I see the face of the boy from the party again, and it stings a little.
Because, maybe like Benny, I’ll never see him again.
And maybe he’s exactly the kind of distraction I need right now.
LESSON OF THE DAY: Reactions usually slow down as time goes on because of the depletion of the reactants. But maybe the reactants aren’t really gone, maybe they’re hiding, lurking, waiting for the exact right moment to speed back up.
Or maybe this growing-up thing sucks, no matter what happens.
BASH
Dave sinks farther into the chair and kicks up his feet.
“I’m telling you, man,” I say, “women are trouble. Straight. Up. Trouble. Only good one is Ma, and God didn’t make two of her.”
I’m busy switching the skates around so most pairs have different sizes. Makes people feel like something’s wrong with their feet and entertains me. “I mean, sometimes you fall for the wrong girl and she breaks you into a bazillion pieces, but sometimes you meet someone different and you think, This could work. But it doesn’t matter; none of it matters … I’m just rambling.”
Dave nods with a grin.
I sigh. “Maybe I’m the one who’s trouble.”
He’s still nodding, still grinning.
“Good, man. That’s why I like you. You cut the bull. The truth will set us free and all that shit—that’s you.”
He points at me, his smile lengthening wider, and suddenly I think of how ironic those words are. Swallow, breathe, lose eye contact. Vinny busts through the door. He tells me about our new hire—a senior from West Clifton High, our rival school—who never made it in to fill out those papers when he last mentioned it. He tells me today’s the day and to “be nice and un-Bash-like,” to which I say “to do so is to deny my right to live” and he tosses a box on the side counter and ignores me. It slides into a stack of print-outs, knocking them to the floor.
“I’ll need to send these out now because there was a typo on the last batch,” he says. “Sorry. Looks like all that time stuffing envelopes yesterday was just practice.” An evil smirk rises from his mouth, and just after he leaves, I flip him off so hard, I swear I can feel my finger jab him in the back of his fat little head.
Between Vin and Kyle, I can’t decide who’s a bigger pain in my ass. My phone vibrates.
KYLE: GETTING SHIT FIXED 2NITE. COME WITH.
Well, that answers that.
I’m reluctant to reply. I don’t want to waste my minutes on a back-and-forth text war he’ll probably win, so I make it short and sweet.
ME: CAN’T. VINNY NEEDS ME LATE.
Three little dots form on the screen; he’s responding, and it’s taking a long time. I nervously toss the phone between my hands, hoping it’ll come through before Vinny sneaks back in.
KYLE: YOU PROMISED.
I pause for a moment, my finger lingering over the Delete button, and I know I have two choices here: Cave so he’ll shut up now, or ignore and risk him stalking me until I do what he wants. I’ve played this game so many times I shouldn’t even have to think about it.
ME: FINE. MY HOUSE AT 9.
The words sting to type, as if I’m signing some kind of formal contract, and in a way, since we’re going to cover up something so terrible, I guess I am. I’m no better than my father, no better than the murderers we should be locked away with.
KYLE: YESSSSS!
I pass the next few hours restuffing envelopes and charging holiday prices to the weeknight crowd, which really only consists of a handful of middle-aged couples, one family, and a sixtysomething widow who comes in to hit on me every week. I can’t lie; she’s kind of hot.
At 8:45 P.M., I tell Vinny I have to jet early. Something about Ma. Most of the skaters have left, so he gives me a nod, says he’ll see me tomorrow. I grab my leather jacket that’s bunched up in the corner and run to my car. The air is frigid, causing my door to stick again. I slam my body up against the cold metal, thrashing the already rusted dent in the side until it unsticks. Once inside, I take a deep, nagging breath and drive home, where Kyle is already parked outside in the Benz, his heavy metal blasting through the speakers.
I don’t bother going inside the trailer. The lights are still dark, empty as though there’s no life left between the mobile walls and in a way, that’s true. Kyle swings the passenger side door open, and I fall into the warmed seat.
“’Sup?” he asks with a devious smile.
