by Jaime Clarke
“What’s this?” Figs asked, remaining calm. Calmness was the means to managing any situation, he knew.
“It’s too hot for hair,” Reedy said, keeping his head down.
“Want us to do yours?” Laird asked.
“Whose razor is that?” Figs knew none of the sophomores were old enough to shave.
“Found it at Mr. Hancock’s,” Laird said.
Figs wondered about this looting, afraid to ask.
“Axia is moving out of Quinn’s,” Figs said. “You can move in whenever you want.”
“She moving in with you?” Cantu asked. He razed the last stripe of hair from Reedy’s scalp.
Figs shook his head. “Make sure you sweep up when you’re done. And return the razor. Mr. Hancock’s stuff should stay in his house.” He shut the door on Laird’s question—“Why?”—and turned to find Axia on the sidewalk in front of Mr. Hancock’s residence.
“This one?” she asked, pointing.
Figs helped Axia settle in. Mr. Hancock had left his residence impeccably clean; only the mess of ungraded quizzes on the kitchen table (some blown to the floor by the free-roaming air-conditioning) and a pair of bedroom slippers in the upstairs bathroom suggested Mr. Hancock’s absence was accidental. Figs again contemplated whether or not Mr. Hancock would materialize, and while he ultimately believed otherwise, he vowed to work on the explanation as to why Axia was living in his house, just in case. Over the years, he’d built a storehouse of unused explanations he’d prepared rather than be caught off guard by anyone over anything.
Yelling brought Figs and Axia to the window. Cantu’s and Laird’s and Reedy’s and Kerr’s shaved domes bobbed down the street as they carried their duffel bags stuffed with clothing and bedding. Each had his towel slung over his shoulder, so that they appeared like a party headed for the beach.
“What’s happening?” Axia asked.
“Not sure,” Figs said, hoping that would be the end of it.
“Where are they going?” she asked, peering through the blinds. She watched the sophs as Figs paced behind her. “You know,” she said, whirling around, “if you wanted me out so they could move in, you should’ve just asked.”
“Their air conditioner broke,” Figs said by way of justification.
“Why didn’t they want to move in here? Is it haunted?” She laughed at her joke, though the smile was only temporary.
“They’re afraid of Mr. Hancock,” Figs said. “They think he might still come back.”
“Could that happen?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I doubt it.”
“I still don’t understand why you didn’t just ask me to move,” Axia said.
“I . . . ,” Figs started. He didn’t know the answer himself.
“All that about the furniture and the air-conditioning,” she said. “I thought something was funny.”
“Listen, I’m sorry,” Figs said.
“No you’re not,” Axia said, a menace creeping over her face.
“What?”
“You’re not sorry. You’re just saying you are.”
Axia crossed her arms.
“No, really,” Figs said. “I’m sorry.”
“Say it again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Again.”
Figs lowered his head. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.
Axia smiled. “See? You meant it that time.”
Hands and Roger followed on the heels of the sophomores as they entered Quinn’s old residence without knocking.
“Fuck’s going on here?” Roger asked.
“Figs told us we could,” Cantu said.
“There are no sophomores allowed on Regis Street,” Roger said.
“But Figs said—”
Roger cut Cantu off. “It doesn’t matter what he said.”
“Where is Axia?” Hands asked, bemused.
“She moved into Mr. Hancock’s,” Reedy said.
“What happened to your heads?” Roger asked.
“Never mind,” Hands said. He turned to Roger. “C’mon, we’ll clear this up.”
Hands and Roger exited in a haste, leaving the sophomores in confusion. Hands halted. “Let’s let this go until morning,” he said.
“I think we should fix this now,” Roger said.
Hands nodded. “I agree with what you’re saying,” he said, “but it might be to our advantage to let this ride until morning. You’ll see.”
“I get you,” Roger said.
