When all was said and done, Mom sat on Jimmy’s bed, her hair crazy. She looked around at the boxes on the floor, the empty shelves on the wall, the bare mattress, and cried.
I don’t blame her. I wasn’t ready to say good-bye to any of it either.
I shove the box of Jimmy’s things in the corner of my closet and finish bringing in box after box. Dad wasn’t about to hire a moving company at the expense of a “good family project,” and Mom didn’t want to move last weekend, while I was at the tournament. Forty-seven boxes later, Dad waltzes through the garage door wearing his official POLICE T-shirt, the black one with gold letters that he wears to execute search warrants and arrests. “Warrant’s over,” he announces. He has the nerve to smile. “What can I do to help?”
My cell buzzes in my pocket. New message from Vic Schultz.
Call me a wimp, but telling my parents about Vic and his mom hasn’t happened. Maybe it’s the thought of Dad going special agent on me with that frown of his or the idea of Mom second-guessing our move here and bursting into tears again.
YO ESÉ, Vic’s message reads. CONNOR’S HOUSE TONIGHT. TOURNAMENT FILM IS READY TO WATCH. PARTY ON AT 9. I’LL PICK U UP.
I help Dad move in the furniture, unsure how to walk this dicey line with Vic. Coach was happy to take me on, especially after my luck at the Reebok Classic Run last month. Top performer. Schultz and Rush: It’s already created some buzz, which is good for me. I’ll take any help I can get attracting scouts this summer, this fall.
Still, I already miss my team at Desert Mountain High. Telling my coach and the guys I was leaving to play for another team sucked. I still wish I could commute up there for my senior year, but Dad wouldn’t have it.
“Give me a hand with this mattress,” Dad says.
I walk up the ramp behind him, wondering how he’d react if I told him everything. About Vic and his mom. Would that change his mind?
“We’ll move this in before I jump in the shower. I feel like I’ve got meth all over me. Not the most pleasant search warrant.”
I cinch up the drawstring on my basketball shorts and grab the mattress. “Drug warehouse?”
“No,” he says and shakes his head. “It was a home. They had kids, too. Those are the worst kinds, the warrants and arrests when kids are there to watch it all.”
I think of Vic. I think of Julianna and wonder if they were there when it all went down with their mom.
“These drugs,” Dad says with a grunt as we lift the king-size mattress, “they mess with the head. You get a guy on drugs with a weapon and you’re in a different ballgame.”
My sister Rachel is stealing glances at her phone, smacking her bubble gum and bobbing her head to the music plugged into her ears while pretending to wipe down a kitchen cabinet. Eight-year-old Lizzy is flying her flutter fairy, her bright eyes and carefree smile reminding me of what Rachel used to look like. Blond hair free of pink streaks.
Dad and I set the mattress down in the master bedroom. He heaves a deep breath, his blue eyes clouded by the ill effects of knowing too much. Seeing too much.
“Son, stay away from—”
“Drugs,” I finish before I have to hear it again. “Got it.”
“They’re everywhere,” Dad says, the inflection in his voice rising like I’m not taking him seriously. I’ve only heard this speech a million times.
I take my hat off, scratch my head. “Got it.”
“You’re starting up at a new school, Cody, and although it’s a good school, you can find trouble anywhere.”
My point exactly. “Then why don’t you let me finish my senior year at Desert Mountain?” I protest.
“That’s out of the question.”
“Why?”
“I won’t have you driving up there every day; it’s dangerous,” Dad says, as protective and stubborn as ever.
“You drive all over the valley every day.”
“Because I have to,” he says.
“Do you realize how many people I’ve upset, moving from one Division 1 school to another?”
Dad’s stern brow line is unrelenting. “Basketball. Isn’t. Life. I put my hopes on pro baseball, son, and it didn’t pan out.”
I get it. He’s trying to protect me from the same disappointment he faced. Dad was a short stop for the Arizona State Sun Devils. He doesn’t need to say it; I know he always wished I had stuck with baseball. But that was Jimmy’s sport.
