by Ash Parsons
“Here it comes,” someone said.
Sometimes it’s like time slows down. I glanced at Dwight’s face and saw hatred there. Remembered all the times Michael had waved Dwight away to make room for me: in class, at lunch, during break, at the party.
I’d taken his place. Which I didn’t even want.
I dropped my eyes to his abdomen—imagined all the things I hated positioned there.
My fist pumped out straight, turning and driving at his stomach.
He blocked. This was no longer a game.
Dwight’s fist followed the block, driving high at my injured ribs.
I pivoted inside his punch and swept my arm around his block, trapping his arm at his side and squeezing the elbow locked.
I rabbit-punched him, hard and fast, digging up with each strike to his abdomen.
He grunted and tried to bear-hug me, clawing his free arm over me and rolling out of the armlock.
I dropped, shot a hand on his throat, and lunged beside him, pivoting his head and weight over his heel. My inside foot swept behind his heel. I slammed him to the ground. Punched him in the face.
Stood up.
Lunged down and punched him in the face again.
Dwight groaned and rolled on his side, blood gushing out of his nose, eye swelling already.
Michael stepped into the circle and looked down on Dwight. “If you’re not going to play by the rules, then you should at least win.”
Then Michael turned to me. “We’re done here. Come and get a beer.”
I waited. Caught Dwight’s eyes and held them until he looked away.
“Come on, Ice. This way,” Michael said.
I let him lead me away, loving the adrenaline spike. A buzz of power, raw and strong. I didn’t care—if it was right or if my eyes had the same addict’s gleam that Michael got when he used people.
It occurred to me later, once I was sitting back on the wall, the beer a hot weight in my stomach, that the whole thing had played out pretty good for Michael: putting the leash back on me after everyone had seen the psycho bitch-slapping Michael’s lead disciple. The whole thing had probably been Michael’s idea.
Which made me feel twenty different kinds of stupid.
I let my eyes drift over the faces around me. Kids I didn’t know were flowing past, some glancing at me like maybe they wanted a shot.
Others darted their eyes away when they saw me looking.
T-Man slapped his hand into mine. “Man, that was some shit. You handed Dwight his ass!”
Everyone laughed.
The music got louder. Plastic cups crunched on the patio as more people arrived at the party. I saw Clay once, hanging back, just inside the double doors. He was holding a cup and listening in on a conversation between two girls.
I was glad he was there, although it was starting to seem like nothing was going to happen.
Until Michael jerked his head at me to follow.
We walked back inside, farther into the house this time, past groups clustered around drugs. Pills, pipes, and powders. Michael hadn’t been lying when he said he could get anything. There were enough drugs here to get a kid from my neighborhood bounced for dealing.
Must be different here, because no one seemed anxious about being caught holding.
Who was the supplier? One of Cesare’s dealers?
Michael stopped so we could get fresh drinks at the bar, and then he pushed through a heavy oak door. The dim, green-shaded lights of a game room cast little spotlights across the pool table. A form in the darkness behind the table stood as Michael closed the door behind us.
A burly older guy stepped into the light. His hair was starting to recede, but his little-kid pug nose made it hard to guess his age.
I drained my glass, trying to ignore the needles in my side.
“This one’s for you,” Michael said, handing the guy his drink.
He put it down and glared at me.
“So, this’s him, huh?”
Michael nodded. He started rolling a pool ball around the table. “Jason, this is Trent. Trent, Jason.”
I leaned against the wall and waited.
“Jason Roberts.” Trent smiled at me like it was a reunion.
I shrugged.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” Trent smiled.
I tried to remember every fight I’d ever been in. I tried to picture every face, every person I’d ever thrown a punch at, or shoved, or walked away from (the short list). I tried to remember my father’s friends, their kids, their mules.
“Sorry,” I said. Hoping I wouldn’t be.
Trent barreled forward, carrying his weight like a fighter: on the balls of his feet, ready to spring in any direction.
I tightened my grip on the glass.
Trent smiled like he understood. He held up a hand. “It’s okay. We only met once, and you pretty much only had eyes for my sister.”
My stomach dropped.
“She said you were the best boyfriend she ever had.”
Celia. My eighth-grade girlfriend.
“Trent?” I said. Celia’s brother hadn’t been a “Trent.”
“I like it better than Terrence.” Trent shrugged. He held out his hand.
I took it.
“I told him,” he said, nodding at Michael, “that if he wanted to do this thing, he’d have to get someone with real street smarts. You know, someone with balls.”
I shrugged like I knew what he was talking about. Michael gave a cat-eats-mouse grin.
“And I want you to know, man,” Trent continued, “that whatever happens—if we do this deal or not—I respect you. And thanks—for clocking that teacher. If I’d known, I would’ve killed him.”
Talk is cheap.
“Yeah,” I mumbled, wondering what Celia had to do with anything. “Where’s Celia now?” I couldn’t stop myself from asking, remembering green eyes and streaked brown hair, too much makeup and a too-knowing smile.
Trent frowned. “Who knows? She took off. She’ll be all right, though. She’s got smarts.”
