by Ash Parsons
“Yeah.” Janie closed the laptop and gave me a hug. “Thanks.”
I hugged her back, inhaling the smell of oranges that wafted up from her hair.
Downstairs there was a crash, raucous laughter, and the sound of furniture being dragged across the floor.
“For what?” I asked when the hug was over.
“Two hundred dollars. I know it wasn’t easy.”
I told her about the party and mall trip tomorrow.
Janie nodded, understanding without needing me to spell it out. “I’ll spend the night at Clay’s.”
Clay’s mom was used to us showing up. Clay told her it was the pressure valve we needed, downplaying how bad it really was. Telling his mom not to call anyone about it because Janie and I didn’t want to be separated in foster care.
“What about you?” she asked.
“I’ll be partying all night.”
Janie nodded like it was the truth. “Just as long as you don’t come home until morning.”
“I know the drill.”
Janie stood and picked up the laptop. “Night.” Her mattress springs groaned as she lay down.
I pushed my bed against the closed door of our room. As the night went by, the noises downstairs grew louder. The front door slammed repeatedly. Men shouted at each other. A woman, crying and yelling. It got quieter, except for the television’s gunfire and action music. Every now and then, I could hear Janie’s light, whiffling snore from the other side of the partition. I imagined decapitating monsters and waited for daylight.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Late the next morning, the cell chirped. I came awake with a start and fumbled for it under the bed. Flipped it over and read the message. Cursed.
“What is it?” Janie poked her head around the partition. Her hair was rumpled from the pillow.
I grabbed the hoodie off the floor.
“Cyndra’s waiting for me outside.” I cursed again, feeling my stomach knot. It was bad enough that Michael had prowled his sleek Mustang around the neighborhood after school the other day. But at least then, no one was home. Unlike now.
Janie popped around the drywall and shoved her feet into her sneakers. “It’s okay. Maybe he’s already gone or asleep.” She grabbed some clothes and the stuffed poodle, shoving them into her backpack. She hoisted it onto her shoulder.
I cracked the door open, listening. There were no noises from downstairs.
We crept into the hall and down the creaking stairs. The couch was empty.
A heavy hand pulled me back by the hood.
“Where you going, boy?”
It amazes me how someone so big can move so silently.
I turned and faced my father. Cold eyes glared into mine—blue so pale it was almost transparent. Deep-set eyes with a blade of brow ridge lowered in a don’t-fuck-with-me glare.
“Go,” I ordered Janie. She could get to Clay’s on her own.
The screen door banged as Janie lit out.
Good girl.
“Where you think you’re going?” my father asked again, giving me a little shake.
“The mall.”
“Smartass.”
I feel slow around him. I can never think clearly, and I always say stupid things. I knew enough to stay quiet when I could.
His upper lip curled on his teeth. The fang-grooves appeared in the skin over his canines. He dragged me to the window. “I want to show you something.” He pushed the smoke-scented blanket aside.
“See that car? Now, what’s a choice car like that doing driving up and down the street for the last five minutes? That for you?”
Sometimes he’ll ask something like that—and I have no idea. Maybe he’s just looking for a reason to blow. Or he’s being extra paranoid—it was that way when he came back from county, seeing a narc around every corner. But this time it’s real, and I know who’s driving the silver Mercedes with the tinted windows.
“I don’t know,” I said.
He dropped the hood and grabbed my hair. My cheek ground against the metal window frame.
“Try again. You holding out on me, boy?”
I dropped my weight and spun. My hair twisted in his grasp, and my chin jutted up, but not before I landed an uppercut into his solar plexus. It was like hitting a bag of sand at the building supply store: full, heavy, and so dense that you can’t even make a dent.
He drove a fist into my stomach. I hadn’t seen it coming, hadn’t been able to tense up enough. I fell to my knees. He let go of my hair and cocked his fist again. Came at me, his massive form gliding. Improbably graceful—wide neck broadening into heavy shoulders, almost like his whole body sloped outward in one thick, muscular flare. I tried to uncurl, tried to dodge as the punch flew toward my eye. I succeeded a little, able to rise up enough so that the punch landed on my jaw instead.
When you see a real fight, it’s not loud like it is in the movies. You don’t have these resounding whumps that echo around a room like a biology book hitting a desk.
It’s more like punching a piece of meat.
Unless you’re the one getting hit—then it rings in your head like a sledgehammer hitting concrete, and you’re shocked no one is running to see the demolition.
He seized the front of my shirt and pulled me to my feet. Did it without effort, like he was curling a weight instead of lifting a person off the floor. He shoved me against the wall. My knee shot up, but he saw it coming and knocked it aside.
I imagined the canvas heavy bag and slung a punch into his stomach.
He smiled until I sent the second one.
A fist drove at my side. I pushed into it. Sometimes that’s the only thing you can do, blunt the force by stopping it short.
Grabbing the thumb around my neck, I twisted and with my free hand slung a sloppy punch at the underside of his jutting elbow.
