Overturned

by Lamar Giles

  “Hey, Gavin?” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  “The one who was talking trash about my dad—hit him extra hard during practice today.”

  “Copy that.”

  Thing was, Gavin couldn’t tackle people in the halls. Or in the girls’ bathrooms. Or on the other side of a teacher’s desk.

  That day, all day, it was short glimpses, huddled whispers, timely giggles as I passed with my eyes directed dead ahead, going for a willful ignorance I couldn’t quite manage. The graffiti on the exterior walls only distracted when we were all outside. In here, my did-he-or-didn’t-he (he didn’t) Dad and I were the topic of the day.

  The most awesome screw-with-Nikki exhibit was a drawing I discovered taped to my locker at my post-lunch book exchange. It featured a bird in a striped outfit—a jailbird, so clever—returning to his poofy-haired bird daughter, who waited in a nest made of money atop the iconic Welcome to Las Vegas sign.

  Molly snatched it down and crumpled it in her fist. “I guess some art school’s going to have no problem filling its douche quota next fall.”

  “Whatever. It’ll taper off eventually.” Even as I said it, I didn’t believe it. Not with Dan Harris’s lawsuits and every new development putting our names back on TV.

  I’d do what I’d always done. Use my cardplayer’s focus. Compartmentalize. Shove aside personal drama for calculus derivatives and Hamlet and the Louisiana Purchase. It’s what I’ve done since Dad went in, and I crushed all of it. I had to. In this area, my non-superstar-athlete status made me the liability in the escape plan. Unless a UVA admissions officer was willing to throw my acceptance letter and a sweet financial aid package into a Hold’em pot, I’d be earning my entrance into our chosen school the old-fashioned way.

  That Friday night game increased my bankroll to a little under twenty thousand. By the standards of my Vista Rojo classmates, that made me rich. In terms of University of Virginia’s out-of-state tuition, it made me good for a semester. Not even a whole academic year.

  That meant on top of my poker winnings, I’d probably still need scholarships and loans and divine intervention to make it work. What’s another crushing challenge for a Tate?

  In chemistry class, while Mr. Devindra droned at the front of the room, I checked my homework against the practice problems at the end of the alkenes and alkynes chapter. My phone shimmied against my thigh, the screen lit with a text.

  Molly: you sure you’re ok? been quiet today.

  She was a couple of rows over, her heat vision warming my cheek. I tapped a quick response beneath my desk, below Mr. Devindra’s phone-confiscating radar, to put her at ease.

  Me: i’m fine.

  Molly: emojis aren’t masks. i can see your face.

  Me: i’m fine.

  Molly: you better be. you got a surprise coming.

  Twisting so we were eye to eye, demonic smoke just about wisping from the corners of Molly’s devilish grin, I knew I’d missed something important. She jutted her chin toward a clipboard making its way to the front of the room, where Mr. Devindra collected it and said, “Did everyone get the sign-up sheet?”

  Sign up? For what?

  The class grumbled a collective yes, and my phone vibrated before I could raise my hand to counter.

  Molly: don’t fight this. just let it happen.

  I mouthed across the room: Let what happen?

  Mr. Devindra said, “Excellent. You know the project due date. Feel free to switch seats so you’re closer to your partner.”

  Project due date? Partners?

  My classmates stood and began reorganizing themselves to be closer to the lab partners they’d chosen. Or had been chosen for them. Suddenly, I knew what Molly meant.

  On the way to her partner, she made a point of walking past my desk, the same self-congratulatory smirk on her face flashed after scoring a goal.

  “Why would you do this?”

  “Wasn’t me,” she said, sincere. “I thought we were going to bang this project out together. Seems you’re in high demand.”

  She moved on, leaving no time to dispute. I nearly chased her, but my partner arrived.

  “Hey. You and me. I mean, if that’s okay?” Davis Carlino said, dropping down next to me.

  Seriously … what was I supposed to say to that?

  The scoop on Davis Carlino? He was an heir to Mount Nysos, second in line to his big brother.

