Suburban Dangers

by Megan Whitson Lee

  Miranda rested her backside against the dressing table and rolled her dark eyes to the ceiling. “Oh, let’s see. I guess I been dancin’ a coupla years now.” She waved her hand in the air, her pink-painted nails with their intricate designs were shaped like claws. “You know. Time all runs together after a while. But I done a little bit of everything. I’m just doing this right now until I save a little. Then I’m movin’ down to Atlanta. Openin’ up my own little place. Then I be runnin’ the show.”

  Even with the stuff Miranda had poured into it, the drink wasn’t hitting Kaki fast enough. Her stomach was all fluttery and rolling with that sick feeling she always got before she went out on the floor. She gulped several more swallows and watched the clock on the wall. Fifteen more minutes before she had to be out there.

  In the three weeks she’d been dancing at Damien’s club, she’d only tried to refuse once. That time, Damien whipped her with his belt. It was the most humiliating experience of her life. She fought him until he had her on the ground.

  One of the other girls stood by and watched. “Just stop fighting him, honey,” the girl had called out to Kaki. “If you just take it, it won’t be so bad. It’ll only be worse if you fight him.”

  The beating left some welts on her backside, but Damien still made her go out on the floor. “No one’ll care once you’re out there swinging around a pole.”

  Kaki learned not to cry. If she cried, she was sure to have her head shoved into the toilet while it was flushed. Finally, she’d learned never to be a minute late onto the dance floor. The punishment for that was to repay the customers for the time they’d lost, which meant private dances. And there was nothing more degrading and horrible than having to do that. One night, Kaki had to do twenty private dances while disgusting, drunk men breathed beer breath into her face.

  According to Damien, the biggest problem they faced was with her dancing itself. “You ‘bout the worst dancer I’ve ever seen. You act like you don’t know what to do.”

  “I don’t,” Kaki protested. “I’m not a dancer. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing up there.”

  Damien had grabbed her where her chin and neck met and pushed her against the wall. “You do the same kind of moves you do when you’re with me. It shouldn’t be that hard.”

  She had done everything he’d wanted, so she didn’t know why he was suddenly so rough with her. Before he’d talked so sweetly, told her she was beautiful and wonderful and how much he loved her. She just wanted to hear that stuff from him again. He still bought her gifts—clothes, jewelry, gift cards—but she never saw any money from the stripping.

  After her first week of dancing at the club, she’d asked him about it. “Are you going to pay me for doing this? I know the other girls get paid.”

  He’d snort-laughed. “Yeah, we’ll see about that when you get better at dancing. Right now, you stink.”

  She hated standing out there on the stage holding onto the pole—her only anchor of security—while the lights swirled around and the music pounded in her ears.

  “Start moving!” The men sometimes called out.

  Between sets, she usually took another pill or drank another rum and Coke—anything to drown out the voices.

  “Hey girl, don’t fall asleep on me now,” Miranda’s voice was like a sharp knife cutting through her drift. Whatever she’d put in the drink had finally taken effect. Instead of feeling euphoric, Kaki wanted to curl up in a corner and sleep.

  Miranda’s hand slapped at Kaki’s cheeks gently. “Come on now. You’d better get up and get moving. You got like three minutes before Damien be gettin’ all over you.” Miranda helped Kaki to her feet. She staggered to the door, steadying herself against the wall.

  “Maybe I gave you a little too much,” Miranda said. But her voice sounded as if she was speaking from the other end of a tunnel. “You smaller than me.”

  Using the wall as a brace, Kaki stumbled along the hallway leading to the stage.

  Damien stood by the stage door, his arms crossed over his chest. “You’re almost late. Thirty more seconds and you’d owe some private dances.”

  She didn’t look at him. It was best to keep her head down. That way he couldn’t accuse her of giving him attitude.

