hoover, had suffered a dislocated jaw. But that was it, and I felt like I was walking three feet off the ground. There was no picture, no names, no ongoing investigation.

It wasn’t until I got to the dorm cafeteria, got my breakfast, and sat down at the table that I saw a discarded copy of the Daily Californian, Berkeley’s student paper. I came crashing back to Earth. My face was three inches tall, completely clear and in focus. My fist looked like it had just connected with the cop’s chin. It was a perfect picture. It looked as professional as if it had been taken at a prizefight. My face, the cop’s face, and the top of John’s head—he was looking down, and his face couldn’t be seen.

I surprised myself by not freaking out. I picked up the newspaper, took my full tray of food to the dishwashers, and quietly left the building. By the time I got to the bottom step I was sprinting, running as fast as I could from the other students and desperately trying to avoid anyone. I had to get to my dorm, to the phone. I had to talk to John. He could make this go away. I was stepping in to save him—couldn’t he step in to save me? He knew the leaders of the protest.

Something could be done. Someone could save me.

I got to my dorm and ran up the stairs, hoping Tommy would be in the room, but he wasn’t. I darted into the bathroom and called his name. No answer. I jogged down to the common room, but he wasn’t there either.

“Damn it,” I said, digging in my pocket for coins. I tried to compose myself as I went down the hall to use the pay phone. Except I didn’t have any phone numbers. I had no way to reach Tommy, and no idea how to get in touch with John. I realized I didn’t even know his last name. There was no one to call. I walked back to my room, but before I went in, a thought struck me: if the campus police—or the city police—were looking for me, of course they would check my room.

But I’d only been in Berkeley for a little over a week, and I’d spent a whole weekend of that at Mary’s ranch. My boss never paid any attention to me when he was assigning tasks. But he did always have a copy of the newspaper open on the table in the supply room. He’d recognize me, sooner or later.

I looked down at the paper and began reading the story.

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