Overturned

by Lamar Giles

  Molly, still texting, said, “How about you focus on Cardinal Graham now and worry about Cam Newton later?”

  “I could say the same about you. You’ve been way preoccupied ever since you and—”

  The vicious look she shot him shut him down mid-sentence.

  “You and who, Molly Martel?” I asked.

  She was silent, sneering at Gavin, who’d obviously let something out of the bag. I wasn’t used to being uninformed when it came to these two. I’d been gone for days, physically and mentally. The effects of my grief-induced absence were showing, despite their best efforts to camouflage.

  “You and who?” I asked again, edging irritation.

  She held up her phone. “There’s a party in the Ridges tomorrow. I’ve been texting Cedric.”

  “Davis’s brother?” A dumb question with a stupidly obvious answer. They were texting now?

  Gavin stopped rubbing his shoulder and focused on passing traffic. He wasn’t a car-crazy guy, and none of those passing were all that interesting anyway. His and Molly’s weirdo bucking-against-the-walls-of-the-Friend-Zone thing again. I waffled between feeling sympathy and frustration for Gavin.

  Today was a sympathy day, though.

  “Cedric’s old, Molly,” I pointed out.

  “He’s, like, a college student.”

  “No. He’s the age of a college student. But he’s unlike a college student because he’s not in college.”

  “So. What. When we were freshmen, you dated that senior.”

  “He was on the chess team.”

  “I fail to see your point. It sounds like you want to keep the Carlinos all to yourself.”

  Big Bert’s rose hissing along the surface of Dad’s coffin was like a ghost’s whisper in my ear. “That’s not true.”

  “I can’t tell. You give me a hard time, you gotta do the same thing to Gavin. He’s trying to steal your boyfriend.”

  “Whatever,” Gavin said.

  “He and Davis are besties now,” Molly said with a smirk.

  I hit Gavin with a What’s up? shrug.

  “Davis is cool. He caught me in the hall the other day and made a really awesome offer. Team dinner at his dad’s hotel the night before the Cardinal Graham game. Coach cosigned and the guys went crazy. They might vote him MVP.”

  “So he bribed you.”

  “He said it was your idea.”

  Okay, maybe it was. Wasn’t going to admit it.

  “You talk to him lately?” he asked.

  If Gavin really had been spending time with Davis this week, I suspected he knew the answer. Aside from the occasional text, no.

  Ignoring the question, I turned to Molly. “Doesn’t let you off the hook. Cedric Carlino’s, like, an adult. Is what you’re doing even legal?”

  “Yes,” Molly said calmly. “Text messages are absolutely legal. Drop it, Tate, because you’re burying the lede. Party. In the Ridges. Tomorrow. We’re going.”

  The anxiety over the proposition stabbed me in the gut, twisted the blade. “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t have to think. I’ve already made the decision for you.” She stared up at Andromeda’s unlit silhouette. “Let us take you away from this for a while.”

  When she said it like that, I knew she was right. I still wanted to argue and disagree, to show some sort of resistance to forces around me. Fatigue set in, making my back stiff and arms heavy. They’d done their jobs to the best of their abilities. With the exception of Gavin’s team dinner, Bert Carlino’s funeral appearance didn’t come up once. It was a nice break. But I’d be thinking on it most of the night.

  “I’m tired, guys.”

  “Go. Rest up,” Molly said. “No excuses tomorrow. The crew is partying.” She tossed keys to Gavin. “Pull up the car, Jeeves.”

  “It’s right there.”

  Her eye roll nearly tipped her head off her neck. “Can you drive? My feet hurt.”

  He rose, huffed, and gave me a quick hug before taking the driver’s seat. When Molly stood, I did, too. Her hug was long, her hand rubbing a circle on my back. “Love you, girl.”

  “Back at you.”

  Once in the passenger seat, her and Gavin’s bickering continued all the way out of the Loop, the old married couple that they were.

  Trying to hang on to that thought—because it was a good one, one that made me happy—was like holding on to smoke once I crossed the casino’s threshold. Nothing about home felt the same after you put a parent in the ground.

  Everything inside was normal. People gaming. Folks checking into their rooms. None of them knew Nathan Tate had ever been here.

