Some Boys

by Patty Blount

  “Russell, you in or what?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  • • •

  Thirty minutes later we’re hanging in the finished basement of the Hollis house, a big house with red shutters within walking distance of school. The room is a huge L-shaped man cave. There’s a fifty-inch flat screen TV bolted to one wall, fancy surround sound system in a rack next to it, a soft brown L-shaped couch facing it. Behind the part of the couch that’s not against the wall, there’s a pool table—a real pool table. Behind that, a dartboard hangs on a wall lined in cork, facing a framed picture of Kramer from Seinfeld on the opposite wall. A bar with two stools is tucked into the short end of the L. In a corner near a treadmill and an elliptical machine, there’s a square table with a chessboard top, game pieces already set up in case somebody feels up to a game.

  I don’t.

  The room smells like new carpet and mildew and a hint of bleach. I look around and figure the door near the bar is where the washer and dryer must be. Matt and Kyle flop onto the couch, trip the recliner mechanism, and kick back. Zac and Jeremy grab pool cues. Lindsay’s standing awkwardly near the bar, where Miranda’s setting up ice and cans of cola.

  “No beer?”

  “My parents are home,” Miranda says. She smiles coyly at Zac and throws a cautious glance up the stairs because naturally they could hear us.

  “Lame, Hollis.”

  The smile evaporates.

  “Miranda, heard Collier kicked your ass today!” Jeremy taunts and then sets up his opening break. The clack of balls echoes in the large room.

  “She wishes.” Miranda’s face goes hard. She pops the top on a can of Coke, sips lightly, and dabs at her gloss-covered lips. She showered and dressed for the occasion. She’s wearing a miniskirt with dark tights my sister, Val, would love. Her belly ring is showing, and Zac’s eyes keep zeroing in on it. “She came after me, sprayed that locker cleaner in my face.”

  I angle my head and stare at her with wide eyes. Is she freakin’ serious? “Uh. No. She didn’t. You got in her face and whipped your hair into the locker she’d already sprayed down.”

  Miranda sends me a look that screams, “What the hell are you doing?” but I ignore it.

  She turns back to Zac and pouts. “She’s such a bitch.”

  “Aww.” Zac runs a hand down Miranda’s poor, mistreated hair, and she practically drops at his feet. Zac catches my eye, gives me the signal. He wants to move on Miranda. That’s fine. But he wants me to move on Lindsay.

  That’s not so fine.

  Lindsay’s a sweet, quiet girl, the type to push glasses up her nose as she peers at you over the top. I glance at her, standing alone like that’s actually her intent and purpose.

  I grab a can of cola and head for the sofa. I’m not in the mood for pool or darts, and Miranda’s whiny voice is grating on me. I grab the remote control to the big-ass TV on the wall and flip it on without permission. I scroll through the channel guide and settle on UFC Unleashed on Spike and kick back with my Coke.

  “Ugh!” Miranda pulls a face. “How can you guys watch this?”

  “Russell.” Zac’s tone holds a warning note.

  “What? MMA is awesome.” I defend my programming choice. “Got any popcorn or something?”

  I know I’m being a dick, but I don’t care. I stare at Miranda’s perfect makeup and wonder how much she dropped on the latest color collection from Sephora. My sisters have spent entire paychecks there for the promise of hiding some flaw only they can see. But Miranda’s shiny lips and smudgy eyes—no, I think the right term is smoky or whatever—don’t hide the streak of mean that runs in her like a second aorta.

  I turn back to the big-ass screen and watch the challenger execute a perfect Superman move. My mind flashes back to Grace pinning Miranda’s arm behind her back. Oh, yeah. I can totally picture Grace in the Octagon. I glance at Miranda, imagine Grace smearing the lip gloss off that face. She’d kick ass. She’d wreck her.

  Totally.

  I grin at the image and swallow more Coke, and Miranda tosses a bag of chips on the table in front of me. I don’t bother thanking her. I munch and sip while Jeremy sinks stripes. Zac looks bored. Miranda looks pissed, and Lindsay’s still standing off to the side like she just fell out of the sky into that exact spot. I take pity on her, lean over, and talk to Matt.