Hands knew that Roger did not “get” him, that Roger didn’t have the mental fortitude to know that the sophs on Regis Street could be traded for Axia’s expulsion, the larger picture. But he let Roger believe that the morning would bring outrage and that the sophs would be booted back down to Loyola Street. Hands would ride that sentiment too, though it was not his primary objective.
The morning did not bring outrage, though. Only relief. Overnight, the heat had escaped, rolling on to terrorize another populace, and though the temperatures were still in the low seventies when we woke, we rejoiced. The morning brought purpose, too. Figs and Warren led a troupe including Sprocket, Lindy, and Axia to the construction site after breakfast, Sprocket outfitting each with the tools necessary for applying texturing compound. A hodgepodge of sophomores joined Figs’s crew, taking up paint rollers.
Kerr, Cantu, Reedy, and Laird abstained from the sophomore work detail, volunteering for kitchen detail, hoping to avoid the cleave among the fellows, an unspoken split audible to those sensitive enough to perceive it. The four might’ve joined Figs’s crew, but Roger and Hands had not decamped with the others, Hands holding court in the dining hall.
The conversation at the table swung from talk of the construction site to discussion of the daily schedule. Hands appeared in a jovial mood, so much so that he kidded Roger about needing a haircut. “Maybe Reedy will cut it for you,” he joked. The strained frivolity influenced Roger’s reaction, a smile instead of the expected threat of pummeling Roger normally extended at such a personal remark.
The mood soured appreciably when Hands railed against Figs’s moving Kerr, Cantu, Reedy, and Laird onto Regis Street. “Who gave you that right?” Hands’s voice carried into the kitchen, but the four sophs pretended to be oblivious. “What’s next?” he asked in mock exasperation. “We got sophomores living with the fellows, outsiders living in the faculty housing. Principal Breen is going to shit himself when he finds out.” Hands persisted in his argument, testing our reaction to the accusations leveled at Figs. “A total disregard for the rest of us,” he kept saying.
Our reaction was sufficient enough for Hands to spread the indictment against Figs globally, Roger and Hands and Assburn servicing the allegation about the sophomores living in Quinn’s old residence and Axia camping out at Mr. Hancock’s. The slur did not take hold, though, as Figs had leveled the information in a preemptive strike during construction, explaining that the whole maneuver was initiated by the sophomores’ air conditioner going kaput. The explanation satisfied Figs’s crew, so that when Hands approached Figs at the midmorning break, Figs shrugged. “Doubt you could make it without air-conditioning,” he told Hands.
“That was just a lie,” Hands said. “The air conditioner works fine.”
Figs and Axia had been tardy to the break, Axia fussing with clots of joint compound that had tangled her hair. Not even Reedy’s testimony that the air conditioner was indeed broken assuaged the conspiracy talk. “See for yourself,” Reedy said, not looking Roger in the eye when he said it.
“Why don’t we,” Hands said. He led all interested parties to Reedy’s house for an inspection. The investigation would prove inconclusive, though, as the air conditioner lay splintered into pieces, the twisted fan grate sprouting near the unit like a new species of cactus, the inner coil stretched out lengthwise on the ground, the compressor missing.
Figs’s crew took up the construction again after
the break, Figs boldly inviting Hands and the rest of us to join him. “We could use the help,” Figs said disingenuously.
Hands waved Figs off and Figs shrugged, filing out with the rest of his posse in tow. The visit to Reedy’s had agitated Hands (who did not know that Roger had destroyed the unit, hoping to pin the blame on Figs), and Hands suggested we take to the lake bed to scrimmage. “We’re still having the Open House match, right?” Hands asked.
“You bet your ass,” Roger said, standing up from the table.
Practice consisted of little more than kicking the ball back and forth, Hands showing off a couple of new moves he intended to debut at Open House. “Check this out,” he said, instructing Roger to pass him the ball. Roger kicked the ball along the ground, and Hands pointed his toe at it, the ball rolling up Hands’s shin to his knee; he used his knee to bounce the ball to eye level, then whacked it with his forehead. The ball sailed back toward Roger, who caught it with his hands.