  The service elevator doors closed, but I didn’t select my floor. My finger hovered, then dropped, poking the button for the floor below mine.

  On that hall, I forced myself forward, removing a key card from my bag. It wasn’t Nikki the Resident’s key, which opened my room and my room alone. It was a master key, for managers only, which was a close enough title for all I did around the place. With it, I could enter any guest room. When we were younger, Molly and I used such a key to play hide-and-seek in empty rooms. In recent years, I’ve grown to understand the sacred responsibility of such access and have only used it while performing necessary duties.

  Not that day.

  At Dad’s door I didn’t hesitate. A swipe of the card and electronic chirp later, I was inside.

  The room had been made up. Crisp linen, new towels, open drapes. Sunlight bathed me in warmth I didn’t necessarily want. A set of mirrored double doors concealed a closet. Inside, I found all new clothes dangling from hangers, most with the tags still on. I fingered the tail of a red button-up before smushing my face in the fabric. Inhaling deeply, I searched for a trace of him. Nothing. Only off-the-rack starch.

  Below the garments, on the floor, was a pile of discarded items. Dirty clothes he hadn’t gotten to the laundry room before …

  Kneeling, I shuffled through the pile until I came upon a shirt I recognized. A blue cotton Hensley. He’d worn it the night he took me to North Town. I sniffed and got a blast of all that I wanted. The new cologne we got him. Those sweet-tinged cigarettes.

  With both hands I pressed that shirt into my chest, hard, fighting my stubborn sternum. The battle was a draw and I took the shirt to his bed, crawled on top of the comforter, stared out at the Vegas horizon, and cried. All the things my friends protected me from were here now. They consumed me.

  Molly leaned across Gavin’s lap, ogling me through the passenger window. “Dang, girl. That outfit is fire!”

  It was. Black jeans, wedge Air Jordans, two layered tank tops to show off how soccer-ripped I was, and a set of mango wood bracelets rattling along my forearm. The real secret, though … a bath, shampoo, deep conditioner, and a blowout that had my typically poofy hair swooping downward, grazing my shoulders, completing my masquerade as the old me. It was, by far, the best effort I’d put into my appearance in a week. No one would know eight hours before my superfly return to society, I was in my dad’s room, wearing his old shirt and rewatching his press conference for the hundredth time. Dan Harris had been right beside him. They’d been smiling like friends. What changed?

  Molly didn’t park, no space. It was Saturday night, crowded, typically an all-hands-on-deck situation. Part of me hoped it’d be enough to make Mom keep me home, working, since we’d both been MIA most of the week.

  But master strategist Molly was a step ahead of me. That snitch told my mom we had plans, an insurance policy. Mom insisted I go. So committed to us returning to some sort of normalcy, she even did my makeup.

  So, party time. Yay?

  Gavin climbed down from the shotgun seat. Like Cinderella’s hound dog footman, he held the back door and helped me into the carriage.

  “Look at you,” he said. “I hope Davis ain’t the type to get jelly, ’cause you about to turn heads.”

  Davis. Yes, he’d be there. He made it clear in several texts today. I should be looking forward to
seeing him. My texts back to him indicated I would. The last time we saw each other was the night of the car-destroying make-out, but that was before I’d discovered my dad’s fate. Would Davis really want to see this version of me?

  We’d know soon enough.

  The best homes in the Ridges were too sick. Mansions, not McMansions. Real deal. High end. The funny thing about the neighborhood is it’s built on what used to be barren desert. Supposedly, a lot of missing person cases would be solved if anyone ever bulldozed the mini estates and dug up the foundations.

  Even the legend of a Mafia graveyard wasn’t enough to discourage semi-regular debauchery when absentee parents do what they do. Someone threw a Poltergeist-themed party last Halloween, with a prize for the best dead mobster costume and a drinking game where players took a shot every time someone said “Fugettaboutit!”

  Tonight’s host was Brady Bolls. His dad specialized in marketing oddball tourist attractions, big business in Vegas. Brady, like Davis, was one of Vista’s wealthy elite. Unlike Davis, he wasn’t a Cardinal Graham transplant but a refugee from several prestigious private schools across the country. He’s known as the Expulsion King—a nickname he might’ve given himself. While never a Cardinal Graham Griffin, he was neighbor to plenty of them. If you partied with him—and trust me, you wanted to party with him—you put rivalries aside. Them’s the rules.