  “Dude, say something to Lindsay, will you? Zac needs a wingman, and I’m not into it.”

  Matt glances over at her and curses under his breath. “Aw, hell.” He pins on a smile and calls out. “Hey, Lindsay! Sit here and watch this dude get pummeled.”

  Lindsay manages to look grateful and disgusted at the same time. Hell of a skill. But she moves to sit between Matt and me. That leaves Zac free to move on Miranda.

  I watch the guy on TV tap out, and then another fight starts…and then another. Matt and Lindsay start making out next to me. His hand’s under her shirt, and she keeps making little mhmm sounds. Miranda’s sitting on top of the bar, arms and legs wrapped around Zac, his mouth busy on hers. Jeremy’s leaning on a pool cue, watching like it’s Pay-Per-View, hoping he’ll get a glimpse of a tit.

  I need to leave before I puke. I head for the stairs, smack Kyle on my way, jerk my head to the door, but he shakes his head. His eyes are glued to Matt and Lindsay, who went horizontal as soon as I gave them space. Kyle inches closer, and when he closes his hand over one of Lindsay’s tits, I can’t stand it. I have to leave.

  Now.

  Outside in the cold darkness I can breathe again. I start walking, hear something, whip around to find out what, but the street’s deserted. Imagination’s working overtime, I guess. I take another step, and this time I see a shadow running from the side of Miranda’s house.

  “Hey!”

  The shadow freezes for a moment, then whips around, long hair flying. I walk toward the shadow, but after two steps it flees.

  It’s Grace. I know it is.

  • • •

  By the time I get home—I had to walk—it’s almost 11:00 p.m., and I’m wiped out. I want a shower and food and bed. Just as I turn up the front walk, a car pulls up to the curb.

  “Hey, little man!”

  Perfect, I groan but turn to wait for my sister. “Hey.”

  Valerie tilts her head and studies me. “Bad night?” Because she actually sounds curious instead of judgmental, I nod.

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  Hell, no.

  Well, maybe. I really want to know if all girls are like Lindsay and Miranda. But Val’s a girl. If she’s like that, I do not want to know.

  “Um.”

  “Come on.” Val pats the side of the car. “Pull up a bumper.”

  I think about it for a second, finally shrug, and lean beside her against the Honda Accord my dad got her when she started college.

  “Let me ask you something.” I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans, wishing I had a script or something to work from. “Why do girls make out with guys they’re not going out with?”

  Val sucks in a deep breath. “Somebody made out with you?”

  “No, no. Not me. My friends. We were in this girl’s basement. Five of us. Two girls.”

  “Ah.” Val nods.

  “Ah?” What? Is this actually a thing? “What does that mean?”

  “It means some girls are desperate. Sounds like you found two.”

  “Desperate? No. I mean, I don’t think so. Do you know Miranda Hollis or Lindsay Warren?”

  When Val shakes her head, I continue, “Well, they’re in my grade. They’re both pretty. Actually Miranda’s hot. She could be with anybody she wants. So why—”

  “Who was she sucking face with?”

  I grimace. I’m pretty sure I throw up a little. “Jesus, Val.”

  “Who, Ian?”

  “With Zac.”

  She nods like she already knew the answer.

  “Let me guess. Zac isn’t her boyfriend, is he?”

  “No.”
r />   “There you go. Miranda’s hoping he will be.”

  I shake my head. “He won’t be.”

  Val nudges me with her shoulder. “Do you have a thing for this Miranda chick?”

  “No. Definitely not.”

  “Okay, so no jealousy. So why do you care?”

  I don’t care.

  Do I?

  Shit, I have no idea what’s up with me.

  “Okay, look. We’re in Miranda’s basement. Me, Zac, Jeremy, Matt, Kyle, and Lindsay. Lindsay’s all shy and standing by herself, so I tell Matt to talk to her. Next thing I know, they’re making out on the couch next to me, and Zac and Miranda are going at it across the room. Jeremy’s standing in a puddle of drool seconds away from a little manual labor—”

  “Yeah, I get it, Ian.”

  “Sorry. I figure it’s time to give them some alone time, you know? So I get up, tap Kyle to leave with me. Instead, he, um…well, joins in.”

  “Let me guess. She lets him.”

