“I dunno. It’s stupid, I guess.”
Finch produced a little baggie of weed and spread it into the blunt wrap. He licked the edge, like he was mailing a letter. “I heard there’s a party coming up on Halloween.”
“Yeah, I saw something about it online,” I said, wondering how much Finch knew.
“Could be wack,” he said. “Or the sickest event of all time.” He flicked his lighter across the blunt, sealing it dry.
“You going?”
“Maybe.” Finch sparked it up, then sucked in a lungful of smoke. He passed it to me. I pinched it between my fingers, as if it were alive. Strong stuff. Finch watched me gulp and cough. “You got asthma or something?” he said, laughing. He snatched the blunt and took another long toke. Smoke dribbled out of his nose. Now it was my turn again. We passed it back and forth.
Finch reached into his pocket. “Hold that thought.” He pulled out his cell phone and squinted at it. “My dad’s giving me grief. You know your way back, right?”
“I think so.”
“Cool. I’ll catch you later.”
He walked toward the house.
As I crossed the backyard, stepping over bruised and swollen starfruit, I saw something glinting behind the trees. I waited until Finch had disappeared inside, then snuck a closer look. Buried in the weeds was an airboat. It was about twelve feet long and rigged with a caged propeller so large, it looked like it could fly as well as cruise through a swamp. No doubt, that’s how Big Jack transported his stolen orchids from the Everglades.
I traced my finger in the mud smeared across the seat. As a kid, I used to climb on a broken-down Jeep I found disintegrating in the lot behind my grandmother’s house. I’d pretend it was a pirate ship, sailing to buried treasure.
I’d always had a knack for pretending. Now it was getting harder to remember which part of myself I’d disguised. Which parts were real? And which were fake?
I gawked at the airboat. It was tangled in the sawgrass like those hidden pictures in the magazines I they had at the orthodontist’s office. Find the bunny in the tree branches or clouds. My eyes scanned the license plate: H10FCR.
It was one of those stupid vanity plates that never made sense, no matter how you said it. I sounded out the letters until something clicked. Hi, officer. A smartass salute to a cop. I walked faster. Where had I seen that before? It might’ve been the weed or the Cuban coffee or whatever, but I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder every two seconds as I walked. Even the warehouse, with its chain link fence and barbed wire, seemed to ripple and snap, ever so slowly, like a sail.
The lead officer was waiting in the car. By now, the light had melted into a dim purplish glow, but he never took off his shades. I was still thinking about the vanity plate when the lead officer cracked the window and said, “Where the hell have you been?”
He didn’t change his expression when I showed him the plastic baggie.
“You’ve been gone for over two hours,” he said, ”and you come back with a bag of tea leaves?”
“You should’ve seen all their guns. It was like a war museum.”
He sniffed the baggie. “What’s this stuff called again?”
“Ahahuasca. It’s from Brazil.”
“Never heard of it.”
I fiddled with a loose thread on my shirt hem. Once again, I felt like I’d let him down. “His dad gave it to me.”
“So there was no transaction involved with the dealer?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“Why do you think he’s our alpha dog?” he asked.
“Oh, he is. I’m sure about it.”
“What makes you believe that?”
“Well, for one thing, he’s growing thousands of dollars worth of marijuana in his back shed.”
“How do you know he’s supplying it to the school?”
Finch had said he dealt it to Morgan, who was doing business at Skully’s party. But I couldn’t bring myself to say their names. Instead I mumbled:
“He was selling at the warehouse the other night.”
“You witnessed this guy offering narcotics to his friends, but you’re not even sure if it was cocaine or ketamine. Now he gives you this stuff for free. That doesn’t make him the shot caller.” He tucked the bag in his pocket. “I’ll take it down to the station and run a test on it.”
For some reason, when I heard “run a test,” I pictured the cop lighting up, although Big Jack said it would insult the goddess. The whole scene played out in my head like a cartoon, and I snickered.
“Think this is funny?” he asked, leaning so close, I wondered if he could smell the smoke on my clothes.
“No, sir.”
“This was a mistake,” he said, rubbing his temples. “I told them you were too young.”
I tugged at my sock.
“Look,” he said. “I think you’re losing sight of what’s important. These kids are not your buddies. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Think of it this way. If they found out the truth, that you’re a snitch, they would make sure you paid for it. I guarantee it.”
We drove around the block. The officer was rambling about my broken cell phone, but I wasn’t paying attention. “Hopefully we can get it fixed without losing all those phone numbers you’ve acquired.”
“They’re stored on the SIM card,” I said. That’s when I made the connection with the vanity plate. I’d seen the same letters online. It was that guy’s screen name, the one who sent the invite to the Glades Party, as the girls kept calling it. Was Finch the one behind it? And did he hack into my account and create that fake profile?
“There’s something else I need to tell you,” I said, breaking the silence.
“What’s that?”
“There’s a major party coming up on Halloween. It’s in the Everglades. All the players are going to show.”