  The arching driveway fronting the house, a mini suburban version of Andromeda’s Loop, was packed with double-parked cars. In the space between vehicles, people milled.

  “This is a high school party,” I said, recognizing the usual suspects while Molly parked on the street.

  “We’re in high school, so that works,” she said.

  “I thought you said Cedric told you about it?”

  “No. I was texting Cedric, and I told him.”

  Not that I was looking to party with older guys, but something seemed off. I attempted replaying yesterday’s exchange in my head. Gavin’s whole You’ve been way preoccupied ever since you and— thing that made Molly get twitchy. Maybe I heard her wrong, or interpreted it wrong. A minor distinction that shouldn’t bug me. But tiny things bugged me more and more lately.

  I shelved it when we stepped from the car and found ourselves in the company of several Lady Griffin soccer players and their boyfriends. Stink-eyes popped like spring blossoms, but that was the extent of it. On the way to the party entrance, a few mouth breathers from the CG football team recognized Gavin and began grumble posturing.

  Things improved inside among more familiar faces. Plenty of VR Lions were in the house, along with popular friendlies from other high schools around town. Gavin broke off for bro hugs with teammates and city All-Stars.

  Molly, perhaps fearing I’d bolt, cuffed my wrist and towed me through the crowd. My stomach plummeted as though she’d pulled me off a skyscraper.

  Confession: I didn’t want to be the Mood Killer. What if my casual associate classmates squirmed in the presence of Dead Dad Nikki? The news would’ve been all over the school, particularly in my absence when no one need worry they’d be caught talking behind my back.

  Eventually, we came across one of our teammates, Taylor, two-stepping with a boy in a Las Vegas High School Wrestling T-shirt. Molly leaned in and asked, “You seen Davis Carlino?”

  Taylor pointed away. “In the kitchen with the presidents.”

  Molly course-corrected and plowed us through a brightly lit doorway where a loose congregation leaned on counters, chatting and laughing. A steady flow of attendees refilled drinks from a forest of bottles atop a tile island. With prime space by the Sub-Zero fridge, Davis carried on an animated conversation, all hands and shoulders, with Sarah Parsons, our class president, and her girlfriend/vice president, Morgan Monroe. They were VR’s It couple, and Davis was working them.

  “… I know most people go into class politics on false promises. Better cafeteria food, less homework. What if you really could pull off all that good stuff? With the proper connections—”

  He noticed the presidents noticing us, turned, his pitchman smile faded. “Nikki.”

  His arms were around me before I could think or move. He felt good, better than anyone should feel when their texts have been basically ignored for a week.

  “Are you okay?” he said, then quickly followed with, “No. Of course not. Forget I asked.”

  He backed away but kept his hands on my shoulders. I glanced left to get a read on Molly, but she’d Batman vanished on me.

  President Sarah tapped Davis’s shoulder. “You’ve got a lot of good ideas. Wanna talk more later?”

  “Definitely.”

  Sarah and Morgan, hand in hand, disappeared among gyrating shadows. I steeled myself for normal, pleasant conversation. Ended up in immediate awkward silence.

  Davis spoke first. “I’ve got some good news for you. Been saving it to tell you in person.”

  “Okay.”

  “We got an A on our project.”

  Had I misheard him? The music was very loud. “How could we get an A when I didn’t do anything?”

  A shrug.

  “You shouldn’t let me take credit for your work. If you finished it on your own, you deserve, like, extra points.”

  Another shrug. “Too late. I’ve moved on. Reactivity of metals is so yesterday. All about those ionic bonds now.”

  “Is that really a thing?”

  “I think I saw it in a chapter.”

  “Well, thank you for that.” Before another lull crested, I added, “You tight with the presidents now? You’ve come a long way from the whole school wanting to string you up.”

  Grinning, he said, “Yes, I have ascended into the ranks of acceptance. Thanks to your suggestion.”

  “The football dinner thing. Gavin told me.”

  “He’s a cool dude. Couldn’t have done it without him vouching.”

