Based on a true story

Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.

Wait. Who’s knocking on the bedroom door? That’s Jake’s bedroom door. Not the front door. “Who is it?” According to Jake’s bedroom clock, it was 7:45 AM, Thursday morning. Jake had four classes at the local community college today, the first one at 9:00 AM.

“San Ramon Police Department. Mr. Bryce Haddox. Open the door.”

What the hell? Why are they knocking on the door of my best friend’s bedroom? “Yeah. Hang on just a sec. I need to get dressed.”

“No, Mr. Haddox.” Another set of knocks. “You need to open the door. Now.”

“Fine. Hang on.” I can’t get dressed? The hell with that. Thirty seconds later, I was opening the door, throwing on the same t-shirt and jeans I wore yesterday. At fifteen, I was staying overnight at my best friend’s house, Jake. Beverly and I fought the night before. That wasn’t unusual. We were fighting regularly enough that you could set your clock to it. What exactly was it about this time? I don’t remember. Maybe homework. Or my grades. To be fair, they were in the toilet. And this was my first year. My freshman year of high school. Not that any of that mattered. Jake or his parents ratted me out. I figured I’d tear into Jake later.

Two days ago, Beverly and I had a fight. Fight? I’m not sure it constitutes a fight if she spent the better part of two hours yelling and telling me what a worthless piece of… well, you get the picture. I was not fighting back. I was being emotionally beaten up, for sure. But would the cops do anything about it? Doubtful. They’d already been over to the apartment a few times that week. Her yelling and screaming? It concerned our neighbors enough that they called. They thought I was beating her. Or her husband. Neither was true. My dad left her. I guess twelve years of abuse was enough. He did his best to get me to come with him.

I refused to believe Beverly was abusive. Besides, all my school friends were going to the same high school. These weren’t real friends. These were proximity friends. Because proximity connected us, and it stuck. Most of us spent the better part of 9 years together moving through the grades. Not me. I was a transplant from Minnesota, thousands of miles from snow, ice hockey, and skiing. Not that I was good at any of that stuff, but hey. Not everyone can be Pele, Mohammad Ali, Dorthy Hamill, or Mary Lou Retton. I joined these kids who already had history before my third-grade year.

And now, six years later, we were all in the same high school, once again moving with the tide of academia, an expectation for all of us growing up in the ’70s and ’80s.

Two cops stood in the small hallway outside the doorway. Their stoic expressions were unreadable in the dim hallway. “Mr. Haddox? We need to talk to you about Beverly Haddox.”

My stomach dropped. What happened? “Why? Is she okay?”

Martinez, badge number 524, was the older of the two officers. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, he said, “She’s fine. Mr. Haddox, she reported you as incorrigible. She says you ran away from home. Is there any truth to that?”

“I didn’t run away,” I lied. “I’m staying at my best friend’s house. His parents know I’m here. So did Beverly.”

The younger cop answered me. “That’s not what Mrs. Haddox told us.” His badge reads Chen, number 3029. “She says you stormed out immediately after she told you to go to your room. She’s concerned for your safety.”

I wanted to laugh. Concerned for my safety? “Did she tell you how many times she’s hit me? Or how often Beverly is screaming at me about my grades? And my piss poor attitude? This is the same woman who called the police on me three times this past week alone.”

The radio attached to their uniforms squawks. Martinez talks under his breath into the mic. I stepped aside. Jake opens the bathroom door, steam pouring out, the bathroom mirror all fogged up. The heat is making me sweat. His eyes are wide, stunned to see cops in his house, which is how I feel. His dad emerges from their room, robe thrown fast over his pajamas. “Is there a problem, Officer?” He spoke to Martinez. Jake’s dad was a small claims court attorney.

“Mr. Thompson, we’re here about Bryce. His mother reported him as a runaway. She said this is one place where he might be.”

Mrs. Thompson’s face hardened. “Missing? I called Beverly myself last night to let her know Bryce was staying here. She said.” She stopped, looking over to me. “She said she didn’t care where he was.”