  Yeah, the gargantuan resort hotel that drew my father like a tractor beam, that tower of power poking into the skyline of the Las Vegas Strip—it belonged to Davis’s family. A perch from where their supposed gangster father, Bertram “Big Bert” Carlino, loomed large over the city.

  A side effect of my involvement with Andromeda’s day-to-day operations was an encyclopedic knowledge of the town’s power players. I doubted most of my classmates knew or cared about the real estate linked to the Carlino family, or the reputation that came with it. If they did, the football team might’ve thought better of roughing him up. What Vista Rojo knew about Davis could be summed up as rich and didn’t belong.

  Yet, there he was. Seated next to me. While my palms slimed sweat on my desktop.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, his grin shrinking.

  Be cool, Nikki. It’s a near certainty he cannot see the moisture pouring from your flesh. It’s all in your head.

  I nodded.

  “Because you’re not speaking.”

  I nodded again.

  “You’re still not speaking.”

  No. No. No.

  This was just like the first day I saw him in the hall. Worse. He didn’t notice me acting like a freak then.

  He’d just transferred. Lanky and a head taller than most of our classmates would’ve been enough to flag him as a newbie. Being so good-looking, like the star of a movie about our high school, pretty much made blending in impossible. I spotted him glancing up from his schedule, checking room numbers and trying not to flaunt his cluelessness. Something happened. An attack of some sort. Panic. Heart. Both. Those chestnut eyes of his locked with mine. I went breathless in a moment that was part déjà vu, part dropkick to the chest. He found the room he’d been searching for and dipped inside in time to save me from convulsing on the floor.

  I was no stranger to attention from flirty boys and girls. I’d been on display in Andromeda’s since I was old enough to seat guests in the restaurant or man the check-in counter when workers called in sick. I’ve gotten hit on a lot. Like, a lot a lot. I’d dated guys from Vista and other schools (never Cardinal Graham, though). I’d been heartbroken and cracked a few ventricles myself. None of that prepped me for what happened that first time I saw Davis in the halls.

  Or now.

  He wasn’t smiling anymore. Why would he, in the presence of a sweaty mime?

  A balled-up sheet of loose-leaf ricocheted off my temple. The sheer accuracy of the throw clued me to the pitcher. Ticked, I spun to Molly. She gave me the stinkiest stink-eye I’d ever seen in my life, blasting me with the Best Friend Telepathy we’d developed over the years.

  She popped an eyebrow up. You’re really going to mess this up?

  I huffed. No. I’m just getting my bearings. Don’t ever embarrass me like that again.

  She sucked her teeth. You’re on the clock. Move it!

  I chewed my bottom lip. Let a sister breathe a minute.

  When I turned back to Davis, he broadcast his own telepathy. The universally recognized What was THAT? look.

  Awkward, yes. Also, effective. I’d found my voice again. “You signed up to be my partner.”

  “We’re going to pretend like that weird exchange between you and the super-aggressive blond girl didn’t just happen?”

  “Yep. So, partner. What’s up with that?”

  He could reconsider at this point, and that would suck. That suckage would be on my terms.

  “After you helped me this morning, I thought it was the least I could do,” he replied.

  “Are you really go
od in chemistry or something?”

  “Not even a little bit.”

  “I fail to see how this is returning the favor.”

  His smile was back. Funny thing, so was mine. My pulse slowed, and while others around us chattered about the assignment, we did the exact opposite of what Mr. Devindra intended. Fine by me.

  “I wanted to know why you helped me this morning,” he said.

  “I already said.”

  “You don’t like when people get blamed for stuff they didn’t do. But why?”

  Did he really not know? I searched his face for a tell, some tic to clue me if he was running game, trying to be polite by not flinging my dad at me with no regard for human life like everybody else, or just out of the loop.

  “People haven’t been talking to you at all since you got here?”

  He shrugged. “A few.”

  A few girls. I’d heard. Even his status as a former Griffin only repelled the more assertive Vista ladies for so long. Anyone who did muster the nerve to make conversation wouldn’t make that conversation about me and mine. That was a relief. I said, “I helped because I’m a superhero.”