“Look,” he says, “you can do whatever you put your mind to. But you’re a genius, Cody. You speak three languages, you have great people skills, and you’re manipulative when you want to be.”
“Is that a compliment?”
Dad’s voice lowers, becomes almost a growl. “Not to mention you have a smart mouth. And you’re stubborn.”
“That makes two of us.”
The vein in Dad’s forehead bulges. “You’ve held a 4.0 GPA. . . .”
So what is he worried about?
“What about the FBI?” he asks.
“Dad—”
“I thought you had your heart set on it,” he says. “You and Jimmy.”
“Jimmy’s dead.”
His gaze wavers, drops to the ground. I look down, too, wishing I could take some things back. I wonder when this started—me and him arguing. It didn’t used to be like this.
“Just choose your friends wisely,” Dad wraps up the conversation before hitting the shower.
“Sounds good,” I say, thinking better of my earlier impulse to tell him about Vic’s mom. My phone buzzes again, reminding me of the text I never responded to.
YO MAN YOU GOT MY MESSAGE?
Connor’s house, nine o’clock. Specks of dust float around me, catching the light from the setting sun streaming in through the window.
SOUNDS GOOD, I text to Vic. I’LL MEET YOU THERE, THOUGH.
I’LL PICK U UP, Vic replies.
I CAN DRIVE.
ON MY WAY TO GET U BRO, Vic sends. SEE YOU IN A FEW.
I check the clock, confused. It’s not even eight o’clock. I text Vic the five-digit gate code, jump in the shower, and fly down the stairs before Dad gets done with his. I’m still pulling my shirt over my head as Vic’s clunker rolls up.
Mom is already at the front window, peeking out.
“I’m heading out,” I say.
“Oh, good,” she says, eager for me and my sisters to make friends here. Settle in to her hometown of Gilbert, Arizona. “With who?”
“Vic.” I leave it at that.
“Oh, from your team! Well, I’d love to meet—”
“No!” I push the door closed, eyeing the master bedroom door at the top of the stairs.
Her eyebrows pull together.
“We’re in a hurry,” I lie. More like we have an hour to kill.
“Oh,” Mom says, checking her watch. She tugs my shirt down into place. “All right then, next time.”
“Yeah, maybe so.”
“Have fun,” she calls as I scoot out, “and be safe.”
“I will.”
I jump in.
“Sweet house,” Vic says.
I glance back at the huge house, situated in the corner of Chadwick Estates, where Grandpa and Grandma Chadwick’s farm used to be. Dad steps outside.
“Let’s go.”
Vic pulls away. I watch Dad from the side mirror. He gives a little wave, and nerves twist in my gut.
Vic and I sit in silence for a while, both lost in our thoughts.
“Why are we so early?” I ask.
Vic switches lanes. Grips the wheel.
“Vic?”
“Huh?”
“You texted: nine o’clock.”
“Oh, uh, yeah. Well, we’re meeting at Connor’s at nine.”
“Yeah, and it’s eight fifteen.”
“Yeah.”
I give him a questioning look, but he doesn’t look my way.
I wait a good minute for him to reply before deciding he didn’t hear me right. Or didn’t underst
and. Or plain isn’t listening.
“Look, man,” Vic says, “you got my back, don’t you?”
I stare at him. “Your back?”
“Yeah,” Vic says with a forced smile.
“What do you mean?”
He mops up the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. It’s hotter than sin outside, that’s for sure, but I get a feeling he’s sweating over something else.
“Vic, what’s the deal?” I ask. “You’re dripping sweat.”
Vic checks his rearview mirror for the fifth time in a row.
“Aw, nothing, man. I just need you to hang around for a bit. Watch my back.”
Whoa now. “Watch your back?” I repeat, not liking the sound of this.
My eyes sweep the interior of the car. Doors unlocked—check. Empty chip bags, some tinfoil, BIC pens with no ink barrel or tip, and a car jack that could be used as a weapon in a bind.
We turn down Power Road heading north. Away from Connor’s.
The car accelerates and so does my pulse. Vic darts a glance at the setting sun, his fists clenching and unclenching on the wheel.