Jake moved without me noticing, suddenly standing next to me. Wearing nothing but a bath towel. Still wet but not touching me. Just standing there. Close enough for me to feel the warmth of the hot water from his shower. His mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but no words came. Just that stunned look, water still dripping from his hair.

The cops exchanged looks. Chen pulled out a notepad. “Mrs. Thompson? Would you be willing to make a statement?”

That’s how it all started. Not with sirens. Or drama. It was a simple knock on a bedroom door. For the first time, adults were paying attention. The Thompsons told the officers about the screaming whenever they picked me up. Mysterious bruises they’d noticed. I’d try to explain them. Not sure how well that worked. About how I showed up at their door more and more often, always with a hollow look, rarely smiling.

Mrs. Garcia, the nice woman from 2B, followed the cops to Beverly’s apartment. “We hear everything through these walls,” she said, clutching her robe tighter. “That woman,” she pointed at the apartment door, “screams at him. Day and night. We called you people three times this week. Why is he still living there?”

No one answered. Not even me. Dad technically had all the legal and physical rights, unless I wanted to go against the court-ordered documents. I did. Even though I knew it could end up like this.

Martinez crouched down, I was short for fifteen, and looked me in the eye. “Son? Is there anything you want to tell us?”

I thought about Beverly. She would blame me for this, too. I thought about going back. Back to that apartment where the walls were too thin, her voice too loud, and nothing I did was ever good enough.

“Do I have to go back? I don’t want to. I don’t want to go back,” I said. My voice choked, crackling on the last word.

The hallway went quiet, except for Mrs. Thompson’s sharp intake of breath.

“I’m sorry,” Martinez said simply. “We have to take you home. It’s Beverly’s call, not ours.”

“Please turn around, Mr. Haddox.” I did as I was told, Mr. Thompson shaking his head. “Mr. Haddox. Come with us.”

Jake took a step forward, but his dad caught his arm. “Don’t,” Mr. Thompson said quietly. Jake’s face crumpled.

I didn’t fight. I didn’t cry. I stood there, letting Chen guide me through my best friend’s house. Did I have options? I was a teenager. No one asked me what I wanted. No one took me from the abuse. Instead, they dropped me right back into it. The cuffs were ice cold, the metallic feel like nothing I had ever experienced.

The ride back to Castro Valley took forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes of watching familiar streets blur past through the mesh barrier. Martinez kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror. Chen stared straight ahead. Once, Martinez started to say something, then stopped. The radio chattered about other calls, other problems. I wondered if any of them were kids like me, about to be delivered back to hell.

“Your mom’s worried about you,” Chen finally said as we pulled into the apartment complex.

I almost laughed. Almost.

Beverly was waiting in the parking lot, arms crossed, wearing her good robe—the one she saved for when people were watching. Her face shifted into something like relief when she saw the cruiser. “Oh, thank God,” she said, loud enough for the neighbors to hear. “I was so worried.”

Martinez uncuffed me. The marks on my wrists were red and deep. Beverly’s eyes flicked to them, and something like satisfaction crossed her face before she remembered her audience.

“Thank you, officers,” she said, one hand on my shoulder, gripping hard enough to hurt through my shirt. “I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

The cops left. Mrs. Garcia watched from her window. Beverly’s hand stayed on my shoulder all the way up the stairs, her nails digging in.

The door closed behind us.

“You think you’re smart?” she said, her voice already rising. “Embarrassing me like that?”

The weeks that followed were longer than any ride in a police car. She installed a new lock on my bedroom door—one that locked from the outside. I ate my dinners alone at the kitchen counter while she watched her shows, making sure I knew exactly how much trouble I’d caused. School became my only escape, but even there, Jake couldn’t look at me without that same crumpled expression from that morning in the towel.

Dad was out of the country on business, but he regularly communicated with the Thompsons after I was handcuffed. Miranda rights? For an incorrigible teen? Yeah, right!

But, if you are a teen and hear a knock on your best friend’s door first thing in the morning? My advice? Jump out the window. Especially if cops are standing in the hallway.