  “That explains everything. Might I request you use your powers to toss your football team into the sun?”

  “Hey now, my friend’s on that team.”

  “You mean the huge guy who didn’t kidnap me.”

  “Yes. Gavin, he’s a good—” From the corner of my eye, I detected the movement of a plain white shirt and too-short necktie. “Quick,” I said, “open your book.”

  He didn’t hesitate. I did the same. Mr. Devindra loomed a second later. “You two making progress?”

  Davis said, “Absolutely. Nikki’s really great at this.”

  My cheeks and forehead burned. It might’ve just been for the teacher, but hearing Davis Carlino call me great was my favorite thing that day.

  The early evening sun sank, giving way to purple skies and dropping desert temps. Molly drove us home, our windows down so we could catch a breeze and avoid a rolling gas chamber of soccer practice sweat and exertion. My phone buzzed with two texts from Davis. Tame messages, both about our chemistry project. They still induced a flutter in my chest like sonnets.

  “Is that him?” Molly asked.

  “You shouldn’t text and drive. Watch the road.”

  “I’m not texting.”

  “You’re worrying about my texts. It’s like the same thing.”

  “Nikki Tate logic, wildly leaping as usual. Come on, tell me all the sordid details of your love life. Please, please.”

  “There’s hardly anything to tell.” It wasn’t a lie. After Mr. Devindra started hovering, we scribbled down loose ideas for our project before class change, then traded numbers. I didn’t want to get into it because the epic feel of my first real convo with Davis Carlino diminished the more I thought about the mundane reality of what was actually discussed.

  “You’re telling me he’s not your reincarnated lover from a past life,” said Molly, “because we still haven’t settled that déjà vu conniption fit you threw that time.”

  “You’re seriously not going to let that go.”

  “I. Will. Not.”

  The gift and the curse of confiding in your best friend. She always had the best ammo to use against you. I’d told her when I saw him in the hall that first day, it was like I knew him. Ever since, she’s been calling us Cleopatra and Mark Antony.

  Telling Molly, of course, was my only way to relieve the pressure of unrequited … like? A shoulder to lean on every time that boy had me on tilt. A listening ear for objectifying him. His eyes were so … and his hair was really … and those abs made me want to …

  Molly’s assessment of Davis? A subdued “Cute, but skinny.”

  It was a gross underestimation in my opinion, but I was glad Davis didn’t meet Molly’s chiseled-marble standards. She beat me in everything except cards, and I didn’t want her competition here.

  Molly turned into the Loop and came to a stop by the valet stand, where Mr. Héctor greeted us with a wave.

  A yellow cab minivan pulled up to our bumper, spilling some weeknight revelers screeching their joy.

  “Woo Girls,” Molly said, shaking her head.

  They dashed into Andromeda’s, squealing. If I could only muster their enthusiasm to enter.

  Molly must’ve sensed the change in me. She let the Davis interrogation drop and said, “Bethany’s a vegan now.”

  “Uh, okay. Yay?”

  “No. Not yay! The dads bow down to her and now there’s no bacon in our house.”

  Slowly, carefully, I asked, “Do you want some bacon? We’ve got a bunch at the Grill.”

  “I’m just warning you. You’re welcome to come crash at my place tonight, but you’re going to have to eat vegan lasagna, which sounds more like a myth the more I think about it. I mean, what do you do about the cheese?”

  This. Girl. “I appreciate it but …” My fingers grazed the door handle.

  “I know. I had to offer. Go upstairs and text your boo.”

  On that note I bid her farewell and lugged my bags inside. I was a dirty, grass-stained, high-socked oddity that no one on the casino floor noticed. Vegas.

  My sore legs got me into the elevator, and I considered how I might hibernate in my jetted tub (a perk of living in a hotel suite) without drowning.

  Drawing near my door, key card in hand, a bear’s growl gave me pause.

  No. Not a bear growl. A buzz saw?

  Keying into my room, I found neither a grizzly nor an unmanned power tool, but a missing person. My dad. Zonked out on my bed. He sprawled on his back across my comforter, his legs splayed, and his arms at odd angles. Completely still. A chill sputtered through me. If not for the rhythmic groans escaping his lips, I would’ve been alarmed.

