by Rebecca Ryan
As he steps inside, he yells, "Stop it!" as I twist up and almost whack my head on the ceiling. He drops me unceremoniously to the floor.
He's breathing hard now, and I realize I've probably kicked him in the stomach more than a few times. He grips my shoulders and gives me a shake. "Stop it! I was saving you from yourself."
As soon as he let's go, I take a step back and start in on him. "What the hell is going on? What was that all about?"
He's shutting his blinds all over the apartment. "You have no idea what you got yourself into."
A strand of my hair floats in front of my eyes and I shove it back. "I know what I want," I yell, though not loud enough. "I want to be in the Hooks."
Done with his shuttering, he faces me, shaking his head. "I want to know exactly what you're doing. Because this is bullshit." He says this so quietly, so deadly, that for a moment all I hear is my heart thudding in my chest. "Do you know what happens when you roll the die?"
"You don’t know anything about me." I want him to know that I almost relish a beating, if that's what I'd get. I want the shit kicked out of me. It was my fault my brother was walking across the street that night. My fault he's dead. My fault he was caught in crossfire between the Hooks and the Wyrms.
Stone's quiet voice continues. "They don’t beat you. It’s a sex-in. The number you roll is the number of guys who get to rape you. You roll a four, four guys rape you. You rolled a five," he jerks his head. "You actually got a five. That means Shreves and four other assholes would have had you on that bar."
My legs are water, jelly, boneless, I feel a sudden drop as blood drains from my skull. A wave of nausea suddenly stains the back of my throat with bile and I watch as the floor seems to fly up to meet my face.
Stone catches me. Maybe it's the ebb and flow of adrenaline, hanging over his shoulder, my near faint, but everything comes up. The little food I've had today splatters on his arms and I am so sorry. I'm so sorry for everything, for kicking him, not trusting him and I keep saying "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm sorry," and now I'm crying. He leads me somewhere but then when I try to stand, the nausea flows again and this time, mercifully, my body just decides to shut down. The room spins for an ugly moment, I look up and try to say his name, and then, with my heart racing in my chest, the blackness wells up starting along the edges of my vision and I fall into a deep, terrible abyss.
I must only be out for a moment because now I'm sitting on the toilet lid with my head between my legs. Stone runs water in the sink and then he lifts my head, holding my chin in his hand, wiping my face with a cold, wet washcloth.
"You're okay," he says. Over and over and he's so gentle, I'm afraid I will start to cry again.
"Can you sit up?"
I try to smile but my lips tremble and I have to wipe both eyes with both hands.
"Here," he says, gently pushing me back to a sitting position. "Swish this around in your mouth and then spit into this one." He's holding out two little plastic cups, one with mouthwash and one empty. Moving to take them both, my tears run hot and heavy when I understand he will hold them for me. I do what he says and then he wipes my mouth.
"I'm sorry," I say, hiccupping a little trying to suppress a sob.
"Sorry for what? You're doing fine."
"For lying to you."
"We'll talk about that later."
This surprises me. It's like he knows I haven’t been truthful. What else does he know?
"I'm going to go clean up in the kitchen," he says. "But here's some bottles of shampoo and conditioner for you," and he hands me two bottles from under the sink. I notice the cupboard doesn’t have a handle, just two screw holes where there once was one. "And a toothbrush."
He gets the water running for me. "You need any help . . . " he asks, his voice trailing off. He means do I need help undressing.
I shake my head, and a wave of dizziness warps the room. "But keep the door open a crack?" I ask. "In case I get sick again."
The shampoo smells delicious, like coconut and limes and the conditioner is even more coco-nutty. My legs, though getting their strength back, still shake when I lift one to wash between. I haven’t had a proper bath in a week, and this feels delicious. I leave the conditioner in for a long time, letting the hot water splash over my neck and back. Then I rinse off and turn the handle hard to "Off."