  He smacked her on the backside as she staggered through the stage door, and she almost fell. Her legs felt as if they were buried in sand. Calls and hoots from the men erupted all around her—their voices warped as though special effects had been added. Kaki grasped the metal of the pole, slippery under her fingers from other dancers’ baby oil and lotions. Was she moving? She couldn’t be sure. She saw different sides of the room, so she must have been swinging on the pole. Men’s voices hooted.

  Kaki didn’t remember taking off any clothes, but she walked off the stage naked. She didn’t even bother to redress before returning to the dressing room and collapsing in a chair. It was some time later when she woke up. Miranda had covered her with a blanket.

  Miranda’s eyeliner-exaggerated eyes came into focus. “You really can’t dance, can you?” she said, shaking her head. “Baby, I don’t think this is the right work for you. You got moves like a chicken, and Damien never gonna pay you for doing this.”

  The door to the dressing room opened, and Damien walked in.

  Miranda got up. “I gotta get out there,” she whispered.

  Damien pulled a stool up in front of Kaki. Holding her hands, he smoothed the hair back from her face, a slight smile on his lips. Kaki’s mood lifted a little, seeing him look at her the way he used to. As if he really loved her.

  “You wanna quit dancing? Huh?”

  His tone was gentle, but Kaki was still afraid to answer. What if she said yes, and it was the wrong thing?

  She shrugged.

  “I got an idea. I got something better for you to do, baby. Something where you can make us a lot more money.”

  11

  Tyler

  Friday, December 2

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Buddy Holly?” Tyler greeted Raj with their usual exchange as he entered his cubicle on Friday morning.

  Raj, as always, was glued to the computer screen, the light from the screen reflecting off of his retro, black, horn-rimmed glasses. “Yes, you. Every day. But I don’t have his money, and I don’t want to die like him.”

  Tyler smiled, plopping down in the chair by Raj’s desk and stirred the coffee in his cup. “Were any of your guys in your department told about possible layoffs?”

  Raj raised his eyebrows. “Where did you hear about layoffs?”

  Tyler looked into his cup and watched the powdery fake cream form a filmy veneer on the top of his coffee. “John Cabrisi. Mentioned it to me a couple of weeks ago. He said the task may not get the funding.”

  Raj was a lead programmer working in a different department and task, but his office was on the same floor as Tyler’s. “I haven’t heard anything about layoffs.”

  Tyler shrugged. “It’s probably not affecting your department.”

  “I hope it doesn’t affect yours either.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Tyler said cheerfully. “’Cause Lana and I are moving to California.”

  “You’re moving to California because of a possible layoff?” Raj removed his glasses.

  “No, it’s not just that. You know, we’ve been thinking about it before now. This news just kind of sped it all along.”

  Raj squinted as though trying to understand Tyler’s words. “So, I still don’t get it. You don’t have a job out there, right?”

  “I’ll get something, of course,” Tyler said quickly. “Or maybe I’ll finally start up that business I’ve wanted to get going. Santa Monica has a thriving business community.”

  “There’s a thriving business community right here. Why not get it off the ground here before pulling up all your roots and moving thousands of miles away? What are your kids saying about this?”

  Why did everyone keep asking what his kids thought? Mic
ah and Celia were too young to have any opinions, and Katherine and Brandon were teenagers. They would both adjust. “They’ll be fine.”

  Raj crossed his arms and sat back in his chair. “Teenagers really need their fathers around.”

  Tyler drained the rest of his coffee. He didn’t want to talk to nay-sayers about their plans. He felt good today, and he didn’t want anyone squelching his mood. “Yep. Well, I guess I’d better go do some work, Raj.”

  “OK. Don’t book any plane tickets just yet. See you at lunch today?”

  “Maybe.” Tyler moved toward his own cubicle. He didn’t want to commit to anything. Leave everything open—who knew what might happen? That was his new attitude and mantra.

  His good mood continued throughout the day as he surfed the Internet for images of Santa Monica and the southern California coastline. He imagined once they got settled, he and Lana would take daytrips to Northern California—Sacramento, San Francisco, Sonoma County and the wine country. It felt good to “step out in faith” and act as though this was definitely going to happen, even before he had confirmation. Wasn’t that what the Bible said the faithful should do? Act as though you’ve already received what you’ve asked for? He remembered reading something like that in Scripture.

