by Randy Ribay
Except I don’t. We fall quiet, but this time it is awkward. I clear my throat. Stretch my legs a bit, consider leaving. I tilt my cup to my lips, forgetting that it’s empty.
“I’m going back downstairs,” I say, and start to stand up.
But Brooke puts her hand on my forearm, and we lock eyes. “Wait, Bunny. I think—”
I lean in to kiss her before my brain can register that’s what I’m doing.
She pushes me away. “Whoa. I think you have the wrong idea.”
“I—”
“You have a girlfriend, Bunny.”
Right.
“You thought that since I asked you to come upstairs with me that I wanted to hook up?”
I think that is kind of what I was thinking, but I don’t want to say it aloud. Of course, I don’t need to, because my hesitation tells her enough.
“I asked you to come up here because I wanted to have a real conversation with you, to get to know you. You always look so lonely around school. I was trying to be nice.”
“Oh,” I say.
“Yeah. I’m going to go back downstairs.” And then she’s gone.
I sit there for a minute. It’s a good thing she didn’t actually let me kiss her. What the hell was I thinking?
I shake my head to try to clear it, and stand up. The world sways, so I steady myself against the wall and make my way downstairs. I find Drew and tell him I don’t need a ride home because I’m walking, then I head outside.
The cold air stings but feels nice. I make my way down the long drive past the line of parked cars, leaving behind the noise and light. As I reach the bottom of the driveway, I turn toward the main road. There should be a bus stop somewhere over there. I could check if I had a phone, but I don’t because my best friend stole it so he could betray me.
A gust of wind stirs the air, whipping around so it feels like it’s coming from everywhere. I pull my hood up and pick up the pace. All of the houses around this way are like Stacy’s. Enormous and set back in the trees at the end of long, winding, gated driveways. I wonder how many people inside of them are eating steak and lobster by the fireside right now as Jeeves stands by awaiting their next command.
I think back to the fall, when I first started at St. Sebastian’s. The neighborhood right around the school is like this, too. I was walking to the bus stop one day when a couple of cops pulled up next to me in their cruiser, lights flashing. They got out, asked if I knew anything about a stolen car, and then frisked me. I didn’t bother to point out that if I had stolen a car, I wouldn’t be walking, and that the damn thing certainly wouldn’t be stashed in my pocket. I stayed polite. Wasn’t about to give them a reason to do anything else. Anyway, the police didn’t find anything on me, and they went on their way.
But still, every time I walk through those neighborhoods, everything I felt in that moment returns. The shame. The anger. The powerlessness. And right now it’s all magnified by how I’m waiting for some lawyers to decide my fate.
Seems like it keeps getting colder with every step I take. Any of that warm brightness the alcohol lent me is quickly slipping away, and the wind starts to sting more and more. I pull my sleeves over my hands and cross my arms over my chest, regretting that I left my coat in Drew’s car.
I should have reached the main road by now. Maybe I took a wrong turn. I wonder if I should go back, but then again, what if it’s just around the next bend, and I only need to keep going for another block or two?
I look up at the sky and find a few stars shining in the black. I study them for a few moments like I’m really about to navigate by the constellations.
40
Nasir
By Friday afternoon, I’m more worried about Wallace than ever. He wasn’t in school again, and he hasn’t been answering any of my texts. I even asked if he wanted to come over for dinner tonight, which is usually a sure way to get a response from him, but still nothing.
So instead of heading home, I catch the bus and get off downtown.
It’s cloudy, cold, and windy as hell. The kind of wind that makes the traffic lights sway and sends empty garbage cans skittering across the street. I pull my hood up and keep my head down, only looking up every few blocks to check where I am.
I eventually arrive at Wallace’s building and make my way up the narrow staircase to his apartment. I press the doorbell. Nobody answers, but I can hear Bunny the kitten on the other side, scratching at the door and meowing. I buzz it again and gaze at the peeling paint in the little entryway.
I’m about to leave when the door swings open. Wallace’s grandma appears in one of those old lady nightgowns. She squints at me.
“Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want any,” she says, and starts to close the door.
The kitten peeks out between her feet and meows. She sniffs the air a few times and then decides I’m not interesting enough and goes back inside.
“It’s me—Nasir.”
The two of us are unrelated, since she’s Wallace’s mom’s mom. But I’ve seen her enough times in my life she shouldn’t have difficulty placing me.
She squints even harder until her eyes are practically closed. Finally, there’s a flash of recognition. “Ah. Sorry, dear. Eyesight’s not what it used to be.”
“Is Wallace around?” I peer over her shoulder at the couch, but it’s empty. I also notice nothing’s packed up, even though they’re probably not long from eviction now.
“Who?” She scratches her head and squints at Bunny.
“Wallace?” I repeat.
The kitten reappears and makes a break for it, but Wallace’s grandma shoves it back inside with a slippered foot. “Oh, you mean Gerald,” she says. “I always forget you boys still call him by that ridiculous name.”
“Right. So is Wallace—I mean, Gerald—home right now?”
“Nope. He’s at the library.”
“The library?”