When I step out of the shower, I see a paper bag in the sink. Inside is a small tube of shea butter lotion, rose scented. Not the cheap stuff. I kind of want to cry again. And there's clothes in there too, a pair of clean navy-blue sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. I slip them on and cinch up the sweat pants as much as I can, rolling up both the legs and the sleeves. These are all his clothes and they are way too big. But they're clean and soft and feel lovely against my skin.
By the time I've wandered out to the kitchen counter, he has a bar stool pulled up and a big salad made and some shredded poached chicken and mayo which sounds awful, but it had garlic in it like an aioli and it’s so good, so delicious, I can feel tears well again. He pulls out half an avocado and starts to slice it in the skin, then turns and dumps the whole thing on my plate, as I'm eating.
I sigh. A bit too loudly because his head snaps over to look at me. "Feel better?"
"Why are you doing this?"
"Lots of reasons." He licks a finger and settles in the barstool next to me and stabs a hunk of chicken. "One, because you're not from here," he begins, waving his fork, "Two, no woman, no girl, no guy, should ever be raped. When I was young, I stood by and watched two girls get gang raped. And I did nothing," he finishes around a mouthful. "I did nothing to protect them. I was scared shitless. I walked away. I left the room and shut the door behind me. It's one of the reasons I joined the gym. They've been doing this for a decade. Roll the die."
"It’s an initiation thing then."
Nodding he explains, "It’s a gang rape."
"What did they do to you?"
Seeming to make some decision, he stands. "This," he says, and peels off his shirt. Standing under the strong light, I can see little scars all over his back, with some larger scars across his shoulder blades and another, slightly raised one that looks like a stab wound.
My eyes must have held the question.
"I rolled a five too."
I still can't piece it together.
Stretching the shirt back over his massive torso, he lines up the dots for me. "Whoever showed up for the initiation got to beat the shit out of me. For five minutes. Shreves has a timed buzzer. I nearly died. Coach got me to a hospital."
I blanked. Coach?
"Coach at the gym."
The little wiry black guy who told Shreves off yesterday.
I want to cry. I want to cry that I ever doubted him. I want to cry for the pain he went through. And I want to cry for the pain I'm going through right now. But crying isn’t going to help anyone. I want to know more.
So does he.
"Here's the thing. I want to know why you're here."
Guilt washes over me like yellow paint.
"What is in it for you? Why do you want to join this gang? Because I don't really think you do. I think this's all a front."
Now he attacks his salad with a thin fork. "This is all some sort of plan you have. What are you? Some rookie cop in too deep? You don't even look old enough to be a cop. Are you in high school?"
I stare at him. "I'm not a cop. And I'm certainly not in high school."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty."
"Really?"
"Really."
"You look about fourteen."
"I'm dressing younger to get in."
He looks like he doesn’t believe me. I was dressing down though. Shreves wouldn’t take me if was older than fifteen—they want young girls they can manipulate.
"Nobody from around here is going to use 'peripatetic' and have the manners you have. So, what gives?"
I feel like shit. I'm tired of lying. Tired of lying
to my parents. Tired of lying to my friends. The shower I had seems a long time ago and I feel dirty again with my own dirty stories.
Playing around with my salad, I take a deep breath as if to force the words out. I'm afraid if I stop talking, I won't finish. "My brother was killed in crossfire, two years ago. September third."
Stone shifts his weight and his mouth opens slightly. "What?"
"My brother, Sam, was caught in crossfire."
"Sam Watson was your brother?"
Now it’s my turn to be startled. How long has he been out of the gang? That's the only way he'd know his name. I sucked I my breath and tried to stay calm.
"He was caught in crossfire between the Hooks and the Wyrms. He was going to NYU, crossing the street. He was dropping off a movie at my friend's house because I was too lazy. Guns went off, and he caught a bullet in his head and he died right there on the street. Just saying it makes me sick to my stomach. It's been twenty-four months. Every day I think about it. Every day." I shake my head, determined not to cry again. "And the missing him, the grief, the guilt, never lets up. Not once. It was my friend's house he was walking to and my movie I was loaning her. I was just too busy to go, and he offered." I slow down now. I've never said any of this out loud before. "Otherwise, it would've been me in the street that night."
