He looks again at Corson’s car. It’s angled a bit, the nose pointed down the slope. Clear line to the woods, forty, fifty yards. The trees a dark mass. No lights down there. The clouds hiding the moon, the snow a thin curtain making the house seem hazy in the distance.
He walks toward Corson, keeping an eye on the house. The entire house is built to take advantage of the views of Cortaca, the lake, the university, not to look out over the driveway.
He gets to the body and steels himself. It can’t be worse than a deer: split the skin, slide the knife, the blood hot on your hands, the smell like nothing else.
But Corson is whole.
Nothing spilling out of him. If it weren’t for the way his neck is bent, the dent in his skull, for the utter stillness of Corson’s body, Jessup would think he was simply sleeping.
Somehow, that’s worse.
Jessup is suddenly overcome, runs and stumbles off the side of the driveway, falls to his knees, heaving. He empties his stomach once and then once again, a mix of puke and snot and he’s crying and gasping, and he has the image in his mind of Corson on the sideline after the hit, puking, too.
He can feel the wetness of the snow leaching through the knees of his jeans, his thin gloves, and he scoops a clean handful up and uses it to wipe off his face. The sour taste of sick echoes in his mouth and throat.
Slowly, unaccountably afraid that Corson will suddenly shudder back to life, he approaches the body. He nudges him with his toe. Nothing.
“It was a clean hit,” Jessup says. Or he thinks he says it. He gives Corson’s chest a soft tap with his boot, and says, clearly, deliberately, “It was a clean hit.”
A bang-bang play. Muscle memory and reaction. The ball and then Jessup’s shoulder into Corson’s sternum. The sound of the hit an echo still in Jessup’s head. He didn’t do anything wrong. Nothing to deserve this. Nothing to deserve Corson kicking his taillight in, nothing to deserve Corson calling him out at the party, nothing but bad luck rolling over on Jessup. He knows he didn’t do anything wrong, but he knows that’s not how the world works.
Ricky didn’t do anything wrong either. Changing into his Dickies work shirt in an alley, doing things the right way. People out there sucking off the government’s tit when good white people are working their asses off, that’s what Wyatt says, Ricky leaving his girlfriend’s in the middle of the night to wade in literal shit with David John so that the fine people of Cortaca can eat out without having to worry about what happens when they flush the toilet. Ricky minding his own goddamned business when Jermane Holmes and Blake Liveson jump him. Ricky taking a bottle of beer across the face and then facing off two black kids. If he hadn’t grabbed that pipe wrench, what then? Wyatt asks. It would have been Ricky laid out on the cement, Jessup and Jewel and David John and Cindy crying over a cheap casket, and Holmes and Liveson’s parents ponying up for the fanciest lawyers money can buy.
Bad luck. Bad timing. If Ricky had his shirt on thirty seconds earlier, if he’d lingered in bed with his girlfriend, Stacey, for another minute or two, Liveson and Holmes would have walked on by. Instead of spending twenty years locked away, right now Ricky would be married, Stacey popping out a boy, Jessup an uncle, David John never gone, the business doing well enough that Ricky could have his own van, money for Jessup’s mom to fill her gas tank until the handle clicked off, instead of paying for two gallons at a time. And Jessup wouldn’t be standing here, over the body of a dead black boy.
He can’t call the cops. He knows that. They’ll never believe it was an accident. And if he just drives away, what then? Somebody will find the body soon enough, and then there will be all kinds of fingers pointing at him. He can’t just leave Corson’s body here on the driveway.
He knows what he has to do, but he hesitates. No going back from it.
But he knows he doesn’t really have a choice.
Sink or swim.
Jessup dimly realizes that Corson’s skin is still warm enough to melt the falling snow—his face is wet, but there’s a crust of snow gathering on his clothes. Jessup grabs the collar of Corson’s jacket—his Kilton Valley letter jacket—with one gloved hand and reaches under his armpit with his other hand. Corson is solid. Dead weight. Literally, Jessup thinks, and he has to stifle a laugh. It’s not funny, but he can’t stop himself from snickering.