It must have jangled some nerve endings, because he let go of my neck and swore. I ran for the door and threw myself outside and down the porch steps.
I fell against Janie, who was waiting to see if I was going to be okay.
“Go, go!” I shoved her, hard. She sobbed and ran across the scrub yard. Disappeared around the next duplex.
The Mercedes was parked right outside. I rushed to the passenger door before glancing back.
My father stood in the doorway, rubbing his elbow and smiling. He stretched, planting a hand on the door frame above him and leaning forward, opening out his chest muscles like a promise.
I opened the door and collapsed in the seat.
Cyndra squinted at the unit.
“Is that your dad? He’s huge.”
I slammed the door. The Mercedes started down the street.
My jaw throbbed and felt wet. I passed a light hand over it—no blood. The wet feeling was the bone bruise forming.
I hugged my ribs and caught my breath carefully, so it wouldn’t hurt as much.
“Why the hell did you come here? We were supposed to meet at school.” My voice was harsh. “Goddamn it!”
“Michael told me to pick you up early. To take you to lunch.” Her eyes flitted between me and the road.
I leaned against the door. Rage warring with the shaking in my chest.
Cyndra kept glancing at me. She steered us onto the highway and headed toward the swank mall.
She didn’t speak again until we were winding onto the access road. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
My eyes closed. My head rested against the leather. “Sure.”
She parked. The Mercedes gave an excited rev as she turned it off. Her hand brushed my arm.
“You came out of there like your tail was on fire.”
I turned to face her, and she released a slight gasp. My jaw.
“Are you okay?” Concern lit her eyes and made her voice sound different.
I nodded, because what else do you do? “Just don’t pick me up at my house. Ever.”
She nodded, like it was her fault. The corner of my mouth twitched up.
“I should have told you yesterday.”
But Michael had already known. He’d sure as hell answer for it when I saw him.
We got out of the car and went into the store.
I was on autopilot, still feeling shaky from adrenaline and the fight, just following her gentle tugs on my arm. But what I really wanted was to sit down.
Cyndra steered me through the store, down an escalator, and led me to the same chair I’d sat in before. I let out a pent-up breath and watched the black-and-white fish defend his corner.
“Be right back.”
She came back with a tray piled with food. She also had some ice wrapped in a cloth napkin. She eased a chair close and hesitantly held the napkin up toward my face, like she was afraid of me or afraid it would hurt.
“It’s okay.” I must have looked pretty vacant for her to be moving so carefully.
She smiled and touched the cloth to my jaw. My arms were lying on the table, and she had to reach over them to hold the napkin in place. Almost like she was reaching out to hug me or like I could lift the arm off the table and drape it around her.
We sat like that for a while, her holding the ice-filled napkin on my jaw, me watching the fish and imagining holding her. When the napkin got too wet, she put it down.
“Thanks,” I said.
We ate and talked about stupid things like the fish or movies. I told her about the zombie movie Janie and I had watched.
“I don’t really get zombie flicks,” she said. “The others sure do seem to like them, though.”
The way she said the others made it seem like she wasn’t part of the scene.
She pushed her chair back and patted her stomach. “Ugh. I’m going to look fat tonight.”
“The hell you say,” I told her, taking another bite of the gourmet burger. I had to chew slowly and on only one side of my mouth.
“Why, Jason, I do believe that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” She leaned into me a little, for just a moment, seeming happy.
“Then you weren’t listening, princess.”
She smiled and leaned into my shoulder again, as I had hoped she would.
I finished the burger and tried to banish thoughts about Cyndra that went beyond the food.
“My stepdad’s got a personal shopper here,” Cyndra said, after we’d finished eating. We stood and started walking. She steered me into the guts of a plush department store. “I had her pull us some stuff to save time.”
A thin woman in a form-fitting skirt glided over to us. “Cyndra, my dear.” They clasped hands. The woman brushed a kiss above each of Cyndra’s cheeks.
She turned to me. Her eyes flicked to my jaw and widened slightly. It only lasted a moment before she drew herself up and looked back at Cyndra. “So this is the young man?”
I tried not to look behind me for anyone else.
The woman led us to a dressing room and indicated a rack of clothes. She and Cyndra exited, waiting in plush chairs right outside.
I eased off the hoodie and T-shirt, taking a moment to check out my jaw and side in the full-length mirror. The jaw was already red-gray and heading to black-and-purple, with a crusted welt to one side from his ring. My side wasn’t bruised yet, but it would show up later.
I tried on the clothes and some shoes, not stopping to look at the price tags, not trying to keep track of which ones Cyndra had said yes to and which ones she had said “weren’t me.” How she knew, I had no idea. But I had to admit that she had good taste. When we finished, Cyndra signed something and handed me the bags.
She led me back through the mall. We walked toward the exit.
“Do you like them?” she asked as we went past the aquarium and the water wall.
“The fish?”
“The clothes, Slick.” Her voice took on that mocking tone so quickly. I wondered if I’d hurt her feelings.
“Yeah, they’re nice,” I said. “I like them fine.”