"So. You're trying to find out who shot him."
Setting down my fork, I just go on, "He was my only sibling. And I miss him every single day. Every. Single. Day."
Stone's voice is soft. "And what are you going to do about it?"
"I have it on good authority that the bullet came from the Hooks."
"You do?"
"There's a detective who felt sorry for me. She says the gossip on the street was that the Hooks shot him and then tried to pin it on the Wyrms." Fear wells up inside, but as usual, the needing-to-find-justice part of me takes over.
"I don't know who did it," Stone says, standing, plate in hand and walks to the sink. "If I did, I'd tell you." He turns around, arms crossed, leaning against the counter. "So, again, what's your plan?"
This surprises me. I thought he was going to talk me out of something, tell me I'm being stupid. That I shouldn't be in such a dangerous place. But he just pulls out a cutting board and starts chopping up carrots and an onion he selects from the narrow little fridge.
"I don't know. I don't know what I'm going to do. All I know is, becoming a member is the best way to find out who did it."
"And then what's next?"
He's acting as if I have some plans worthy of discussion. I shrug.
"Well, you'd—" he tosses the carrots in with onions. There's a loud hissing and spattering in the pan, "better come up with a plan, of what happens next," he says, and this time he doesn't seem so conversational.
Sensing some kind of dismissal, I set my jaw. "I'm gonna find out who killed my brother."
Stirring the carrots and onions for a moment, he follows up with, "And then what? You gonna kill him? Them?"
I knew I must have looked horrified. "No. I'm not going to kill anyone. I don't kill people. I'm against the death penalty for Chrissakes. I just want them brought to justice. I want to somehow get evidence and—"
"Like someone's just going to hand over information? Like you're some Nancy Drew?" Setting the spoon down hard on the counter, his face is set and his jaw clenches. "It doesn't work that way."
"You know what? You don't know what I'm going through. Let me just do this on my own."
"Do it on your own? You almost ended up gang-raped." He looks right at me and those blue eyes burning. This time, there's a little spot of color in his face. "The world of gangs is not for the faint-hearted. People, movies, TV romanticize it. They think it's cool. Or that it's, you know, a way to adulthood. Being in a gang is shitty. It's just plain shitty. You do stuff you never dreamed you'd ever do. You're hanging out with people who are assholes. With no regard for human life, or property, or the environment or anything. It's a cult mentality. And there's a pecking order. It's shit. I hated it. I hated every minute of it. And I didn't even know how much I hated it until I was out. Once you're in it’s as hard as shit to get out." He paused. "You don’t want in."
"How, exactly did Coach get you out then?"
Ignoring the question, he just keeps talking. "Shreve would shoot me and the other recruit high with amphetamines to keep us jacked. I was crashing once, when Coach found me. And took a decade to extricate me."
I push my plate away and he takes it to the sink. Setting the pan down in front of both of us, he hands my fork back.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I'm so sorry."
He stabbed a few carrots on his fork. "The last thing you should've done is join a gang."
And that's when I realize something. "I'm in aren’t I?"
Stone says nothing and then a chill runs down my spine and my mind clutters instantly with thoughts that all resonate with a dark, ominous beat behind them. I realize what he's done. What he's done for me.
"You rejoined the gang, didn't you? So Shreve wouldn't have first dibs on me."
He shrugs his shoulders.
I watch him swallow.
"Eat your carrots. Listen, I did what I had to do. Shreves came around yesterday looking for me. I said no. But this? You?" He pauses. "No, I couldn’t let them do that to you. The moment I rolled the die I was back in. It was bound to happen anyway. Once in a gang, always in a gang."