We didn’t know the same girl. The Celia I’d known had been desperate for someone to take care of her, to love her, to do right. So desperate, she’d latch on to anyone who’d hold her, no matter who they were.
Even me. Or a teacher old enough to be her father.
Trent shook his head and smiled at Michael. “I guess you’re serious, huh?”
Michael nodded, eager, like a little kid incinerating ants with a magnifying glass.
Trent squinted at me. He scratched his gut. “You’re the buy-in for little man to even sit at the table,” he told me.
Michael still smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Trent shook his head with a kids-these-days expression. Even though he was only a few years older, you could see he liked pretending to be an authority. A petty Caesar.
“All right, all right,” Trent chanted. “To the first order of business.”
He reached into his back waistband. Brought out a gun. A 9mm semiautomatic, gleaming and dark. It pulled my eyes like a black hole.
“I heard about your troubles,” Trent said to Michael. He ejected the clip. Popped the slide back. Pulled the trigger, clicking it back in place. Handed the gun over.
Michael sighted down the barrel. “What troubles?”
Trent snorted. “Right. ‘Whatever the problem, bullets are the answer.’” He nodded at the gun in Michael’s hand. “It’s clean. Well, not clean. Probably been used in some shootings. But clean to you.”
Michael smiled and reached for the clip. He slapped it in with the heel of his hand, thumbed the safety, and tucked the gun in the waistband under his shirt. He fished into a pocket. Pressed a wad of bills into Trent’s hand.
Michael shot a little-kid grin at me. “
I need some time to talk to Trent, Ice.” He tipped his head toward the door. “Enjoy the party.”
Trent watched me go.
I stepped back out into the thudding music and stripteasers.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The sounds of the party pounded in my head. I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples. Opened them again and didn’t see anyone I knew. Fished the cell out and saw that Clay had texted, What a swell party this is. Knowing Clay, it was probably a quote or something. I could hear him saying it, dry, with just the right kill-me-now inflection.
I snorted.
It felt stupid, standing in front of a closed door with the party going on all around me, so I pushed through the crowd, heading back to the pool where the others were. I looked for Clay. Not that I would be talking to him, but just to see where he was.
I didn’t see him on the way out.
No one else from Michael’s group was there. So I found an empty lounge chair and stretched out. A few kids played around by the pool and some ended up in it. I draped my arm over my eyes and ignored the others. And couldn’t decide if I wanted to see Cyndra or not. I pictured her shiny dress, remembered watching her put it on, and what she wasn’t wearing underneath. The way her head had felt, resting on my shoulder. She’d recognized that I didn’t know how to use chopsticks that time at the mall and had brought me the fork. Sat me in front of the aquarium and held ice on my jaw.
She’d given me money for my “time.” Won the bet.
I pictured her telling the others about it. What would she say? I imagined them laughing, the girls congratulating, Cyndra collecting the money. Maybe Michael would congratulate her, too, before taking his cut.
“All by yourself, huh?” Monique stood over me, holding two plastic cups.
I put my arm back over my eyes. “Yeah.”
“Now, we can’t have that.” The cushion shifted as she sat down next to my legs. “I saw you over here, lonely as a cloud, and so I brought you this.” She knocked the plastic cup against my free hand.
I sat up, taking the cup. Monique looked at me, that same, overly seductive smile hovering on her lips. The fact that she’d searched me out, with a drink, told me something, I just didn’t know what. Either Cyndra had told everyone and it didn’t matter to Monique, or Cyndra hadn’t told yet. And if not, what did that mean?
I drank, two big gulps. Monique smiled and inched closer. She brushed her fingers through her hair and squinted at the kids splashing in the pool. “That’s lame,” she said when two girls started fighting in the shallow end.
We watched for a little while, until some guys pulled them apart and lifted them out of the pool.
“Thanks for this,” I said, holding out the cup.
“You’re not finished.”
“Yeah, I am.” I stood up, thinking I’d go find Cyndra or Michael, or the hell with it, maybe even Clay, and get a ride out of there.
I stumbled against a table, knocked over a few drinks.
Monique was under my arm in an instant. “Easy, Ice. Here, come with me.”
My head felt like an aquarium full of circle-swimming fish. An aquarium with an obnoxious kid knocking on the glass. I was feeling so sick that I didn’t suspect anything until Monique piloted us to an empty bedroom. Then it clicked together.
I braced my arms against the doorway. “The drink.”
Monique giggled. “Oh, don’t be like that. It’s just us. Let’s party.” She yanked at the front of my shirt.
I pulled away and stumbled down the hall. Monique followed, laughing. I found an empty couch and fell on it. Two girls danced and kissed on the coffee table in front of the sofa. A martial arts movie ran silently on the screen hanging on the wall.
Monique sat next to me, pressing into my side and snaking a hand under my shirt. She popped up on her knees and started kissing me, shoving her tongue into my mouth.
I felt like lead. Like the water in the aquarium was getting cold, like the fish weren’t swimming around, even the black-and-white one drifting slowly to the bottom.
“Do you mind? I’m trying to watch two girls kissing. It’s sort of a fantasy, and your roofie rape scene is ruining it.”
