Still Waters

by Ash Parsons

  I imagined bloodied knuckles and the wet crunch of his breaking nose. Bending an arm behind his back until it dislocated the shoulder. A kitchen knife twisting into his muscled gut. I fantasized about buying a gun and holding it to his head while he slept. Red mist and blood pooling out of his ear like evil syrup.

  The gun in my hand after. Still in my hand. Heavy and promise-filled.

  After a while, I slept.

  The next morning, Janie and I got dressed and out of the house. Some mornings, one of Dad’s buddies might still be awake or barely conscious, watching infomercials. Today the unit was silent.

  I waited with Janie for her bus.

  “Remember, you’re supposed to act like you’re with them, so that means eye contact, Jason. Probably talking some or at least making listening sounds,” she said.

  “Mmmm.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I can handle it. Chill.”

  Janie had to stretch to push my hair out of my eyes. She smiled. “I almost feel sorry for those cheer girls. They don’t have a chance.”

  All I can say is Janie lives in a dreamworld sometimes. But if it makes her happy to imagine me covered in girls, well, I can go along with that. It’s not a bad thing to imagine, as far as things go.

  After getting her on the bus to junior high, I walked to Clay’s. On the way I thought about what to say to him. How to explain the job with Michael. Which felt like a betrayal, even if Clay would understand.

  I got to the slumpy, concrete steps and jumped up them. Knocked softly, because maybe Clay’s mom was already home sleeping.

  “Okay,” Clay said from inside.

  After a minute the door opened. Clay nodded, slapped a quick shake, and then he was out the door, locking it and turning around in a fluid motion that was still somehow the opposite of smooth.

  “Jason, you’ve got to read this book,” he started, before I could even take a breath. “I think you’d like it. It’s about survival, and it’s about long odds and justice and how do you know the right thing. And how sometimes you know the right thing, but you can’t do it. And there are zombies, and that’s awesome. Okay, so they’re not really zombies, but they really should be, because anything that’s trying to eat you and is humanoid, that’s a zombie, right?”

  But he wasn’t asking a question—he was inhaling.

  “Sounds great,” I said before he could continue. “I need to talk to you.”

  He shot a glance at me, and his steps shortened.

  “I took a job,” I said. “It’s a secret, though.”

  Clay started shaking his head. The words gathered behind his teeth.

  “It’s not drugs,” I said. “It’s for Michael Springfield.” I explained about all of it. Michael picking me up and taking me to his house, Cyndra’s teasing, the thin-ass explanation that it was just to convey an impression to someone.

  Clay wasn’t walking anymore. I stopped moving, too. Every now and then a car whooshed by us.

  “Fifty dollars a day?” he exclaimed. Disbelief that was only for the reality that Michael, or anyone, had that kind of money. “That’s two hundred and fifty dollars a week, and that’s only if you work during school!”

  “I know.”

  Clay started walking again, slowly. “That’s insane. He’s got more money than sense.”

  I nodded.

  “What does Jane think?”

  My shoulders bounced, shifting the duffle strung across my back. “Take the money and run.”

  “Huh.” The sound was of agreement. “Well, it’s not like you can’t handle yourself in a fight. If it comes to that.”

  It had been my first thought, as well. That Michael wanted me to fight someone.

  We arrived at the crosswalk to the school. Cars were already filling the student parking lot. Somewhere over there was Michael’s cherry Mustang and his sexy girlfriend. Along with the rest of his “crew” and whatever he was really going to be paying me for.

  My shoulders bunched tight.

  The light changed, but we didn’t cross. Clay thumped my upper arm.

  “Well, go make some money, Champ.” Like I was a prizefighter. “If anyone deserves easy money, it’s you.”

  Clay stepped forward to the curb.

  I fought the urge to pull him back, like he would step out into traffic and get flattened.