  “True and true.”

  Our conversation stalled. The DJ mixed in a new track, and I tried covering the break by singing along. Davis bobbed awkwardly offbeat and plunged both hands into his pockets.

  Grasping for something to keep the conversation alive, I said, “So, did your brother bring you or did you steal another ride?”

  Davis rolled his eyes. “Ced’s here. Taking advantage of all the opportunity.”

  “Sounds creepy when you put it like that.”

  “Oh no. I mean, he might have some flirty thing going on with Molly, for sure. But he’s not trying to pull high school girls like some perv. He’s a party promoter—like, it’s his hustle—and this is the Ridges. A lot of young people with money here.”

  “Wait. He’s networking?” Cocktail mixers in Andromeda’s conference rooms came to mind, and clashed with images of Davis’s ripped and tatted brother bouncing around a high school party.

  “It’s the Carlino way. He thinks if he can build relationships with some of these kids when they’re young, it’ll carry over when it’s time for graduation and birthday bash bookings.”

  “That’s kind of smart.”

  “Please don’t tell him that. Both his head and mine have to fit in the car tonight. You thirsty?” He grabbed a cup off the island, emptied the remains of an orange juice container into it. He did not add booze.

  I passed, and he sipped, then said, “Ced’s good at the business stuff. It’s what our dad pushes on us. Heirs to the throne.”

  He stared into the cup, contemplating something, then returned to the island to tip some tequila into his juice.

  Apparently, mentioning his dad made him as uncomfortable as it made me.

  “Let’s find Molly. Okay?” I took off without waiting to see if Davis was following me.

  I picked a path and came to a carpeted staircase, followed soft flickering light up and into a rec room that set my stomach flip-flopping.

  It was Man Cave Chic. Movie posters, pennants, a sign reading “In Dog Beers, I’ve Only Had One”—whatever that meant. Of course, the requisite tech. A 108-inch mov
ie screen and ceiling-mounted projector. Old-school Pac-Man and Galaga game consoles that people leaned against or sat their drinks on. The centerpiece … a card table.

  Five players occupied it. A couple of them tossed big and small blinds into the pot, while Brady shuffled and flung them two cards each. Cedric, laughing and chatting with Molly, peeled up the corners of his hole cards, grimaced, and folded immediately.

  Molly waved Davis and me over. The closer we got to the cards, the harder it was to hear the music downstairs.

  Cedric turned toward me. “Deal you in the next hand?”

  I had cash in my pocket, a hundred bucks or so. A yes bubbled on my lips, but not beyond. The last time I played was with Dad. “No thanks.”

  “You sure?” Cedric said. “I still got money you can take. Better you than these guys.”

  A few chuckles around the table. Cedric’s chip pile was relatively low compared to some of the others. Brady; another kid in my year; Justin Simms of Simms Family Car Dealerships (“Las Vegas’s One Stop Vehicle Shop”); Rashawn, one of Gavin’s teammates; and a player I’d never seen before.

  Still, I didn’t have it in me. I shook my head and sidled closer to Molly, trembling. She gave me an up-and-down look, then stretched her eyes wide. A silent Are you okay?

  I nodded. I’m fine. No worries. The rage barely sparked that time.

  “You’re lucky she’s allowing you all to not go home broke,” Molly said with a smug grin.

  “Coach me, then,” Cedric said. “I could use your help getting my dough back.”

  “No way!” Brady said, backed up by the rest of the table. As it should be. You play your own cards.

  Cedric, conceding to the rules of engagement, said, “All right, all right. Brady, remember this when it’s time to book your eighteenth birthday bash. You think you can do this well in the High Roller Room at the Nysos?”

  Davis leaned into me. “He’s always hustling.”

  I couldn’t tell if that tinge in his voice was admiration or jealousy.

  The game continued and Molly carried the conversation with Davis wholly. My attention was split, my major focus on the happenings at the table. Cedric really could use the coaching. Any hand he didn’t fold, he lost. Brady initiated these games at every party. I’ve played with him enough to know he’s mediocre at best, occasionally stumbling into lucky wins. Justin Simms didn’t protect his hole cards. I wasn’t even trying and I saw everything he had for the last three hands.