  “Exactly! Why would anybody do that? Lindsay’s not dating either of them. I don’t think they even like each other that much. I mean, they used to be friends with Grace Collier, and now they say she’s a slut. But then they do shit like this. Why?”

  “I see.”

  I wait for Valerie to tell me what she sees, but she just stands there, staring down the street at nothing in particular. “Is Lindsay your friend?” she asks abruptly, and I shrug.

  “She’s okay. We’re not hangout buds or anything.”

  “And what’s the story with the other two?”

  The day’s floor show replays in my head. “Same deal.”

  “There you go.”

  I bite off a curse. “Val, it’s been a long and strange day. Do the math for me.”

  “Okay, follow the bouncing ball here. Miranda’s got a thing for your pal, Zac. Lindsay’s her pal, right? So Miranda decides on a little home turf advantage and tells Lindsay, ‘Do not mess this up for me,’ and like a good little sidekick, Lindsay doesn’t.”

  It takes me a second or two to process this, and then my jaw drops. “Are you telling me Lindsay let Kyle and Matt paw at her because Miranda told her to?” I stare at her for a long moment. “That’s, Jesus, that’s—”

  Val spreads her hands. “Desperate, like I said. Some girls will do anything to get a guy to like her, and others will do anything just to have friends.”

  “Girls are stupid.”

  “Yeah. We are.”

  Val laughs once. But her eyes can’t quite meet mine, and my stomach does a slow roll, then drops to my feet. I straighten up to face her. “You? No way.”

  She nods. “Never noticed my friend Cara never comes around anymore?”

  “Cara. Cara, that’s the cheerleader wannabe?” I remember her. Blond hair, Oompa-Loompa tan, irritating cackle. “What happened?”

  “She had a thing for a football player, wanted me to be her wingman.”

  I think this through and figure out what I need to do. “Val?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who do I need to kill?”

  She laughs. “Thanks for the offer, little man. But your mad assassin skills are not required. I, um, chickened out. Cara got pissed, never spoke to me again.”

  “Good, that’s, uh, good.” The relief that courses through my body feels so good I almost moan, but luckily my stomach growls at that moment.

  “Yeah, it’s awesome. Come on. I’ll make you a sandwich.”

  God, yes! Val slings her bag over her shoulder and heads to the door. “Val, wait.” I walk to her, hoping she won’t deck me for this. “You didn’t chicken out. You were brave.”

  When her mouth falls open, I sling an arm around her neck and rub my knuckles over her scalp. “Now where’s my damn sandwich?”

  • • •

  Tuesday morning dawns, and I drag my ass out of bed without help from annoying sisters or parents. First thing I do is check my phone for messages. I scroll through the list and shake my head. Looks like the party was just getting started when I left. Zac sent a few pictures of Miranda minus her shirt.

  Not bad, but still…eww.

  Jeremy sent a few of Lindsay sprawled between Kyle and Matt.

  And him.

  Ugh.

  I stand, scratch, and start pulling clothes from my floor pile, trying to guess what the hell is wrong with Lindsay. I don’t know her that well. I’ve only had maybe three classes with her. She doesn’t talk much. Always thought she was kind of sweet and innocent.

  Guess I was wrong.

  I finish brushing my teeth and grab my gear, find my dad ready and waiting for me.

  “Still can’t find the damn camera.”

  I turn and stare at him, entertain the idea of awarding him best out-of-context statement of the day, but figure it’s just not worth the extra time on my sentence. I climb in the car and wait for him to join me. “What camera? The video camera?”

  “No, no! The plain old everyday camera you put film in.” He heads down the street, stops at the red light.

  “What the hell is film? Kidding, kidding.” I put up my hands when he shoots me a glare before he hangs a right turn on red. “I haven’t seen a film camera since I posed for my team portrait when the season started, and I’m not even sure that one used film.”

  “Didn’t we have a decent Canon with the flashy thing?”

  “Before my time, Dad.”

  “No way. I’m pretty sure I took pictures of you when you were born.”

  “Seventeen years ago.”

  He sighs. “Damn.”

  “You know there’s a camera in your phone, right?”

  “Yeah, not good enough.”

  I shrug. “What about a disposable one?”