“You better be talking about the entire school here,” he said. “Because if we send in the foot soldiers and this turns out to be a waste of time, we’ll have to call off the entire operation. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
He slowed for a stoplight. When it turned green, he hit the gas. A boy on a bicycle sped through the intersection. The cop jerked the wheel, and I slammed against the glove box. The boy didn’t even look up. He just kept pedaling.
“Oh, my god.” I whistled through my teeth.
“Yeah. Exactly,” he muttered. “That kid must have a guardian angel looking out for him somewheres.”
“Or a devil,” I added.
“What makes you say that?”
“Because he’s riding my bike.”
Status: UNSENT
To: LadyM
From: Metroid
Subject: 21st Century Breakdown
Dear Morgan,
I’m in Study Skills class in the library and I’m so freaking bored. I can’t even close my eyes. It’s like I’ve become one with my desk. The librarian is really young (wannabe adult). I had him last year. He always talks about his perfect life and hands out pictures of himself, his wedding, his baby, etc. But do I really mind him getting off the subject?
There is music coming from the computer lab upstairs (Stanky Legg) and people are laughing. God, they’re so easily entertained. Now a group of freshman girls just walked by and said, “Ohhhh. You type so fast.” That was random. Some of the girls in this school look 40 and some of them look 12. Don’t think I’m a pervert or whatever. Just something I’ve noticed.
This guy is really into being a teacher. The worst thing about this class is Vocab. I was going to change my schedule and he was like, “Do your best while you’re in here.” I might try harder if I actually cared. I mean, they should teach us something useful, like how to bala
nce your checkbook. But I guess there’s computer programs for that.
How many times can I type the word BORING? Right now, Skully is saying (like she’s happy) “I got all Cs on my report card,” like she doesn’t have the mental capacity to do better. Not that I should talk. On my last quiz, I got an F-.(What the hell is the minus for? Another jab at my decaying self-esteem?)
Here’s what I think. Skully pretends to be stupid because she wants people to like her. You would think she’s got it made—bigass house, a car that costs more than what my mom makes in a year, etc. But nobody seems to actually care about her. Today at lunch, she came out of the bathroom and it looked like she’d been crying. I think she hides in there. That’s what I used to do, like, constantly, last year.
It feels like everybody is watching and waiting for you to fail.
One time, I sneezed during a test. This kid turned around and told me to shut up, like I had broken his concentration on purpose. I was hella pissed, but I didn’t do shit about it.
We’re living in a war zone. Obviously, it’s not the hardcore stuff my dad saw in the Middle East. I can’t even imagine that. Believe me, I’ve tried.
As I’ve already mentioned before … I’m a total coward.
When I was a kid, I spent hours doodling epic space battles. (I’ll spare you the details). I had this whole universe inside my head: humans vs. aliens. Typical, right? Except the way I drew it, the aliens were heroes.
Back then, it was so much easier, separating the good guys from the bad.
I’m still working on my plan to keep you safe.
The last time we talked (in person), lunch had just ended. I gave you a piggyback ride up the stairs. You made a big deal about it, like I was Mr. Strongman or whatever. When you kissed me on the roof the other day, it was so amazing. I can’t stop thinking about that.
I keep wishing I could go back in time and start over. Maybe in an alternate dimension, I wouldn’t run that red light. The cop wouldn’t pull me over. I wouldn’t be in this mess.
But maybe I wouldn’t have met you.
—A.
19 : Digging
When I got home, the first thing I noticed was the truck. Somebody had slashed all the tires. The windshield was broken. Bullets of glass sparkled in the back seat. But that’s not what freaked me the most. There, dripping across both doors, were spray-painted letters in all caps:
DIE NARC SCUM
The words burned into my retinas. I felt like throwing up. For some reason, I started pacing on the sidewalk. I was scared to get near the truck, like there might be ninjas lurking in the trunk. Or dead bodies.
Okay. Calm the fuck down, I told myself. Whoever did the damage was gone, obviously. But they’d be back. Oh, God. What if they hurt Haylie? I ran upstairs, shoved my key in the lock and flung open the door. Mom had torn the place apart. She’d stripped the curtains off the window, letting in the late afternoon sunlight, which coated the room like a varnish. Only a few trampled feathers were left on the windowsill, along with a bone-white egg. How long had it been there? Maybe it never hatched? It rested alone, abandoned, like a fossil.
On top of the Murphy bed, I found some of my old junk—a stack of memo pads, my World History book, and a few of Dad’s cast-offs, including a pirate coffee mug decorated with leg bones.
“If you see anything you want, just holler. Otherwise I’m tossing it,” Mom said.
How could she just throw Dad’s stuff away?
I squinted up at her, shielding the light with my fist. “Mom, I’ve got something to tell you. I’m taking off for a little while.”
“What do you mean, ‘taking off’? You have school. And who’s going to watch Haylie when I’m at work?”
I couldn’t tell her the truth: Haylie was the reason I had to leave.
I was marching back and forth like a robot. “I need some space to myself. This place is too small. Besides. Haylie’s a smart kid. She can take care of herself. Most of the time, she’s not even home.”
“Yeah. That’s what concerns me,” Mom said. “Some kid called here, looking for her last night.”
“What kid?”