“You know what a library is, don’t you? That place filled with books they let people borrow,” she says. I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll look for him at the library. Thank you, ma’am.”
Much to my surprise, I do find Wallace at the library. He’s sitting in the back corner of computer lab, wearing headphones and staring at his screen in deep concentration. I notice he’s got a fat lip, a cut across his temple, and a bruised cheek. After signing in at the front desk, I enter the lab and take a seat at the computer next to him.
“’Sup, Nas?” he says too loudly because his headphones are still on and he can’t hear himself. A few people shoot annoyed looks over their shoulders.
Wallace doesn’t seem to notice. He gives me dap, wincing as he does so. I glance down and see his knuckles are all cut up and bruised, too. He slips his hands into his hoodie pocket.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Wallace. Come on, man. Be real with me.”
“What the fuck do you think happened, cuz?”
The computers hum. The other library patrons click and clack away at their keyboards. I don’t say anything, because I already know that someone probably came to collect on a bet from St. S’s win last night and Wallace couldn’t pay up.
“You need to go to the hospital?” I ask.
He laughs. “Nah, just a few scratches. Besides, no health insurance, remember?”
“Right.” I search for a safer topic. “Your kitten’s looking good, man. Real healthy.”
“Makes me mad, thinking about someone abandoning some little thing like that,” he says. “What’s wrong with people?”
Well, I tried.
“I don’t know,” I say.
People glance at us again, trying to shut us up with their eyes. But whatever. I take a deep breath and lower my voice.
“Are you in danger, Wallace? Like, for real?”
“Always.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
&
nbsp; A big-haired white lady at a computer in the next row suddenly turns around and shushes us. Wallace gestures for her to wait a moment, digs into his pocket, and pulls out . . . his middle finger. The woman gets up and leaves in a huff. She returns a moment later with a mousy old guy who’s got a mustache like from an eighties movie. The librarian, I’m guessing.
“Excuse me, gentlemen. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to continue your conversation outside,” he says.
“Why?” Wallace asks. “’Cause we’re Black?”
“No. Because you’re disrupting the library’s other patrons.”
I stand to leave, but Wallace remains seated. “Nah, fuck that, OG. I’m good.” He slips his headphones back on, clicks Play on some music video he was apparently in the middle of watching when I came by.
The librarian sighs and then walks away. Through the computer lab’s windows, I watch him go up to a police officer hanging out by the doors chatting up some high school girl. For some reason, the police are always hanging around this place. I bet public libraries in the suburbs don’t have their own force. And must be super exciting for them. Law & Order: SBU—Special Books Unit.
But whatever.
I put a hand on Wallace’s shoulder. “Let’s go, man. We need to talk some more anyway.”
Wallace pushes my hand away.
A few moments later, the cop’s looming over Wallace. He’s a broad-chested dude with a crewcut. Pretty much how you’d imagine a cop to look. Everyone in the place has stopped what they’re doing to watch this unfold.
Wallace finally looks up at the cop and then at me and then back at the cop. He slides his headphones off his head and offers them to the guy. “You heard this track yet? It’s the new Beyoncé.”
The cop does not laugh. “I understand you gentlemen have been asked to leave. Now, you can depart the easy way or”—he pauses and taps the cuffs on his utility belt—“the hard way.”
I hold my breath, try to will Wallace not to do anything stupid.
“Sure thing, Officer,” he says, grinning. “This has all been a terrible misunderstanding. My associate and me were about to go. Weren’t we, Mr. Blake?”
“Yeah,” I say, exhaling with relief.
Wallace powers down the computer, pushes his chair back, and stands. “It really is a great album,” he says to the cop, winking. “Her best one yet.”
We walk outside to find that it’s snowing lightly again. Everything’s covered in a thin layer of white. Wallace finds the cop’s cruiser and uses his index finger to draw a penis in the snow that’s accumulated on the windshield.
Then he continues around to the back of the building like I’m not even there, but I follow. He leans against the brick, takes out a cigarette, and lights up. In the overcast daylight, his face looks even rougher than it did back inside the library. He’s squinting at something in the distance, and I’m watching the wind carry his smoke away.
I zip up my coat and pull on my gloves. Wallace only has a hoodie, but he doesn’t look cold.
“Can I say something?” I ask.
“You’ve got a mouth, don’t you?”
I take a deep breath. “This isn’t working—this whole betting against Bunny thing. You have to see that.”
Wallace takes a drag on his cigarette.
“Give it up, Wallace. We’ll figure out something else.”
He laughs, shaking his head.
“And fix what you did to Bunny. Make it right,” I say, repeating the words from Keyona’s text. Because if Wallace gives up this scheme, then there’s no reason why Bunny shouldn’t play on Sunday.
“I think you mean to say what we did, cuz.”
I nod because it’s true. If it wasn’t for me, it wouldn’t have gotten this serious.
Wallace is silent for a while, like he’s actually considering it. Finally, he says, “It’s too late.”
“It’s not,” I say. “Just don’t make any more bets. And send another anonymous email admitting that the first one was fake.”
Wallace takes one more drag and then flicks the butt away. Then he pulls out Bunny’s phone from his coat pocket and hands it to me. “Can I be straight with you?”