  “I guess I’ll see you in the gym after school,” he said. “Unless you get another assignment. In which case, go for it.” Clay stepped into the street, long slouchy steps. He never looks both ways. Just trusts that the cars will all stop for him.

  I slid a step ahead of him.

  Once across the street, Clay slowed down. Gave me a funny look when I waited for him. “Go on, you’ve got a job to do. They’re probably waiting already.” He nodded at the student parking lot.

  “Sorry.” The word didn’t feel big enough.

  “I can take care of myself.” Grit in his words. Like he knew and resented that I didn’t think he could.

  “Fine.” I started taking longer strides. Clay paced me for a final line.

  “Try not to flatten them with your charm,” he said. “And remember, use protection. Cheerleaders have STDs, too.”

  “Asshat.”

  “Dick.” He thumped my back like a blessing, and I walked faster, leaving him behind.

  Instead of heading straight to the cafeteria, I cut into the student parking lot.

  Someone shouted my name.

  “Over here!” Michael and his friends were lounging around showroom-ready cars. “Gotcha breakfast.” Michael held up a bag from Burger King.

  If I’m supposed to be Michael’s new best friend, I’d lean against his car. Girls giggled as I pushed through the crowd. Some guys glared at me. I wondered who was in on whatever game this was.

  Who was the show for?

  “Here you go, man.” Michael handed me the bag and a drink.

  “Thanks.” We slapped a handshake like old friends.

  I opened up the breakfast sandwich. It looked good, but I wasn’t so stupid that I didn’t suspect anything. I flipped through its layers and didn’t see anything weird, so I took a bite.

  It tasted fine. Little conversations started around me. Heavy music blared through car windows. Some of the girls kept glancing at me and smiling, and since I don’t have Janie’s delusions, I knew something was up. Cyndra caught my eyes and shook her head slightly.

  That’s when I knew for sure that there was something wrong with the food. Or the drink.

  I finished them both.

  When I’d swallowed the last gulp, the hyperjocks started whooping and pounding each other’s shoulders. Some of them reared back, curling their hands in front of their mouths like they’d just witnessed something so funny they had to contort their bodies or they would fall to pieces. Their girls were less animated, hugging their books and giggling.

  “Pay up,” Michael said. He held his hand out to Dwight, one of the football studs.

  “Screw that.” But Dwight was laughing and digging in his wallet. He handed over a couple of twenties. A few other jocks pressed bills into Michael’s hand. I’d just earned my pay for a few days.

  “Hey, man, welcome to the gang, right? No hard feelings?” Dwight held out a hand, making wet snorting sounds that reverberated in his head. He coughed the loogie into his mouth and made a face. “Anyone have a cup? I don’t want to spit this monster on the ground in front of the girls.”

  The jocks started pounding each other again.

  I handed the Burger King cup to Dwight. “Here, use this one.” I waited until everyone was quiet. “Again.”

  The laughing stopped. Everyone held still as if a bee hovered nearby and they were all allergic.

  Dwight leaned forward and let the glob of phlegm plop onto the dregs of ice i
n the cup.

  I wanted to fight him. Not because I cared about the first loogie in the drink, but because it looked like he actually would fight me. He wouldn’t be able to back down in front of all his friends.

  But then I imagined the coffee can, and I thought of the fifty I’d already earned.

  Dwight handed the cup back to me. I hawked and spat into it, snapped the lid back on the cup. “I wonder what we’re having for lunch. You buy lunch, don’t you, Dwight?”

  The whole crew erupted at the look on Dwight’s face.

  “Burn!” Michael yelled. The jocks howled, turning on a dime from ridiculing me to laughing at their buddy. Several slapped hands with Michael.

  “I told you he was cool.” Michael looped an arm over my shoulder and shook me gently. “My man. Psycho Iceman.”

  I fought off the urge to push his arm away.

  Some of the gang slapped hands with me and told me their names, as if I didn’t know already. Like I was a transfer student they were meeting for the first time instead of someone they’d been ignoring all along.