  Tyler floated through his day, accomplishing his usual tasks without the usual amount of stress. Because really, what did it matter how well he wrote this report or spreadsheet? He was on his way out of here. He didn’t even bother to micromanage his underlings. After all, if they didn’t know what they were doing by now, then they shouldn’t be working here. By next week, it might be that none of them, including Tyler himself, would be working there.

  He was on his fourth cup of coffee by noon, and he’d knocked out several reports, made three or four important phone calls—something he would normally dread and put off until deadlines were approaching—and he’d even started plotting a list of topics for the task members’ meeting by the end of the next week. He was ahead of the game.

  Tara appeared at the edge of his cubicle. “Hey there.”

  Oh, no. A terrible distraction and temptation. If he wasn’t careful in his dealings with her, he’d veer off in a wrong direction. He had to stay on the course of the current plan. Things were going too well to allow a cute little blonde to mess with his head—even if she was only eye candy. “Hi,” he said, trying not to look away from his computer.

  “Headed to the gym today?”

  “No, not today. Too much to do.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed her short red skirt and high-heeled ankle boots.

  “You still don’t want to compete against me in racquetball, do you?”

  “I don’t know, Tara. I only like to play when I have a chance of winning.” He laughed a little and tried to look busy while staring at the blank screen. Moments before, he’d been geared up to compose a flow chart as part of the proposed project for which they were awaiting funding. “It’s not that I don’t want to play racquetball with you. I just need to get home tonight. Lana’s out of town, and I should be there for the kids.” Mentioning his wife’s name might act as a deterrent. Sort of a Remember? I’m married maneuver. But then telling Tara that his wife was out of town probably wasn’t the smartest thing…and he’d confused the issue a couple of weeks before when he’d joined Tara for after-work drinks.

  The flashing light on his office phone was an opportunity for diversion. “Oh, you know what? I’ve been waiting for a call, and this might be it.” He pointed at the phone on his desk. A ripple of disappointment crossed her face.

  “Yeah, OK. Well, maybe one of these days you’ll have the courage to take me on.”

  Tyler nodded and smiled, trying to make light of her double entendre as he picked up the phone. “Tyler Jones.”

  “Hey, Tyler. It’s Josh.”

  “Hey, Josh. What’s going on?” A sinking feeling assailed him. “I need you to come out to Runnymede. I got Brandon here with me. He got into an altercation with another student.”

  “A fight?” Brandon had never been in a fight before.

  “That’s my understanding.”

  Brandon had just come off of three days of suspension for the sexting. This kid was just not learning his lesson. “All right. I’ll be there.”

  ~*~

  Tyler was becoming far too familiar with Runnymede Secondary’s conference room. When he arrived, the room was already crowded. Brandon sat at one end of the table, his head down. Oliver, another one of the school’s security guards was there as well—a big, African American man, larger and more muscular than Josh, and in some ways, more intimidating.

  Rebecca Hough, once more in attendance, threw Tyler a half-smile and a wave as he entered. “Hello, Mr. Jones. Here we are again.”

  Tyler pulled out the empty seat next to Brandon and sat. “Yes. Here we are again.”

  Brandon didn’t move his gaze from his lap. His right hand held an ice pack to the other side of his face.

  “What’s going on now, Brandon?” Tyler tried to control his voice. “You haven’t had enough trouble yet?”

  “Brandon had a little tussle with someone in the front parking lot,” Oliver began. “Isn’t that right, Brandon?”

  The boy nodded, his mouth fixed in a sullen pout.

  Oliver turned to Josh. “Happened just before lunch. Couple of girls saw it and came and got us.”

  “Who was it? Who’d you get in the fight with?” Tyler asked.

  Brandon sat tight-lipped as he stared at the adjacent wall.

  “Who was it, Brandon? You will tell me.”