Cyndra shook her head and pushed through the mall door.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I stared out the window as Cyndra drove us into the hills surrounding the city.
We stopped at a security gate, and a guard offered a salute as we entered.
“I’m taking you to my house,” Cyndra said. “It’s too early for the party yet. Besides, we’ve got to change.”
It sounded like a mandate: We’ve got to change.
She glanced at me.
“That’s okay, right? I figure you’d rather hang with me than go home or whatever.”
I tried on a smile, telling myself the fact that she’d seen it wasn’t her fault.
“Yeah. Fine.”
She flashed that magnetic smile, like she knew the power it had and wasn’t afraid to use it. “Good.”
“Where’s the party, anyway?” I asked as the car climbed up a hill.
“Highland Terrace,” she said. Like that meant something to me.
I would text it to Clay later, when Cyndra wasn’t sitting right there.
We pulled onto a private drive. The road snaked through trees and over a rise before the house appeared like magic. The driveway curved in front of massive double doors. A fountain splashed to one side.
Something else Janie would love to see—the fountain, cascading water over a mermaid and dolphin.
Cyndra handed me the department-store bags and led the way inside. The door hadn’t even been locked.
I guess when you have a security gate, you don’t have to worry about door locks so much.
“Come on, we’ll go to my room.”
“Cyndra? Is that you?” a woman’s voice called.
Cyndra whispered a curse. Her shoulders slumped for only a moment before she straightened and turned an empty smile at me. She didn’t say anything, so I followed her through a series of rooms toward the voice.
“Cyndra?” the woman called again.
We entered a room where a wall of glass looked out at the setting sun and over the city below. Talking heads jabbered in mute from a giant TV mounted over a massive fireplace.
The woman was on a stair-climber, the setting so fast that if it was real steps, she’d be at the top of the Empire State Building in no time.
She was gorgeous, not quite as much as her daughter, but clearly someone who spent a lot of time trying not to look like anyone’s mom.
When she saw me, she came to a sudden stop. The platforms she stood on sunk slowly, finally resting at the bottoms of their arcs.
“Oh, honey, I didn’t know we had company.” She flashed a dazzling smile at me and climbed off the machine. She walked forward with a hand outstretched. “Hello, I’m Tiff.”
I shook her hand and glanced at Cyndra.
“Jason. Nice to meet you.”
“Cyndra. Where have you been?” A man was reclining on a large sofa in front of the TV, a smirk flashing on his lips.
Cyndra crossed her arms.
“The mall,” she said, an edge to her voice.
Cyndra’s stepfather didn’t look at me, his eyes peculiar and intense on her instead. Like she was holding a secret in her mouth, dark and vaporous.
Suddenly things started clicking, but my brain was too slow to make sense of it at first. Something about Cyndra, the way she’d been at break yesterday, the way she now wore her pose like a shield.
The way her stepfather watched her mouth, then let his eyes slide down her chest.
Tiff tinkled a laugh and mounted her stair-climber again. The steps accelerated as Cyndra’s mom leaned over the arm rails of her machine, running those steps like if she could only get high enough, fast enough, she would be in time to
stop some horrible event from happening.
I moved forward next to Cyndra and wrapped my arm around her.
Her stepfather barely glanced at me. “Party tonight?” he asked, flipping channels. He stopped at a scene of bikinis bouncing on the beach.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Is Michael going to be there?” Tiff panted the question. An oblique way of asking just who the hell I was, again?
“We’re meeting him there. Ice, let’s go to my room,” Cyndra said, both answering her mother’s question and planting a new one. Like she wanted them to imagine exactly what we were going to do. She led me from the room.
We climbed a curved staircase, then walked down a long hall. Cyndra pushed the door closed behind us.
A huge bed dominated the center of the room. A recliner, television, and stereo filled various nooks and walls. A deep, double-door closet gaped, clothes spilling out and across the floor. Another door opened into a large bathroom.
Cyndra took the bags and tossed them into the recliner. She sighed, pulling fingers through her hair.
I leaned against the door. “I think we picked the wrong house, after all.”
Her smile was brittle. “I don’t get it.” She knocked a stuffed elephant onto the floor and sat on the bed.
The clock ticked. Outside, the burnt sunset faded.
Cyndra pushed all the other stuffed toys onto the floor with the elephant and clicked on the TV. She got off the bed.
“I’m taking a shower.” She waved at the TV. “Watch whatever you want.”
She closed the bathroom door behind her.
I stretched out on her bed and texted Clay.
Highland Terrace 9pm? I’ll send the address when we get there.
Some cooking show was on TV. I flicked the remote, amazed as always at all the crap channels.
The phone buzzed. K
I flipped the channels around to a music channel, thinking about Cyndra and her home. And mine. My eighth-grade girlfriend, Celia. And the teacher I’d punched.
I remembered the wet snap of his breaking nose.
Imagined the gun I’d buy at some pawnshop. Two bullets, each with a name.
I closed my eyes and dreamt.