Jesus Christ, if this were Texas, they’d give him the chair for this. No. Not for this. Not for a black kid. Not in Texas.
But this isn’t Texas. It’s Cortaca.
No way for Jessup to say it was just an accident tonight, Corson was drunk, Corson was kicking his truck and all Jessup tried to do was drive away, nothing malicious; that’s not something anybody will believe.
The hardest part is getting Corson’s body into the car. Jessup opens the door back up and then ends up hoisting Corson onto his shoulder and dumping him into the driver’s seat, straightening him up. He tries shifting the car into neutral, but the lever won’t move. Brake pedal. Have to push down on the brake pedal. He shoves his foot in, his leg sliding over Corson’s, but then he stops. The car is on. Will the air bag go off if the car is on? Will the car brake on its own? This is the type of expensive car that has collision avoidance, all the bells and whistles. Jessup pushes down on the brake pedal, shifts it into neutral, and then he turns off the car. The air bag might still go off, but it will roll free with the engine off, won’t it?
He jumps back and slams the door shut, but nothing happens. The car might as well be a rock.
Parking brake. He opens the door again.
As soon as the parking brake is off, the car starts to move, slowly at first, slow enough for Jessup to close the door and stand back, but then it starts gathering speed, down the hill, the slope getting steeper with every foot the car moves. Jessup figures it’s going close to fifty miles per hour by the time it hits the trees.
He’s surprised by how quiet it is. There’s a metallic disturbance, glass breaking, but it barely carries to him. With the music and people talking, they won’t hear it on the deck.
He realizes he’s just standing there, staring at the woods. He can’t see the car. Can’t see anything. The trees are a dark mass, swallowing everything. An absence in the night.
He waits for another few seconds, but there’s no sound or movement from the house. He could be in another universe. It’s possible none of this ever happened.
His phone buzzes again. He looks at the time. It’s only been a couple of minutes since he walked out. How did time move so slowly? It’s the same message on the lock screen, insistent, reminding him that he hasn’t replied, demanding his attention:
never mind about diner. told m and b we will see them tomorrow. want to go somewhere private instead. just the two of us. come get me!
All he wanted to do after the game was see her, but after what has just happened, he doesn’t know if he. . . .
come get me!
He can’t go home. Not right now. It’s been, what, five minutes since he walked out of the party? Less? Everybody saw him leave. There’s the picture with the guys from the team, and that’s posted online, easy to confirm date and time. And the texts from Deanne. Only a small, small window for what happened with Corson. Everything that happened, his whole life out the window, three minutes since Corson rolled up? All he has to do is account for that small gap of time. All he has to do is be able to say that he had nothing to do with it, that everybody saw Corson drinking, what does it matter if he and I were arguing, the guy drives drunk and bad things happen, his girlfriend and buddies trying to get the keys off him but they’re the ones who let him drive away, so how is that my fault, and besides, I was here and then I was with my girlfriend, no, what happened with Corson was the obvious, a tragic accident, a lesson to all the other kids out there about the perils of alcohol, and what does that have to do with me? But if he goes home, there’s the whole night wide open, hours
and hours when anything could have happened. If he picks up Deanne, then every minute is accounted for. That’s what he tells himself, but it’s not true. What’s true is that he wants to see her.
come get me!
Needs to see her.
already on my way. snow sucks. slow driving
don’t text while you’re driving
I’ll text when I get there
Jessup gets back in his truck and drives away.
PEARL STREET
He parks a block over, on Pearl Street, in front of the church. He’s got acid in his throat from puking, and he digs through the glove box until he finds a tin of Altoids, throws a handful in his mouth and starts chewing.