  More cars began to fill the lot. Stereos warred with each other.

  “Sorry about that,” Michael said softly when there was a lull and it seemed no one else was paying attention. “That’s just, like, hazing—now you’re in. You’re cool.”

  “Whatever.”

  Cyndra picked up her books.

  “Time to go to class,” she said. “I think Jason should walk with me, since we’re on the same hall.”

  “Sure, Cyn. We hang in the courtyard during break,” Michael told me. He kissed Cyndra and grabbed her ass.

  Cyndra walked away. She was moving fast, sending her red-gold hair swinging.

  When we were near her classroom, she stopped and whirled. “You knew, didn’t you? I thought you didn’t suspect, but when you saw me shake my head, you knew.”

  I shrugged.

  “I would never have done that,” Cyndra said, and at first I thought she meant that she would never have played their stupid trick on me. “I would never have taken that.”

  I felt my lip curl. “Well, I’m guessing a little girl like you doesn’t have to take much of anything.”

  She moved closer, suddenly smiling all sweet and cute, like I was Michael instead of me. “Is that what you think?”

  I took a step back. “It’s what I know, princess.”

  She was smiling before I called her princess. When I finished, you could strike sparks off her eyes.

  She stomped into class. I smiled at the way her hips whipped from side to side. She sat down near two preppy girls I’d seen hovering in the parking lot that morning. They cut me glances and whispered.

  I leaned in through the open doorway. “Hey, Cyndra!” I called across the room.

  The class went silent. Eyes shifted to me. Even the teacher stopped puttering at her desk.

  “See you at break,” I said.

  If looks could kill, I’d be in a drawer with a tag on my toe.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Usually I’d meet Clay in the hall outside the lunchroom for break. I showed up in the courtyard instead, ignored Cyndra, and made sure Dwight saw me still carrying the Burger King cup. Let him think about the putrid contents and his lunch.

  But break was a nonevent. I made listening noises, looked at people, and saw what you’d expect to see: posing and stupid pranks and a bunch of bored kids. Mostly I just stood near Michael and acted like it was the most natural thing in the world for me to be transported from nobody to inner-circle darling.

  Some of the girls kept walking past. I didn’t mind watching them walk by, but didn’t think they were doing anything special until Cyndra cussed.

  “Told you,” Michael said.

  “Shut up.” Cyndra hit him lightly, like he was being funny.

  “I give it three days. No, two days.” Michael glanced at me, as if expecting me to ask what the hell he was talking about.

  The hip-shot parade went by again. My eyes followed.

  Michael laughed, almost a high giggle. “Oh yeah. Two days for sure. Iceman.”

  “Only if they can get past the lasers.” Cyndra widened her eyes at me. “But I guess that’s part of the allure.”

  I was suddenly tired. I couldn’t wait for break to be over so I could go to shop class. Couldn’t wait to get my hands on a hammer and just start hitting things. I thought about getting up and walking away.

  I thought of the coffee can and the pathetic roll of bills. A way out of this crap.

  Took a deep breath.

  “Michael,” Cyndra’s voice was deep, pitched to just above husky. “We’ve got to do something about his clothes.”

  “Not necessary,” Michael replied.

  “It’s part of the whole deal,” Cyndra said. “The look of it, right?”

  I didn’t have to glance down to see why she disapproved. I usually wore a T-shirt, washed out at best or stained at worst, and some lousy cheap jeans. If it was cold, I’d wear a Goodwill army jacket.

  I glanced around at the crisp shirts and label jeans. Cyndra was right. I fit in like snot on a tiara.

  I took another slow breath and watched the parade go by again. This was the longest break in Mercer High’s history. I wondered if Clay was hanging out in the library.

  “If you think it’s important, then you take care of it,” Michael said.

  Cyndra clapped her hands lightly. “Perfect! We’ll go to the mall.”

  I frowned at her. “I get paid for extra time.”