I piece together the two odd items: tinfoil and pen barrels—a straw.
Ah. “What kind of stuff are you doing, Vic?” I ask. “Weed? Meth? Coke?”
A bit of the apprehension dissolves from Vic’s expression and his gaze meets mine with eager curiosity. “You got a preference esé, because I can hook us up.”
It hits me hard: Vic’s raw talent, his height and strong build. A rare combination of size and offensive skill. He’s a good jumper, too. Huge, and yet he has a soft touch. Everything a ball player should be. And all for this?
“No, Vic. Just . . . no. You’re shooting up?”
“Hey, I’m no needle junkie.”
I glance at the foil and straws. “Smoking.”
“Yeah, man. You in?”
I close my eyes. Let out a deep breath.
“Some foil and a straw, and bam,” Vic says, “we’re set. You got a lighter?”
“No.”
“We’ll snag one at the store on our way back.”
“Our way back from where?” I ask. “Where are we going?”
Vic pulls behind a store not far from the Superstition Springs Center. Kills the engine.
I grab the door handle in case.
Bushes and a low brick wall line the alley. A streetlamp puts off a weird glow. No other cars in sight. No eyes. Only me and Vic and whoever else is on their way here. I swallow hard. Ready to split.
“You seriously never been smacked, have you?” Vic asks.
Smacked? I almost laugh. “No desire whatsoever.”
“That’s what they all say. Just wait esé. These dudes got the good stuff.”
I think about Vic and the list of basketball scholarships he’s already been offered, offers I’d kill for: Arizona, Arizona State, Cal, Oregon, Texas A&M, Utah, Virginia. I look Vic square in the eye. “I’m gonna walk home if you don’t start the car back up.”
Vic jabs at my arm like I’m teasing. “Come on, man.”
“Get out of here, Vic,” I say, one last attempt to talk some sense into him. “You don’t want this.”
Vic shakes his head, one elbow on the door, his thumb brushing his chin, his other hand still holding the wheel. “Nah, nah, man. I got no choice. I gotta get the money to them, bro. They’ll come for me.”
“Wait, what?”
“The money. This was my first time selling and I didn’t get enough dough.”
I didn’t think this could get any worse. “You’re using and selling?”
“Yeah,” Vic says, sounding like I shouldn’t act so surprised.
I pull out my wallet. “How much do you need?” I pull out one twenty. Two. Three. “I got sixty bucks.”
“Try a grand.”
I stuff the cash back in. “A grand.”
Vic lowers his forehead into his hands and stretches the skin above his brows with his palms. Like he can make it all go away if he pushes hard enough. “Yeah, a grand. I got about three thou. I owe them four.”
I massage my own forehead. “Vic, come on. Let’s get out of here. Talk to the police—”
“Psh,” Vic mumbles a sound. “Cops? You serious? And get myself into more trouble than I’m already in?”
“Why did you need the money so bad in the first place?”
Vic regards me with disbelief. “You ain’t holding nothing back, are you, rich boy?”
I glance around at the narrow back alley, noting a jumble of grocery carts near a Dumpster. “Well, since you dragged me out here and I assume there’s a drug deal going down any minute, I figure I might have the right to ask.”
“Fair,” Vic says, “and if you know some guys who need a fix, we can split it fifty—”
“Why, Vic?” I ask, yanking him back on track.
“Because I stole from my family,” Vic blurts out. He brushes his thumb along his chin again, a nervous habit, I figure. Julianna’s outburst about stolen money the other day slides into place. Maybe she wasn’t making it up.
“That was during a low point, a’ight? So don’t freaking lecture me. I know where to draw the line now. How to use, when to stop. My mom freaked, though, and signed me up for rehab—expensive rehab. And she got herself in prison trying to fund it. Feds took it all when they took her down.”
I let out a deep breath. Heat mounts, silence stretches on. A cross hanging from the rearview mirror sways back and forth like it, too, is being pulled in opposite ways under the tension. Some moments feel surreal. You ask why and get nothing. Your question hangs in the air.