  “No, I won’t,” he said in a low tone.

  “Yes. You will—”

  “One of the girls recognized the boy,” Josh said quickly. “She said he doesn’t go to this school.”

  Josh and Oliver exchanged glances. Oliver spoke. “Judging from the footage we saw on the security cameras, Officer Wolf and I don’t think he goes here either. We’ve opened an investigation into this incident, but we think there were two males, neither of them actually attending Runnymede, who rode to the school on buses and disembarked with the kids.”

  A ripple of alarm flowed through Tyler. That seemed like a breach of security.

  “How did that happen?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Josh said. “But we’re looking into it.”

  “You guys sure have a lot of investigations going on.” Tyler was starting to think the school—and possibly even his friend’s own lax security—was to blame for Brandon’s troubles.

  Josh nodded. “We’re not denying that there are some issues going on here.”

  “Did this girl say anything else about who the guy was or anything?”

  “No. The girl just said the guy was not in school anymore,” Oliver said.

  “Not in school anymore?” Tyler was trying to make sense of it, but nothing was coming together. “Brandon, who do you know that doesn’t go to this school?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Obviously, that’s not true. You didn’t just fight the guy for no reason.”

  Rebecca spoke, reaching toward Brandon as though trying to get his attention. “Brandon, Gianna George said—”

  “Gianna George?” Tyler looked at Brandon. They knew Gianna. Her father was Vincent George—a city councilman. Her brother was Gio George—a star football player—the reason the team had gone to state that year. Gianna and Katherine used to play together.

  Brandon shrugged.

  “Here’s the thing,” Rebecca said, lowering her voice. “Gianna said she thought she recognized the guy, and she thinks he’s in a gang. Do you know anything about that, Brandon?”

  “No,” Brandon said.

  “A gang? You have gang members showing up at the school now?” Tyler leveled his words at Josh.

  “There’s gang activity all over this area. And yeah, there is definitely activity in the school. It’s hard to avoid in a place of this size…and very difficult to battle.”


  The school’s role aside, how did Brandon know someone in a gang? Did he not know his son at all?

  “Brandon, are you in a gang?” Rebecca asked.

  “Of course not,” Tyler answered for him. “Brandon’s not in a gang. He has nothing to do with any of that.” But he didn’t know for sure.

  Oliver stared hard at Brandon. “Well, I can tell you that Brandon here had a pretty strong reaction when Gianna came in to the room to talk to us earlier. Brandon, I overheard you tell her not to say anything because the guy’s a member of Masters of Sin. Didn’t you say that, Brandon?”

  “I don’t know,” Brandon said, looking up at Oliver suddenly, his eyes blazing with venom—reminding Tyler all too much of himself. “You’re so smart—you seem to know everything. Why do you even ask me? Why don’t you all just go to—”

  Tyler shoved the chair out from under him and grabbed Brandon by the back of the neck. If he’d ever spoken like that to another adult, someone in authority, his father would have decked him. “You do not speak to anyone in this room like that. Do you understand?” He let go of Brandon’s neck and made eye contact with Rebecca.

  Her mouth gaped.

  “Calm down, Mr. Jones. It’s all right.”

  Disbelief at his son’s insolence and his own angry reaction washed over him, and he sank back down into the chair, the anger replaced by embarrassment.

  Oliver leaned across the table to address Brandon in his gruff, commanding voice. “Young man, let me tell you something. I used to be a bounty hunter. Do you know what that is?” When Brandon didn’t answer, he continued, “That means I chased down criminals who were wanted for unspeakable crimes. I’ve chased men down to Tijuana. Do you really think you’re any kind of challenge for me? ’Cause I’m telling you right now—you don’t want to tango with me. You won’t even come close to the dance-off!”

  “OK, that’s enough,” Rebecca cautioned. “Everyone needs to calm down. This is not at all productive. Brandon, I’ll send you back to class, and we’ll have a talk with your dad. I’m assigning you one day of in-school suspension next week for the class skip and the fight.”