He leaves the truck running, the heater blowing, and texts her. Turns off the lights. The truck is old enough that there are no automatic lights, and there are no streetlights on Pearl, so it’s a heavy darkness. He wishes there were streetlights: he likes watching the snow fall through the artificial light, the way each piece is its own individual thing but also part of something larger.
There are a couple of parked cars along the way, but it’s basically deserted. A few porch lights are on, but the houses are all sealed up tight for the night. A good neighborhood with good people, the kind of people who are asleep after midnight on a Friday night, Saturday a day for errands and taking the kids to practice and the library and finally getting around to fixing that loose stair tread, why don’t we bake cookies this afternoon, go see a movie, do you need help with your homework?
He gets out of the truck and walks over to a row of bushes beside the church. He’s got to take a piss, the beer working its way through him. It’s a relief letting go. His hands are shaking. He can’t stop his hands from shaking.
He finishes and then walks back to the truck. He puts his hand on the door handle and then hesitates, looks back at the bed of the truck. What would he see if there were streetlights, if he took a look? The back corner of his truck. Broken taillight and what else? But before he can pull out his phone to turn on the flashlight, he sees Deanne rounding the corner and heading to him.
She’s on him quick, sliding her arms through the open jacket and around his waist. She’s all cinnamon gum, her lips warm, tongue flicking against his teeth.
She pulls back. “Have you been drinking? You taste like mint and beer. It’s gross.”
“I had a couple of beers. And some Altoids.” At least he’s covered the worst of his sins.
She’s got her hips pressed against his, and his arms are over her shoulders. His back is against the driver’s door, solid, propping him up. He likes the way she leans into him, like she’s his and he is hers, and he realizes his hands have stopped shaking.
Her hand snakes up under his T-shirt, her fingertips cool on his lower back. “I thought you didn’t drink.”
“I don’t,” Jessup says. “Not really.”
She crinkles her nose but she’s smiling, full of theatrics. “Your breath stinks. Blech. Beer.” She reaches into her purse, a canvas satchel, and pulls out a pack of gum. She pops a piece into his mouth, and once he’s taken a few chews, she kisses him again, both of them tasting now of cinnamon.
“You don’t mind blowing off Megan and Brooke?”
“Would you rather go to the diner, or would you rather go park in the woods somewhere and have sex?”
“Yeah. Well.”
“You’re shivering.”
Shaking, not shivering, Jessup thinks, but he says, “It’s cold out here. But it’s warm in the truck.”
She giggles and then kisses him. “I told them we’ll meet tomorrow after work. Unless, you know, you’d really rather . . .”
“No, no, no,” he says quickly. “I’m fine with skipping the diner.”
SOFT
He can’t believe it’s only twelve fifteen by the time they’re pulled into the woods. It feels like it’s been a thousand years since he walked out the door of Victoria Wallace’s house. But it’s a completely different world here, parked in the woods with Deanne. Here, he can believe that nothing happened, that everything is going to be okay.
In the summer, he wouldn’t come here—there’s a trail down to the reservoir, where high school kids and college students go to swim and drink beer even though there’s signs everywhere warning that it’s dangerous, and every once in a while, the cops break things up—but with the snow and the cold, they’ll have privacy. The dirt road runs fifty feet off the main road into a gravel parking lot. With the trees, once you’re parked, you can’t even see the main road.
“Leave the truck running, okay?”
She’s not the first girl he’s slept with. Claire Reynolds in ninth grade was the first. They dated from Christmas through the end of the summer. Then last year, for a couple of months, Marissa Wells. Nice enough girl, hot as hell, but being with her was too easy. She never seemed to have any opinions of her own, and he could tell she was only sleeping with him because she thought that’s what she was supposed to do. After that, off and on, Emily Bell. They were never really dating, but by then he could drive and had his truck, and her parents were never around. She’d let him come over and do whatever he wanted as long as he did what she wanted in return, her red hair dripping over his stomach, splayed on the pillow, telling him where to touch and how.