I slip the phone into my pocket. “Of course.”
“Yeah, I’ve been making small wagers here and there. But soon as I had that phone in my hand and I knew what I could do, I took a slightly different route.”
“What do you mean by that, Wallace?”
“Told my bookie I had a tip. That I knew for sure who wouldn’t be winning on Sunday.”
“You thought St. S wouldn’t even go to the championship because of what you were going to do to Bunny.”
“Right,” he says.
“Only, they won without Bunny.”
“Right,” he says again, sadder this time. “Now I’ve made the wrong people mad.”
I think for a moment, trying to take all this in. Then I ask, “Who?”
“You don’t know them,” he says. “They run all the books in Whitman. High school sports. NBA. NFL. Even the goddamn Olympics and shit. You name it. If you’re looking to place a bet in this city, they’re the ones setting the odds, and at some point, your money’s probably passing through their hands. Anyway, they ended up agreeing to pay me for the tip, and I told them how Bunny would be out of the picture.”
“So what’s the worst that can happen? They don’t let you place any more bets?”
Wallace laughs and shakes his head. “Man, you remember Gabe?”
I nod.
“Word on the street is that the bullet he caught by accident was meant for someone who fucked with these guys.”
I lean against the wall like the wind’s been knocked out of me. Everyone knew that kind of stuff happened in Whitman, even if you didn’t run in those circles. It was easy enough to ignore it, to stay out of that world—but that didn’t mean it was going to stay out of yours.
“Damn,” I say. “This is serious.”
“No shit, cuz. That’s what I’ve been telling you.”
“Can’t you go somewhere until this blows over?” Even saying it sounds ridiculous, though. Like I’m in some corny movie about gang violence.
He spits. “They’re not the type to let something like this blow over.”
“What if you gave them their money back?”
“Can’t. I already gave it to the landlord so he’d let me and G stay a few more months. Wanted to do that right away because I knew if I didn’t, I’d end up spending it all.”
“There has to be something we can do.”
“Pray that the state doesn’t make a decision before Sunday. St. S got lucky last night, but no way they’ll win the championship without Bunny.”
Suddenly, I’m overwhelmingly sad for Wallace. It’s a heavy feeling, like a basketball-size stone sitting in my stomach. Yeah, he fucked up. Bad. And the thing is, he’s always been kind of a fool. Type of kid who packed his snowballs with rocks. Who blew off homework because he didn’t understand it and didn’t want to admit it. Who would hang out long past when we were done playing just to get invited to dinner.
But for some reason, it’s still not easy for me to write him off. And that feeling wins out over wanting to push him to fix Bunny’s situation.
“It’s not right,” I say, meaning all of it, meaning everything.
Wallace doesn’t speak for a few beats. The snow gathers on his shoulder as he looks down and leans back against the wall like all the life’s gone out of him.
“That’s your problem,” he says. “Somehow you got it in your head that the world even knows what right means.”
41
Bunny
As I wait for the bus Friday after practice, I can’t shake this bad feeling that’s following me. I drank way more than I should have last night, so I was slow and heavy all day. In practice, Coach Baum kept telling me to “look alive,” and I think he suspected it was more than just my nervousness about what’s going to happen wit
h the state. It didn’t help I had to run with second string again while Clay got to play my spot with the first team. Making a hundred free throws with the backups took about a million years.
I’m also thinking about how messed up everything feels right now. I can’t believe I tried to kiss Brooke, and then I made a fool of myself wandering lost around Stacy’s neighborhood until Drew found me and drove me all the way back home to Whitman.
The snow’s really coming down now. Thick flakes are sticking to everything. Everyone at practice was saying they heard it’s supposed to die down in the next few hours, but it doesn’t seem like it. Thankfully, the bus pulls up with a squeal, I swipe my pass, and make my way down the aisle as the driver pulls away from the curb. There’s only a couple other people on here, so I swing my gym bag and backpack off my shoulders and take a seat in the middle.
A few minutes into the ride, my phone starts buzzing with a call. I’m borrowing one of Jess’s old phones, so I have no idea who’s calling, since my numbers aren’t programmed into it. I flip it open. “Hello?”
“Bunny?”
My heart starts thumping the moment I recognize Coach Baum’s voice. There’s only one reason he’d call me after we spent three hours together at practice.
“Yes, sir?”
“I just got off the phone with the state.” He pauses.
“And?”
“And . . . you’re starting on Sunday!”
I close my eyes, exhale, and start laughing. “Thank God.”
“Don’t thank God. Thank Dr. Dietrich’s connections. To be honest, I really didn’t think this was going to go our way.”
“For real?”
“But no matter. It did. The NJSIAA’s going to release an official statement in the morning. So rest up tonight, and bring your A-game to practice tomorrow. I’ve been reviewing Fairview’s tapes, and I’ve got some new offensive sets to get you all ready.”
“Yes, Coach. I will. For sure. Thank you. Thank you.”
“And, Bunny?”
“Yes, Coach?”
“No parties again until after we win.”
“Yes, Coach.”