“Holy shit,” Assburn said. “That was cool.”
Hands sent Roger to fetch Kerr, Cantu, Reedy, and Laird, and they joined in.
In the distance, we could hear the cheers from the compound fight that had erupted when Axia playfully slapped a gooey handprint on Lindy’s back. The fight spilled into the front yard, Figs trailing, calling for order, which was reestablished when the bucket of compound being used for artillery ran dry, most of the grenades landing wide of their marks.
Figs and Warren were engrossed in a conversation about how to convert Hands and the others back to the schedule when they were stopped by Roger, who barred the entrance to the classroom. Behind Roger, the rest of the fellows and sophomores had taken their seats. Sprocket dug into the box of handouts Hands had exhumed from Mr. Malagon’s closet, doling out stacks to the first person in each row.
“Problem?” Figs asked.
“Class time,” Roger said.
“That’s why we’re here,” Figs said. He stepped in Roger’s direction, but Roger didn’t budge.
“Class is only for those who swear their allegiance to continuation,” Roger said. He spread his arms across the doorway.
“That’s mental,” Warren said.
Figs called out to Hands, but Hands ignored the call. We fidgeted as Roger gave Figs and Warren the same spiel he’d given the rest of us before permitting us to pass: Attending class meant voting for continuation, and a vote for continuation was a vote to expel Axia. “None of us want your little girlfriend around here,” Roger said.
Figs protested weakly that Axia was not his girlfriend, but Roger was unmoved.
“You in or out?” Roger asked.
“This is ridiculous,” Figs said. “We agreed she would leave the day before Open House.”
“We who?” Roger asked, dropping his arms.
“We,” Figs said. “Me and Hands. Hands, tell him.”
Roger’s arms shot up again. Hands turned and stared at Figs.
“Wrong, wrong, wrong,” Roger said. “The only thing we agree on is that your girlfriend must go. We’re all about finishing this fellowship and getting credit.” He hesitated before shutting the door on Figs and Warren, allowing them one last chance to change their plea; but Figs and Warren would not accede, their eyes searching the class for a friendly face before the door slammed shut.
At the start of sports, Hands was picking through the sophomores as Figs and Warren walked onto the playing field.
“What’s going on?” Figs asked. The question was meant for Hands, but Roger answered as he selected Cantu and Laird.
“We’re choosing new teams for the Open House match,” Roger said, ignoring Figs. “It’ll be me, Hands, Assburn, and this group of sophomores. The rest are with you.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Figs said. He took a step in Hands’s direction, but Roger blocked his path. “I need to talk to Hands,” he said. Roger refused to move and Figs shoved him in the chest. Roger cocked his fist, but Hands grabbed him from behind.
“What do you want?” Hands asked. “Isn’t it enough that you’re trying to ruin our fellowship? What else?” Hands’s eyes flared.
“No one is ruining anything,” Figs said.
A circle formed around Figs and Hands, the unmistakable sign that violence was imminent.
“Everyone here has voted for continuation,” Hands said. “You made your choice.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Figs asked. He took another step toward Hands, and Roger reflexively stepped toward Figs.
“You know what the hell I’m talking about,” Hands said. “Either you’re with us or you’re against us.”
A strong smell of orange blossoms blew across the field.
“Quit wasting our time,” Roger said.
“You can do what you want,” Hands said, “but she’s not part of Garden Lakes, so keep her out of the way. We don’t want her in the dining hall or in chapel or in class, distracting us from what we’ve set out to do. And that goes for this”—he gestured at the field—“and the construction site. Those of us who are serious need to focus.”
The sound of a horn directed our attention away from Figs and Hands. A burgundy-colored LTD floated along Garden Lakes Parkway, its driver waving madly. The LTD glided to a stop near us.
“Excuse me,” the driver said. “Can you tell me how to get back to the freeway? I’m turned around.” A heavyset woman sat staring at us from the passenger seat.