“Actually, I shouldn’t say ‘kid’ because he sounded a lot older.”
My chest crumpled. “Was it her boyfriend?”
Mom unrolled a foot of masking tape, stretched it across one of the boxes, marked Kitchen, and tore it off with her teeth. “I must be going deaf. Because for a minute, I thought I heard the b-word: boyfriend.”
I stopped pacing. I’d lied to everyone, but I couldn’t lie to my mom.
“You heard right,” I said.
“Well, she’s way too young to be dating. Do you know this boy?”
“I have no clue who he is. Where’s Haylie now?”
“At a friend’s house.”
“What else is new?” I muttered. “Shit.”
“Watch your mouth,” Mom said. “I’m getting sick and tired of your attitude, mister.”
“Have you seen the truck?”
“Well, it’s probably in the parking lot where I left it. Been meaning to get the brakes redone, but we can’t afford it right now.”
Mom was so out of it, she hadn’t even seen the vandalism. When did it take place? Last night? Or this afternoon? Did they really have the balls to do something like that in broad daylight? What else were they going to do? I wasn’t sticking around to find out.
“Aaron.” Mom set the box aside. “Feel like talking?”
I did.
But I couldn’t.
I’d dug a hole so deep, there was only one thing left to do:
Dig deeper.
I walked fifteen blocks in the dark to a coffee shop with free Wi-Fi. Unzipped my bag and took out my laptop. The hundred-year-old waitress kept scurrying over to my booth, trying to get me to order more coffee and pastelitos, which are greasy pastries stuffed with ground meat. When I logged onto Facebook and checked my page, Morgan had left a comment:
Yo Mr. Crunk,
Call me 2night.
I’ve got interesting badness/madness stories for you.
<3333333333
I dialed her number on the pay phone. No answer. Next, I tried e-mailing:
Are you online? Hit me with an IM.
Minutes later, she still hadn’t responded. I plunked another coin in the slot. Who else could I call? Skully didn’t pick up. Morgan said Skully always let her batteries die. Then she’d forget to recharge them. I thought about calling Morgan at home, but I imagined her stepmom on the other end, screening me out. Finally, I punched the numbers. It rang twice, then Sheryl’s voice bellowed in my ear.
“Are you that man?” she said. No hello or how are you. That was weird.
There was a clatter, then a strangled noise, as if she’d choked the phone down her throat. Footsteps pounded. A dog yapped three times. I waited for Sheryl to come back, but she didn’t, so I gave up.
I dipped back inside and rested my forehead on the table. The waitress mumbled at me from far away.
“You all right, baby? You need anything?”
“Another cortadito,” I said without lifting my head. “Por favor.”
Since my gun-shooting adventure with Finch, I’d become addicted to the stuff. I knocked back another doll-sized cup and my hands trembled. Dad used to guzzle coffee all day like a fiend. “Just hook me to an IV and pump the caffeine into my veins,” he’d joke.
When Dad used to send an e-mail, I’d have to wade through all this us.airforce.mil blabber at the top before I got to his letters: CLASSIFICATION: UNCLASSIFIED. Usually, it was a picture of a freeze-dried dinner, what Dad called MRE (meals ready to eat) or SOS (shit on a shingle) complete with Photoshopped arrows pointing around his plate.
This is Menu Number Nineteen, he’d write. Pot roast
with vegetables.
Dad even took pictures of the packages, which featured a cartoon of a gun-toting soldier at the top beside the “resealable seal.”
He never sent the kind of photos that landed him on the front pages of magazines. He never told me about the “conflict in the Mideast,” as they called it on TV. He told me about gross food. And the weather.
I knew it was Dad’s job to stay neutral. I just wished the man had opened up every once in a while.
Mom always said that I looked exactly like him. She was wrong. I didn’t look anything like Dad.
He was supposed to protect us. He was supposed to take care of his family. Liar.
Maybe I was more like him than I thought.
I called Skully again. This time, she answered.
“Hey, Double A,” she said. “I can’t talk long. My abuela is yelling at me to watch TV with her.”
“Oh. Right.” My voice cracked. I sounded like an idiot.
“Yeah. She’s really cool. We watch all those variety shows on Univision, you know? Like, on Saturday we watch Sabado Gigante and she’ll say, ‘Ay. Those women need to put their clothes on.’ But if I turn the channel, she’ll throw pillows at me.”
“Skully, I’m in deep shit.”
For once, she stopped talking. Here goes.
“My mom kicked me out of the apartment.”
“Oh, my god. What happened?”
“She started freaking out, you know? Hitting me and stuff. She drinks too much. You saw how crazy she is.”
“Yeah, she did seem a little crazy. Did she hurt you really bad?”
“Nah, I’m fine. I just need a place to stay.”
“You can crash here,” Skully said. “Everybody does.”
“When can I come over?”
“Whenever. I’m up all night.”
“One more thing,” I added.
“What’s that?”
“I don’t have a ride.”
“Your truck’s busted? That sucks. Look. I’ll be there in an hour. Get your stuff together and wait outside. What’s the address again?”
Narc Page 13