And yet, for all of that, he’s always taken by surprise by how soft girls are. Deanne’s just finished cross-country season—she’s good enough that if she wants to run for a D-III college, she can—and she runs distance during track season, so she’s strong and lean. But still. She leans back her seat as far as it will go, pulls him across. He tries to keep his weight on his elbow, knows he’s twice her weight, runs his hand up under her shirt, her skin radiating heat, and even though he can feel the muscle under her skin, when his hand passes over her ribs and over her bra, he’s stunned once again at the give of her flesh.
She’s got one hand around the back of his neck, pulling him in to kiss her, her other hand working at his jacket, pulling it off. He props himself up, shrugs off the jacket, and then she’s peeling off his T-shirt. She slides her hands up his sides, brings one hand across and over, traces his nipple, then leans forward and touches it with the tip of her tongue.
It’s awkward, of course, simply because of their ages and because they are new at this—Deanne’s only slept with one other boy, and that was only a couple of times—and because they are new at this specifically with each other. It doesn’t help that Jessup’s truck doesn’t have an extended cab, that there’s no backseat, that the passenger seat only reclines so far, a forty-five-degree angle. They kiss and touch each other, Deanne’s shirt and bra off, and then struggle to turn, so now Jessup is on the bottom, his back against the seat, Deanne letting her full weight press down on him. He can’t believe how warm she feels, her breasts against his chest.
He reaches down, slides his hand past the waistband of her leggings, loves the way she takes a sharp breath when he touches her, the wetness against his fingers. She’s got her mouth against his neck, moves it up against his ear, and then lets him peel her leggings and underwear off. They’re frantic now, her hands scrabbling at the button of his jeans, he helps to push them down around his ankles, and then there’s a pause.
She pulls a condom out of her bag, tears it open. She’s looking at Jessup and Jessup’s looking at her, and she laughs a little as she tries to figure out which way to unroll it. He can hear himself let out a moan as she puts it on him, and then she straddles him, reaches down and guides him inside her.
She has her eyes closed now, and he watches her. Loves the way she bites her lip a bit, the way her eyes aren’t just closed but are clenched. She starts slow, moves faster, grinding herself against him. He reaches down like Emily Bell taught him to—not that he’d tell Deanne that—and helps her along. Soon enough they’re both gasping, Deanne shuddering and letting out a small cry, Jessup right
behind her.
They stay still for a few minutes. Deanne is panting, her breath coating his neck, her lips occasionally touching his skin, tickling. He’s got his arms wrapped around her back, likes just staying there, inside of her, the two of them with nowhere to go.
QUESTIONS
Jessup? I . . .”
“Yeah?”
She straightens up now, rocks back, kneeling over him, looking down into his eyes. He smiles at her and she smiles back, but then whatever she was going to say disappears.
“What?” he says.
“Nothing.” She reaches down and holds the condom steady while she gets off him. It’s awkward again, the two of them squashed into one seat. He peels the condom off, knots it, tosses it on the floor. He’ll stop somewhere and chuck it in the trash on the way home. The wrapper, too. Has the image of Jewel finding the wrapper—or worse, the condom—and asking him what it is. Doesn’t want to have that conversation.
She’s curled up in his lap now, her arm around his neck. He can’t believe how comfortable he is. He could sleep like this, but she seems wide awake.
“What were you going to say?” Jessup asks.
“Was that your dad? Sitting with your mom and your sister?”
Jessup can’t stop himself from stiffening. She feels it.
“Was that what you were going to say?”
“Sorry,” she says.
“No. It’s okay. It’s just . . .”
It’s not something they’ve talked about. If anything, they’ve gone out of their way not to talk about it. They’d known each other before working at the movie theater together—film study at Coach Diggins’s house, and even though the Diggins family moved to Cortaca only last year, Cortaca High School is less than 1,500 students, the size where nobody is really unfamiliar—but they’d never exchanged more than a few words until, suddenly, magically, they were dating.
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