“Go through the gate and turn right,” Warren said. “You have to go about fifteen miles. Then you come to a fork. Left for Phoenix and right for Tucson. You’ll see the freeway soon after that.”
“Thanks.” The driver pulled on the bill of his cap. “What’re you fellas up to, anyway?” he asked. “You live out here?”
We waited for someone to answer. Roger telegraphed our punishment if we spoke up about our situation.
“Just a little game of soccer,” Figs said, holding his hands out to receive the ball. After a delay, Hands passed it to him.
“Where’s the field?” the driver asked.
Figs pointed a thumb at the lake bed.
“How you play on that?” The heavyset woman shifted to get a better look.
“We make do,” Figs said. He leaned in the driver’s window. “This is a sharp car,” he said. “Is it new?”
“Hell, no,” the driver said. “I wish. They quit making these things.”
“Man, coulda fooled me,” Figs said, masterfully slipping into slang. “This is a beaut.”
“Thanks,” the driver said. “Thanks for saying so.”
“You’re welcome,” Figs said, pushing off the car. “We better get back to our game. Big stakes!” Figs laughed, and the driver laughed too. The heavyset woman smiled and the car drifted away.
“Good luck!” the driver shouted to us. He swiped the hat off his head and waved it in the air as he screeched the tires around the parkway. The LTD slid through the front gates like a speedboat gliding ashore. We watched the right-turn signal blink twice and then the car disappeared.
Figs drop-kicked the ball over our heads, staring down Hands and Roger. He turned and walked away, Warren following dutifully. The ball rolled up onto the island and came to rest under the withering palm tree. Hands yelled for Cantu to get the ball, instructing the others to pick a captain in Figs’s absence.
We battled well into the dinner hour, Hands driving aggressively toward the goal every time he touched the ball, second only to Roger, who sent 50 percent of his kicks sailing high and wide. Sprocket would call, “Out,” and one of the sophomores would track the ball down and throw it back into play.
Our play on the lake bed suspended time, allowing us to suppress our individual feelings about what had transpired between Figs and Hands. More than a few of us disagreed with Hands’s hard-line stance; while we agreed that continuation was necessary to validate our commitment to Garden Lakes, we also felt there was room for Axia and thought that any repercussions brought by the administration—if they even
found out about Axia—could be successfully argued against.
None of us would give voice to these thoughts, though, preferring to mutter them in parties of two and three on the sidelines during play, and later at dinner, employing the Randolph Backcheck before whispering any dissent. Sprocket, however, would act on his conscience, passing Figs and Warren copies of Mr. Malagon’s handouts along with the corresponding exams. “I’ll file them away with the others,” he said. “No one sees them after I grade them anyway.”
Figs and Warren would involve themselves in an act of subterfuge too, sneaking meals from the dining hall with the help of a core of sympathetic sophomores.
“If I have to live like a prisoner, I might as well leave,” Axia said, pushing away her plate of goulash and asparagus.
The truth in Axia’s statement spooked Figs, who sat on the edge of her bed. “You can’t do that,” he said. “Then they’ll win.”
Axia shrugged. “What do I care if they win or not?”
Figs hadn’t considered this. Axia had no stake in the outcome. She could blow through Garden Lakes as easily as she’d blown in. “Where will you go from here?” he asked.
The look on Axia’s face told Figs he’d called her bluff; she didn’t really want to leave, and Figs let himself believe that he was part of the reason why, though he knew it could’ve been anything. He didn’t have a clue what it meant to live by your wits and imagined that chancing upon a situation like the one at Garden Lakes was rare.
Axia set the untouched dinner on the nightstand. “Not sure,” she said.
An idea popped into Figs’s head. “My neighbor has a guest house he might let you live in,” he said.
Axia smiled. “You a real estate broker too?”
“No,” Figs said, blushing. “But he’s old and needs someone to take care of him.” The layout of the guest house flashed through Figs’s mind, he and Hands having spent a week living in it when they house-sat while the neighbor was away. “It’s just an idea.”