“Clay.” His name was hard to say. My head rolled to the side. He stood in the doorway. Despite his words, he didn’t spare a glance for the two girls on the coffee table.
“Who the hell are you?” Monique didn’t shift her weight off my chest.
Clay didn’t answer her. Instead, he slapped my cheeks as Monique slid off me.
“Are you okay, Jason?” His face elongated and tilted. The room spun—starting at my chin and arcing through the top of my skull.
“No,” I mumbled. Closed my eyes again.
“He’s fine. He’s just had a lot to drink.” Mona’s voice receded slightly as she stood.
“Right. Whiskey with a side of GHB.”
I fought to keep my eyes open. The room tunneled closer. Clay stood over me, an improbable protector as Monique walked out. My eyes kept rolling up.
“Ladies, you delight me, but maybe you could take your party outside? Here. On me.” Clay held out something in the palm of his hand.
“Sure, whatever,” one of the girls said. She took a white pill out of Clay’s hand and handed the other to her friend. They swallowed the pills and left.
Clay closed the door after them and sat on the sofa. My head lolled over toward his shoulder. “Thanks,” I managed through the rocks in my mouth.
Clay shook his head. “I thought only girls had to worry about that crap. I guess it’s good you asked me to be here, after all.”
I wanted to nod, but couldn’t muster the energy.
“What were those pills?” I mumbled.
“Just caffeine. I wasn’t about to come here empty-handed.”
A laugh clogged my throat, gurgling.
“Laugh it up, Fuzzball.” Clay picked up the remote. “We’ll wait here for a while.” He surfed through some channels, stopped on a lame reality show. I closed my eyes and felt stupid.
After a second episode, I could hold my head up without the room spinning too fast. Thinking was still an effort, but moving was getting easier.
“Guess you didn’t drink much,” Clay said.
“Half,” I said. I rubbed my eyes.
“Good. Only a little longer and we can get out of here.”
He watched the show. I closed my eyes. The party grew louder. As it got easier to think, it got easier to talk. I filled Clay in on the scene at school yesterday morning: Cyndra coming to get me in the cafeteria, Michael’s bruised face and his gambling debts to Cesare. And what Janie had already told him: how Cyndra’s coming to my house early had set off my dad.
Clay absorbed it all, nodding. “So did Michael get the gun?” he asked, holding a hand out to the party on the other side of the door.
“Yeah.”
Clay whistled low. “This is getting intense.”
“I know. But I need to keep it going a little longer.” Thinking not only of the money now, but of Cyndra. Holding her on the canopied bed in her room. Red-gold hair sliding across my skin.
“Just don’t take any more drinks from anyone, okay, Champ?” Clay said, as I stood.
“You got that right,” I answered, feeling a bit light-headed and trying not to show it.
“You good?” Clay watched me closely.
I nodded. My head felt like it was packed with gauze.
“What now? You’re not going home.” His eyes snagged on the bruises on my face.
A sudden image of my father, hulking in the doorway and watching me get into a car I had claimed to know nothing about.
“No.” I pushed my hands into my hair, wanting to scrub off the fatigue.
“Well, I’m parked down the street. It sounds crazy enough out there, we could probably just slip
out.”
“I was kind of hoping to go home with Cyndra.” For some reason, saying it made me feel even stupider than getting roofied had. Stupid because I figured I knew how she really felt about me. And because of how she had made me feel after we’d had sex. Stupid all the way to the bottom of my stupid heart—because I wanted to be with her again, in spite of it all.
“Oh.” Clay’s voice held a world of understanding. “I was right about that, huh?”
But it wasn’t a question. I met his eyes. And it was like looking into the eyes of a concerned teacher—this slight frown pinching his eyebrows and a small smile, edged with worry.
I shrugged, feeling the new clothes tight across my shoulders. One more thing that I pretended: that they fit me.
“Yeah.” I wanted to say more, but couldn’t find my way to the words through the blaring noise of the party and the pounding in my head.
The worry on Clay’s face stamped itself deeper.
“It’s okay,” I told him. It is what it is, I told myself. As I opened the door, the roar of the party pounded into my throbbing skull.
I turned and held out a hand. “Thanks for the save.”
Clay slid a shake. I pulled him into a quick, one-armed hug and then let go. He looked up at me with that calculation working behind his eyes.
“Don’t forget who they are.” What he didn’t say, but I heard under the words: Don’t forget who you are.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Tell Janie where I’ll be. Tell her I’m fine.”
“Yeah.”
I walked out into the noise and got better with every step. Went back outside by the pool, more to get away from the relentless music than hoping to find any of Michael’s crew there.
“Ice!” Cyndra ran up like she’d been looking for me. I sat heavily on the low wall.
“What’s wrong? You look like hell,” she said.
“Monique spiked my drink,” I answered, surprising myself.
Cyndra’s eyes bored into mine. “That bitch.”
“I’m fine. She didn’t get what she wanted.”
“She’ll do anything to get there first, I guess,” she said.
I knew what it meant—but not what to make of it. Was our having sex supposed to be a secret because of Michael? Could it be that she didn’t care about bragging rights or the bet? That she actually cared about me?