  “No, I need a real camera. I have to take pictures of jobs for the website. Big, glossy, glittery pictures.”

  I unlock my phone, go online, and find a few real cameras. “eBay’s got a few for a couple of hundred. You could just buy one.”

  I’m trying to be helpful. But he sighs, and I curse mentally. Here it comes. In three, two, one.

  “I could just buy one, but I only need it for one job. I don’t want to toss a couple hundred bucks into the trash. I could use that money to repair the dent you put in the car. You can’t just buy whatever you want when you want it. That’s the fastest way to dig yourself into debt, Ian.”

  I put up my hands, surrender with a sigh when he stops for a light. This just prolonged the drive for five more painful minutes.

  “So how many lockers have you cleaned?”

  I make up a number. “About a hundred. We’ve got it down to a science.”

  Thankfully Dad pulls into the school lot, and there’s no time to cross-examine me. “Thanks for the ride. See you later.”

  “Four o’clock, right?”

  “Yeah. Later.”

  A whistle blows on the athletic field as my dad’s car pulls out of the parking lot. I turn, watch my team run drills for a minute, wishing I could be out there with them. Damn. Forgot to ask Dad when my doctor’s appointment is. I’m still watching when a car door slams. I glance to my right, see Grace near a beige Sentra, and forget how to swallow. She’s wearing jeans today with a torn black T-shirt. The rips don’t reveal any skin because she’s got a tank top on underneath, and I want to throw down a penalty flag for denying me that glimpse. Her hair’s loose, the way she wore it yesterday. The studded bracelets, Cleopatra eye makeup, and nearly black lips are back.

  She stands there, staring at me staring at her, and finally sneers. “Give me your phone.”

  Wait, what? I finally remember what muscles are needed to swallow and gulp hard. “What?”

  “Gimme your fucking phone,” she repeats, nearly snarling, stalking up to me like I’m prey about to be slaughtered. Like an idiot, I tug the phone out of my pocket and hand it to her. She aims, holds up her middle finger, and snaps a picture of herself.

  “There. Pictures last longer.”

  S
he tosses the phone at me, strides into the school. I can’t help it. I laugh.

  Once we’re all rubber-gloved and ready to start the spray-and-scrub routine, I glance over at her. “So that was pretty intense yesterday. Where did you learn to fight?”

  She shoots me a look but doesn’t answer.

  “Come on. Someone must have taught you that move. Who was it?”

  Still no reply. Pissed now, I walk toward her, slam the locker door. She leaps back like I electrocuted her.

  “Simple question, Collier. If you could fight like that, why didn’t you fight Zac?”

  She sucks in a breath. “None of your fucking business, Russell.”

  “Fine!”

  “Fine,” she agrees and sticks her arm in another locker, her eyes glued to me.

  “It was cool, the way you handled them.” I quickly hold up both hands when she opens her mouth to attack. “Just sayin’.”

  She closes her mouth without saying anything, but she keeps looking at me, a frown intensifying those bright eyes.

  “I thought they were friends of yours.” I head back to my group of lockers, lay a stream of cleanser down.

  “Were. Past tense.”

  I am just about to say something sarcastic about her finally talking back to me when I see the way her eyes fill. Whoa. Grace Collier crying? I wasn’t sure her species had tear ducts. I stand there like a freakin’ moron, trying to decide if I should apologize or shut up or ask her more questions or fake a dizzy spell, only Grace doesn’t feel like waiting for me to get a clue.

  “They’re on his side.”

  The way she all but spits the word out leaves no doubt she means Zac. I shift my weight from one leg to the other and back again. I can’t do this. I can’t discuss a pal with the girl who accused him of raping her. So I do the only thing a guy in my position can do.

  I turn my back on her and take out my iPod. But even the buds stuck in my ears can’t hide Grace’s wet sniffle.

  We work for hours—in tandem but not together. I hurt her feelings. I can tell because something hangs in the air, something heavy and sour and growing. I don’t know how to stop it, how to fix things. I can’t talk to Grace about Zac. And I can’t not talk to Grace. While I’m letting all this crap circle in my head, the earth shifts up, then down, then up again, and I slide to the floor, trying hard to hold onto my breakfast.