When I was a kid everything seemed black and white. Now I wonder if sometimes the bad guys aren’t always what they seem.
I open the door, my gut twisting as an underlying principle wars against that thought. I am who I am—a straitlaced FBI agent’s son. The agent who put Vic’s mom away. And I have no interest in drugs. I step out of the car.
“Where are you going?” Vic asks, popping open his door and jumping out.
I slam mine shut. “Home.”
“Just like that, you’re out?” Vic huffs. “Some friend, Cody. Some friend you are.”
I turn. “Some friend I am? You dupe me into a back-alley drug deal and then dis on me as a friend?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t make sense, Vic. None of this does.”
“You’re right, Cody. None of this makes sense to you. Rich boy. Got everything you ever want. You don’t understand a thing.”
“Yeah, okay, let me tell you what I understand,” I say. “Your mom’s in prison. She got herself there trying to get you off drugs. And you do what? You sell drugs to pay back for your mistake?”
“Shut it!” Vic yells. “Just shut your pretty-boy mouth and run on home.”
Headlights flash around the corner of the building, signaling an approaching car. We both jerk back. I freeze.
Shadows outline Vic’s eye sockets, making them look dark and hollow. “Get back in.”
Fear rides on his voice, setting my nerves on edge. Vic has no idea what he’s doing. He’s terrified. Where does that leave me?
I scoot up against the brick wall and give Vic a pointed look, adrenaline pulsing through my veins. “Trust me, Vic, I’m the last guy you want to be a part of this.”
One call. That’s all it will take.
“Get outta here,” Vic says.
The rumble of the car amplifies as it makes the turn and starts toward us. If I bolt now, they’ll see me. At the last moment I slip around the corner of the building. I duck behind a jumble of grocery carts near the Dumpster and duck down. The car pulls up alongside Vic and stops. Red. A Porsche. Tinted windows. I can’t quite make out the plates.
Trapped. I’ve pinned myself into a corner. I can’t make a run for it now.
Dad is going to kill me.
I second-guess my impulse to hide here. I second-guess everything.
The passenger door op
ens and a man steps out. Black tank and jeans, flat-billed hat, a tattoo sleeve covering his entire arm. Caucasian. Strong. He actually doesn’t look much older than us. A second, shorter guy steps out from the driver’s side. Pale skin. A head of thick hair—a mullet. A cloud of smoke seeps from his mouth after he takes a long drag on a joint. “Vicky boy.”
I whip out my iPhone. My thumb hovers over it, hesitating. My dad, police, my dad, police: the options ricochet in my mind before I go for something else entirely, the choice my brother Jimmy would have rooted for.
I press record.
My phone makes a bleep right as the driver slams his door shut, masking the sound. Quietly, I let out a long-held breath, fully aware that I’m doing what an eight-year-old Jimmy would have done in this situation: record the drug deal like a special agent wannabe—the last thing I want to be. Smart, Cody. Real smart.
My finger slides over to stop the recording, but I think better of it at the last moment. I flip the switch to silent first. Still, even if I call the police, the dealers will hear my voice.
I focus on the conversation late, knowing I should have tuned in long ago.
The dude in black says something I can’t quite make out.
“So when do I meet Ian?” Vic asks.
“You don’t,” the guy in black says.
Ian, Ian, Ian . . . I convert the name to memory.
“You deal through us,” the mullet guy says, flipping through a stack of cash Vic handed him. I keep my breathing in check. Silent. Vic doesn’t have enough. My mind reels at the harsh reality. And this is real.
Mullet reaches the end of the cash pile and pauses, his chest deflating with obvious disappointment. He pulls the joint from between his lips and flicks it, sending it straight at me. “Where’s the rest of the money, Vic?”
The joint tumbles to the asphalt and rolls under the grocery carts, losing momentum when it touches my foot. Silently I pick it up, the distinct smell reaching my nose. Weed for sure.
“We’re cool, man, we’re cool,” Vic says. “I’ll get you the money.”
Between Now & Never Page 3