  “What does that make you?” Cyndra asked. Like I was supposed to feel trashy or something.

  “An employee.”

  I reminded myself that I didn’t care what they thought. “Besides,” I added, “if you’re short of cash, make another bet. I’ll eat whatever crap you feed me.”

  I stood up before the bell went off. Was down the hall before it stopped.

  The hammer didn’t help. Not when it slammed the nail, not when I banged the joints of a drawer. Nails and boards don’t grunt when you hit them.

  I asked Mr. Hernandez for a bathroom pass.

  Inside the bathroom there were a couple of freshmen trying to plug up the sinks. My face must have shown how I felt, because they dashed out of there.

  I flipped the switch off and leaned against the wall. My hands curled, waiting for someone to come in.

  Usually I just like to get in a few hits—to feel a solid whump or even a glancing blow because you’ve misjudged in the dark. Usually it’s about blowing off some steam or taking something back.

  Today it was those things and something more.

  The door cracked open. It closed again immediately.

  I pushed away from the wall and went back out into the hall.

  A freshman was hotfooting it away from the bathrooms. He glanced around and got a little smile on his stupid face, like he’d been so smart. Like he’d made the right call.

  Back in class I banged a few more things with the hammer. It was like there was a rumbling volcano in my chest.

  Maybe I could get in a fight at lunch.

  In Speech I put my head down on my desk. The coach who teaches it couldn’t care less about anyone sleeping.

  I tried to figure out why I was so pissed off. This money would get us there. Then it was just a matter of hanging on to it until my birthday. Then poof. We’d be gone. And then there was the second part of The Plan—the one Janie didn’t know about. The part where she’s grown and I come back.

  Live to fight another day.

  I thought about the money. Cyndra’s mind games. The Mustang and the castle-house, and a group of kids who lay twenty-dollar bets before their day even begins.

  And me. Going through their scraps. Trying to avoid my dad and his corpse-pale fists. Watching with one eye for him, alway
s there. Watching for that look. The grooves that arc over his mouth when he comes after you, upper lip curled onto his teeth. The twin lines blooming into the skin between his lips and nose, slashing down at his barred teeth—like his teeth are fangs. Like the skin will split to let them out.

  I tried to sleep.

  At lunch Clay was already sitting with Nico and Spud at our usual table. I stopped there, thinking I’d just check in quickly. But Clay’s eyes slid past me as Michael walked up.

  “Come on, Iceman,” Michael said.

  In the food line people swirled around us but didn’t push or complain.

  “What’s with the Iceman bit?”

  Michael smiled. “Look, everyone loves a nickname, right? Some of the gang had started calling you Ice because of your eyes and because you’re cold, man. It’s good. And this morning you played it true. So you’re the Iceman.”

  We started walking again.

  “What’s your nick?”

  Michael shrugged. “It’s stupid. Most people don’t use it anymore.” He looked down and away.

  “It’s not Pretty Boy, is it?” I asked. The corner of my lips tugged up.

  Michael laughed for our audience, then clapped me on the shoulder. I stepped away. Michael just laughed again. People in line around us turned and smiled. It was like there was a gushy ooze of hero worship going on. The girls sighed, and the guys nodded like they were in on a joke with the main man.

  “It’s Face.”

  I grabbed the tray the lunch lady shoved at me. “Well, that fits, I guess.”

  “It’s stupid. Came up in junior high. Some kid saw episodes of The A-Team on the retro channel and thought Face was a great nick for me.”

  “Well, it could be worse,” I said. Michael steered us past the cashier and propelled us to the outdoor tables.

  “Yeah?”

  “It could be Ass-Face.”

  Michael laughed, for real this time, and I felt that slight moment—that I’d made him laugh. Mr. Popular Super Jock. Man, he sure had some charisma to make everyone want to be part of his cool flame.

  “Listen”—Michael leaned in—“not for nothing, but I’m not paying you to hang out with your loser friends.”