“If you’re trying to not get caught, turn the music down,” I say in a stern tone. His smile dulls as the realization of what we’re doing kicks in.
“This isn’t a game,” I tell him. “Since you won’t let me go to the cops, let’s get this taken care of so we can move the hell on.” Just saying this makes my stomach churn. There’s no moving on from something like this, not really.
He spins the volume dial down and nods, shifting the gear gently. The car is quiet, and the only sounds are from the whir of the engine. He drives along the back roads, away from light, careful not to accelerate, to draw attention. He’s obviously nervous but steady—two things I never thought I’d witness from Kyle Taylor at the same time.
“Where we going?” I ask.
“Skeevy Steve’s.”
My head jerks toward him. “What?! No way, dude—turn the car around. After what happened last time? What in the actual hell?”
He’s silent, eyes focused on the road. “It’s cool,” he says. “I haven’t bought any bad shit since then, and it was only probation. I got off easy.”
“We cannot be seen over there, Kyle. Think. He went to jail for selling—BECAUSE OF YOU—and he’s just gonna help you out, no strings?”
He looks at me, dead serious. “Yeah.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’ve got something he doesn’t.”
“Hell, I’ve got something he doesn’t and I ain’t got much, but I’m not makin’ a deal with the devil. Let me fix this—turn myself in, take the blame so we can all sleep tonight. It’ll all be done before you can say Skeevy Steve three times fast.”
He chuckles, the smile only halfway formed. “I’m a gamblin’ man. You’re not making the deal, Bash. I am. If anyone goes down for letting it all ride on Skeevy Steve, I promise—it won’t be you.”
I won’t win this fight either, so instead, I think of all the ways this will go wrong as I stare out the window. Eventually, we pull into a back alley in the next town over—a deceptively safe town, New Castle, where streets are eerily vacant. In the daylight, all is well, but after dark, no one should wander through without caution.
Kyle slowly approaches the deteriorating garage door and puts the car in park. “Wait here,” he says, stepping out. His voice shudders. My legs do, too, but I pin them to the floor to prevent the fear from crawling up into other limbs. He walks up to the big door and knocks three times. The big, rusted mouth of the cave opens, revealing Steve on the other side. His shadow drags far behind his compact frame, and his beady eyes rival that of any rat I’ve ever seen crawling through the trailer park.
At Steve’s signal, Kyle drives the car into the empty garage space. When the car is in Park, the giant door closes behind us, trapping us where we stand, maybe forever.
“Long time no talk, man,” he says, shaking Kyle’s hand. He holds a long time, an uncomfortable amount of time, staining Kyle’s clean skin with oil. Kyle pulls back, but Steve still grips him tight. When he lets go, it flings Kyle backward, into me. He wipes the slime on his pocket and I can see his eyes nervously beginning to twitch. The lighting is bright enough to see Steve in his full douche-bagginess which is pretty stellar.
He inspects the car, circling it three or four times, his eyes flittering up to us every few steps. “What’d you hit?” he asks.
Kyle and I don’t even make eye contact, but our mouths open at the same time. “A deer.”
Steve smiles, his gold tooth twinkling under the lights. “Pretty small deer. Did you call the cops? Make sure the t
hing was dead?”
Kyle stutters. “No cops. Saw the thing, and he was dead. Really dead. As dead as a deer can be.” I elbow him to shut him up.
Steve is watching us intently, his smugness never fading. “Good. Don’t want a repeat of last time. You’re lucky I’m a forgiving guy.” He laughs, steps inches from my face. He’s close enough that I can see the tar stuck between his teeth, smell the rank tobacco on his breath. “Because this time, if there’s cops, they won’t be after me.”
We collectively shake our heads while I plunge my hands into my pockets. Kyle does the same, too. “How long will this take?” he asks.
Steve angles his head. “What’s the rush? You didn’t kill nobody, did you? I can’t go to jail for that.”
We laugh nervously. Beads of sweat ball around my hairline. The lights are bright, hot, too hot.