  “Dad.” I nudged his foot with my toe. “Wake up.”

  He tucked his leg to get away.

  “Dad!” Planting a hand in the center of his chest, I rocked him. Remembering the alley, I braced myself for a drunk’s reek: alcohol and BO. He roused while I allowed myself a cautious sniff. The lavender from the hotel’s complimentary soap mixed with a sharp and pleasant cologne dusted the air as he rolled over. His clothes were fresh, if a little wrinkled from sleeping in them. He was clean-shaven. What was this?

  “Hey, babygirl,” he said without opening his eyes. “Wanna grab some dinner?”

  “Ummmm …”

  “We can go wherever you want.” With eyes still closed, his hand burrowed beneath his jacket lapel and returned with a tight tube of bills secured by a rubber band.

  “You’ve been out playing again.” I reached for the latest roll of bills cautiously, in case the prison dog in him snapped at me. He stayed cool when my fingers grazed the money. Then he let it go, forcing me to catch it before it fell on the bed.

  It was as heavy as the rolls of quarters I handled in the business office when counting the drawers from the Grill. The top bill on the roll was a hundred. I resisted the urge to pop the band and count it. Whatever the mix of denominations, it was a lot of money.

  “So,” he said, “about that meal?”

  We ended up at SW Steakhouse inside the Wynn hotel, where they had velvety hand-stitched napkins, crystal water glasses, and a steak that cost two hundred and twenty bucks because the cow was raised in Japan and got daily massages. It was not my choice.

  The Wynn, like most of the hotel/resort titans on the Vegas Strip (and very unlike our one-restaurant, one-lounge-singer setup at Andromeda’s), had a range of excess all on one property. Dozens of dining options and clubs and an amphitheater for hosting megaproduction music and magic shows.

  There were restaurants in the Wynn that didn’t have crazy people prices, like my actual choice, Wazuzu. Home of the most awesome drunken noodles with shrimp that wouldn’t cost us a luxury car payment, thank you. But there was a forty-five-minute wait when we arrived, and Dad heard people talking about the lake view in SW, so he vetoed Wazu
zu. Hard to argue with a newly freed convict.

  When the maître d’ escorted us to a table on the terrace, I was uncomfortable as other patrons shot us questioning looks. Them in suits and fancy going-to-a-show clothes, us too casual. Us, maybe, too brown.

  We were seated and handed our menus, and my stomach promptly sank. We were going to have to redo that same uncomfortable walk once Dad realized how much it would cost to order anything in this place. I prepared my shame-dampening shields while he glanced over the offerings.

  “Anything else for you, sir?” asked the maître d’.

  “We’re good, thanks,” Dad said.

  Our escort left us to it, and I leaned forward, queasy. “We aren’t good, Dad. Did you see how much carrots cost here? More than carrots should!”

  “You’ve still got that cash I gave you, right?”

  Of course. After I showered and changed, I tried to give it back to him, and he told me to hold it for now. Which was a weird way of saying it. What was happening later?

  But, yes, I still had it. I nodded.

  He went under his lapel again and returned with another wad of money. “And I’ve got mine. Like I said, we’re good.”

  I glanced left into the restaurant, where the probably wealthy diners now paid us no mind, then right into the black-mirror water beyond the terrace railing, in case I had to defend that money from the Wynn lake monster. “How much is that?”

  He shrugged. “A little under twenty.”

  “Thousand?” My mind whirred. “The roll you gave me?”

  “A little less.”

  A waiter approached, dressed spiffy enough to attend a church service after his shift. The money Dad had held was gone, returned to his inner pocket.

  “Good evening,” the waiter said. “If I may, I’d like to tell you a bit about the night’s specials and collect your drink orders.”

  “Actually,” Dad said, “you don’t have to bother with the specials. I heard you’ve got those great Kobe steaks here, from the Japanese cows.”

  You would’ve thought Dad told him he had a beautiful baby, the pride he showed. “Absolutely, sir. Best in town.”