My heart is breaking. He's been clean for two years, two years away from Shreves and the Hooks and now because of me, he's now a member again. Because of me. What had I done? I put this poor guy up against these people he hated.
My body slides stiffly from the barstool. "I can't deal with this right now. I need to go to bed."
He's instantly up, moving quickly, gracefully, pulling out a fresh sheet from a shelf and snapping it open over the sofa, then a blue comforter and he takes out a fresh pillow.
"Go ahead. There's the sofa."
After brushing my teeth with my new toothbrush, I slide under the covers keeping the sweatpants on. Stone is cleaning up in the kitchen and I see he's made a nest for himself on the floor with two other blankets, one to use as a bed and a second, a quilt, to use as a cover. Another pillow rests on the floor. Tig comes over and lays right in the middle, making himself at home. His little pink mouth spreads open in a yawn.
Leaning over, I scoop him off the pillow and into my stomach. I can’t see Stone from where I'm resting on my back. But I can hear him.
"Stone. Please tell me, please tell me, you're not going to go through with this. You don’t have to get re-initiated do you? You aren't going to get beat up because of me are you?"
His silence is not reassuring.
"Just tell me you're not going to do that."
"Don't worry. I don’t have to."
But I can tell there's something else.
He comes back around to the sofa and sits at the end. He's choosing his words very, very carefully. "Shreves has asked me to do something. It’s not a big deal and then I'll figure a way out again." There's something in the way he glances at me and I piece together what he's going to do.
"You're going to throw a fight?"
"Shreves will let me go after this one. It’s just one."
He's lying. I can tell, because he's looking straight ahead at the closed blinds.
Sitting up, I wrap my arms around my knees. "And what about Coach?
His face darkens and his stare moves down to the floor. "He's not going to find out."
This is just wrong. Stone's a stranger, putting everything on the line for me because I was rash and thought I knew the streets. I thought I knew what I was getting myself into. And now the Hooks are sucking him back into a world he hated.
"You can't."
Sighing, he tilts his head and rests it on the back of the sofa. "It’s done Lily."
"No."
"No?" He asks, raising his head just a little.
"I don't think I can
bear it."
Chapter Ten
Stone
I don't think I can bear it.
Who talks like this? I turn to her. "Listen, we need to have a real heart-to-heart here. Okay. I don't know who you are. Lily Watson? Lily? Is that even your name?"
She seems to shrink from my intensity, but I need to know. Her, I'm-from-the-streets-avatar, doesn't add up in oh so many ways.
She swallows. "Yeah. My name really is Lily Watson. It's the one thing I haven’t lied about. That and my brother."
She rolls to her side and closes her eyes. I know she's tired, but I don’t move from my spot at the end of the sofa. It was a shit show at Jimmi's, she nearly got raped, and she was scared of me. At least for a while. This thought, that she was frightened of me at all, even for six blocks, makes my stomach tighten up. She should never be frightened of me. Ever.
"Other brothers or sisters?"
"No."
"Mother and father?"
"Yes. Both."
Opening one eye she struggles to sit up again, and I think she knows her battle for immediate sleep is lost. She looks away.
"They're both professors at Tufts."
"Tufts University?"
"Yeah," she says, "Neuroscience and Biochemistry. I transferred that January to be near my brother. I got a free ride at Tufts, but I wanted to be near Sam. I transferred the semester before he was killed. He was a senior, I was a freshman."
"Do your parents know you're not enrolled?"
Her face grows gray and I feel like I've pushed too hard. I've seen addicts pass out on their weaving road to oblivion. I've seen fighters pass out in the cage and in the ring. I saw a guy pass out from pain in a head on collision off the interstate, when I tried to get him out of the car and I had to pull metal, like shrapnel, from his leg.
I'm mad at myself because earlier I didn’t give her the information in manageable chunks and it did make her pass out. That’s my bad. I need to be more careful.
This is why I slow down while the Do your parents know? hangs in the air and she looks at me with anguish in her eyes. But she doesn’t look sickly, just defeated.