“Are you serious?” Kyle laughs. “It was a stupid deer, and I just don’t want my dad to find out I drove his car while he was gone. That’s all.”
The words sound believable enough but I can tell by the way he’s shifting, Kyle’s about to lose his shit, and if Tweaked Kyle takes over, we’re done. On so many levels beyond cops. Steve’s known for a lot of things; forgiveness isn’t one of them. He won’t let Kyle off again. And me? A civilian casualty caught in the cross fire that he won’t hesitate to take down, too. I know all about this guy and what he’s capable of. Kyle does, too. So why are we here?
Steve walks back to the car and lays his hand flat on the hood, running it across the smooth, shiny finish. “I can take care of this for you in about an hour.”
Kyle breathes a sigh of relief. “Thanks, man. You’re saving me—”
“But,” Steve interrupts, “it’ll cost ya.”
“How much?”
Another smile drapes his face. “A grand.”
A laugh escapes me. “Come on, man,” I blurt. “It’s just a couple dents and some glass.”
“Take it or leave it.”
I can tell by the way his eyes narrow into little, evil slits, he’s not joking. Kyle is now quiet. The only sounds are a wafting of bills he’s counting. The thick stack of greenery blows a gentle breeze in my direction. Kyle flops the money into Steve’s blackened hand. We watch as he re-counts each crisp bill. He licks his thumb and forefinger between passes, makes an mmm sound through the split between his two front teeth.
“Good to go.” He waves us over to the plastic lawn chairs near the back wall and offers me a smoke from his half-used pack that’s covered in black oil. I don’t flinch. My eyes on Steve’s, I push the pack out of my space.
“Don’t want to be charged for this, too,” I say.
He presses one between his lips and burns the end with a lighter. It sizzles and smokes when he inhales. “This one’s included in the price of the car.”
Kyle takes one because he doesn’t think, doesn’t realize we pay the price for anything that happens here. He ignores my glare and lights up. My mouth kind of twitches like it wants a taste, but I’m not doing it. Steve is slow to get to work, like we’ve got nothing better to do than sit here. After a minute or seven, he pulls out a metal box of tools and various parts from the shelves built into the wall.
“This is bull,” I whisper to Kyle. “He’s totally scamming you.”
“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” he says.
I turn my head toward him, annoyed. “Now’s not the time for your philosophy shit.”
“Maybe he’s the one getting scammed.” He smiles like he’s been preparing for this all damn day.
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t let these good looks fool you, my man. I’ve got a plan.”
I shake my head because the last plan he had was the equivalent of lighting a spark in a room filled with hydrogen and oxygen—explosive. “I won’t even ask.”
“Good idea. More of a surprise when you see the wheels in motion.”
I lean in, my eyes locked onto Steve. “Have you read anything about … the kid?” I whisper.
Kyle’s head jumps. Ashes drift to the floor in a loose pile. “No—did he die?”
“I don’t know. I keep checking the papers, the Internet, but it says the same stuff. Seems like something should’ve changed by now. Like he should either be better or dead.”
“It’s only been a couple days. Maybe they don’t know yet. Doctors are so full of it—you know that better than anyone.”
I nod, run my fingers through my hair, and lean in closer. “I was thinking of”—I kick my feet around—“going to see him.”
“WHAT?” Kyle practically shouts.
“Shhh!” I shove my hand over his mouth, casually smile at Steve like nothing’s going on. “Unless you want Steve in on this, shut up.”
He nods, slowly. I lower my hand enough to see the panic cover his face. He’s three shades whiter than when he told me about the boy in the first place. “Are you trying to get us busted?”
I prop my hand on my knee where the hole in my jeans has grown. Kyle’s looking at me, waiting for some kind of answer or epiphany or shit—I don’t know what else he wants from me. Steve’s lying on the garage floor with his hands in the headlight, hopefully unable to hear any of this. “Dude,” I say, “I need to see for myself. I don’t even know what he looks like. It’s bugging me.”
Kyle’s still examining me, but I hold my gaze to the oil-spattered floor. Looking at him means we did this—we really did this—and there’s nothing I can do about it. He sucks in a long hit and exhales the smoke, plunging the butt of his cigarette into the floor beside us.
“Look,” he says, “I hate that this happened, but it did. It sucks, and I really hope the kid pulls through, but, Bash, like I said before, think about the rest of our lives. From the day your ma got sick, you’ve become everything she’s ever wanted you to be, and more. Doesn’t matter if you’re lying through your teeth, because it makes her feel better, and you two are seriously twisted like that. Don’t throw it all away. You could be a seriously famous artist in New York or something if you just hang on long enough for this to pass. Because it will. You don’t want your mom’s last memory of you to be this gigantic a-hole mistake. Don’t be a fuckin’ idiot.”
“Says the idiot,” I snap.
He laughs in this way that makes me want to choke the shit out of him.
I sit on his words, letting them sink in, and the more they do, the angrier I feel. “To be the person Ma thinks I am, I have to do the right thing. I told you I’d tell them it was me so you won’t have to sweat it. Whether the kid lives or dies, I can’t just hang out and let that family wonder. They deserve to know it was an accident. That we didn’t mean it and we’re not bad people. We just made a bad choice. But the longer we say nothing? The worse it’s going to look when we’re caught.”
He’s shaking his head at me, a look of disappointment in his eyes. He’s firm now. “You can’t go to the hospital. Ever. You can’t turn yourself in. Ever. It’s done. Let it go.”
I hope he can tell by the look on my face I’m struggling with this friendship, brotherhood, or whatever mistake of a relationship this is. “You’re a selfish son of a bitch; always have been. This isn’t about you. Think about those parents, what they’re going through—think of anyone other than your goddamned self for once. Hell, if you have to, think about me. I need to tell someone. To feel okay with me. Because I sure as hell am not okay right now. I’m not okay with you, either.”
He stands from his chair, towers over me with a balled-up fist like he wants to punch me. Because the truth hurts. I don’t cower, don’t flinch. Even beneath these hot, blinding lights, I’m resolute.
“You guys are talking about that kid over in West Clifton, aren’t you?” Steve interrupts. He’s up from the floor and walking toward us as he bats a thick wrench in the palm of his hand. It’s big enough to knock us both out with one swift smash and I have no doubt he’s capable of hiding our bodies where no one will
find us.
Kyle lowers his hand, looks to me, then Steve. “Yeah,” he says. “So?”
“Sounds like you know more about that accident than the police do.”
Kyle looks to me again. His legs tremble. I stand from the chair and cross my arms firm against my chest, use them as a shield.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, man,” Kyle says. He shoves his hands into his pockets, probably to dry his clammy, truth-telling palms.
Steve chuckles. Up close, the wrench is even bigger. The places where the metal has worn, near the head, have stains of rusted red. It could be tarnish or it could be dried blood. I know not to ask questions so I move my eyes up to Steve’s and pretend I’m confident in our denial.
“No worries, I won’t say nothin’,” he says.
Kyle relaxes his body and shakes it loose, and I’m thinking, You jackass. “Thanks, man,” he says. I punch his arm, and he realizes what he just said. “I mean … nothing. Wait … what?”
Steve raises his wrench and points it in Kyle’s face. “Come to think of it, a female deer can weigh up to a hundred twenty-five pounds, while a buck, well, a buck can weigh as much as three hundred.”
“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?” Kyle blurts out. I elbow him. Hard.
Steve pauses. “That car ain’t been hit by no deer. No dog, either. It was that kid, wasn’t it?”
I try to stay chill, but my heart races. Kyle looks like he’s choking, can’t seem to spit out a word, and I kind of wish he would actually choke on something right about now to keep him from fucking up more of my shit.
Steve shakes his wrench at us, then walks to the other side of the garage to dig in a large, plastic bin. “Don’t worry. I won’t say anything. Unless…”
The Inevitable Collision of Birdie & Bash Page 11
