Collateral Damage

by Katie Klein

  One drag and I remember why I quit.

  I cough into my fist, throat burning.

  "Hey, man. Can I bum one?"

  A guy steps out of the shadows—my age, maybe a year or two older. Medium build. Dark features. "Help yourself." I toss him the pack and the lighter. He can keep them if he wants.

  He pulls out a cigarette, lights it, hands the rest back to me. "Thanks."

  "No problem."

  He inhales, visibly relaxing, runs fingers through his greasy hair. Could be a loner. Maybe a third wheel.

  "You at the college?" I ask.

  "Nah, man. That shit's not for me."

  I force a laugh. "I hear you."

  "Haven't seen you around here before. You live nearby?"

  "Bedford by way of Michigan."

  He nods, smiling, exhaling smoke. "That wasn't a shock."

  "I know, right? My dad sucks. This party sucks. The whole fucking week sucks." Another draw of smoke.

  "Hey, Vinny!" A guy pokes his head out the side door. "They're looking for you."

  Vinny lifts the cigarette. "Two seconds." Then, turning back to me: "Get used to it, man. It doesn't get any better." He takes a final drag, then tosses what's left into the cold, wet grass.

  "You need another?" I ask.

  "I'm good. But thanks."

  "No problem."

  He crosses the porch, disappears inside the house. The screen door slams against the frame. And for a moment it's quiet—the party between songs—then the music kicks back on. Louder. Harder. I skip down the steps and head around back, cutting through a neighbor's yard and landing back in the street, weaving between cars until I reach my bike.

  What a waste.

  * * *

  Or not.

  "Parker?"

  My spine stiffens; my locker door closes with a bang. "Yeah?"

  "You know Vince?"

  I study this face—this kid who's cornered me. Tall, but not as tall as I am. Scrawny. Lanky. Shaved head. "I'm sorry?" I ask, not understanding.

  "Vince De Luca. The party the other night. You two were smoking on the deck."

  I wrack my brain. Vince De Luca? The guy—Vinny? "Yeah. I know him," I lie.

  "I mean, like, you know 'em know 'em?" He stares at me expectantly. I'm not sure how to answer this, but I've learned that if you keep your mouth shut long enough, people will tell you anything you need to know—whatever you want to hear. Nervous people talk too much. And this kid looks more than nervous. Sure enough: "It's just that I've heard some things...." he trails off. "It seemed like you guys were tight."

  "I know him," I repeat. "Why are you so interested?"

  He shrugs. "Do you think you could maybe put in a good word for me?" he asks, voice lower. When I refuse to answer, he continues: "I mean, you know how he is with his shit. The other guys got in, but I ain't got forever to wait, you know? If you could let him know I'm cool…that would be cool."

  He wants me to let some guy named Vince De Luca know he's cool because he wants his shit?

  Shit.

  "Sure. I'll see what I can do."

  Relief washes over his face, shoulders relaxing. "Thanks, man. That's awesome of you, you know? And hey. Anything I can do for you, anything my boys can do, let us know, all right?"

  I nod.

  The guy saunters away. I glance to my left where Tyler and Friend hover at their lockers, trying not to stare.

  "Any chance you know him?" I ask.

  "Brandon Garrels," Friend says.

  "Who is he? He's not in any of my classes."

  "He's a junior. He plays basketball and baseball."

  Basketball and baseball.

  An athlete.

  I thank them, then ease into the crowd, heading for the front office. I pass Jaden on my way. She's sitting at that table in the lobby, collecting money for the poor kids of Bangladesh.

  Isn't her Harvard application padded enough?

  Shut up. It's important to think about things bigger than yourself. Her voice hums between my ears, chastising. I steal another quick glance at her, feeling the sides of my mouth lifting in a grin.

  Principal Howell stands in the main office discussing papers with one of the administrative assistants when I enter. He nods when he sees me, finishes with the secretary, then motions for me to follow him back.

  I shut the door behind us.

  "What can I do for you, Parker?"

  "When was the last time the locker rooms were searched?" I ask.

  He scratches his balding head, brows lifting. "I can't say they ever have. Not since I've been here."

  "I'd like permission to check them. The guy's room," I clarify.

  "All right. But they're not assigned to any particular student. They're used as needed."

  "But they're being used, right? Bags? Clothes?"

  He nods. "There's a home game coming up. We'll get a plan together."

  "Okay. And, while I have you, do you know a guy named Vince De Luca?"

  He shakes his head, eyes narrowing, thinking. "Name doesn't ring a bell."

  "He wasn't a student here or anything?"

  "Not that I can recall. Please keep in mind, however, that this is only my third year here. If you're curious, the library has copies of the yearbooks."

  "I'll check them out. Thanks."

  * * *

  The librarian nearly has a coronary when I ask where to find the yearbooks. I nearly have a coronary when I discover Vince De Luca attended Bedford High four years ago.

  At the apartment, I log into the station management information system via my Chief Anderson-issued laptop.

  Male. Eighteen to twenty-five years old. Union and Carson counties and thirty miles in all directions.

  Vince De Luca pulls up several hits.

  There's one that meets parameters.

  I click the link.

  It's him.

  The guy from the party. Twenty-two years old. Brown hair. Brown eyes. He's been arrested four separate times, each providing its own mug shot. I scroll through the guy's rap sheet, reading police reports.

  Assault afflicting injury.

  Assault on a female.

  Breaking and entering.

  Possession of a controlled substance with intent to sell.

  Conspiracy to sell a controlled substance.

  Two counts of trespassing.

  Possession with intent to sell.

  Possession with intent to sell.

  "Six to eight months Department of Correction. Twenty-four months of probation," I mutter, half under my breath. "That's it?"

  I click on the earliest report—the one from four years ago. Vince was arrested in Trenton when a party was raided. They found marijuana on him. There were other arrests that night, too. Underage drinking. Drug possession. I skim the list of names.

  One in particular jumps out among the rest.

  Daniel McEntyre.

  Shit.

  McEntyre?

  My heart goes silent—stops beating—everything inside growing still. I click the link and a mug shot loads. I recognize him instantly from the family photos. It's him—Jaden's brother.

  Jaden's oldest brother was arrested the same night at the same party as Vince De Luca.

  Drug possession.

  I lean back on the couch, run fingers through my hair as he stares back at me, frowning.

  This shit just got complicated.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I park my bike in a space behind the school. I can hear the crowd in the gymnasium. The chanting and the clapping and the cheers. And I'm reminded how much I hate high school sports—how, at one time, they were all that mattered.

  I turn my cell phone off. I don't need any interruptions—not tonight.

  Principal Howell meets me at the side door. We slip down darkened hallways until we reach the guy's locker room.

  "Be quick," he warns. "I'll wait out here."

  I push the door open and call out: "Anyone in here?"

  Noth
ing.

  I twist the lock on the door, then pull the handle, just to be sure. I check the bathroom stalls. The showers. The room is empty.

  The smell pulls me straight back to the locker rooms at my old school—bleach, corn starch, body odor. Layer upon layer of dirt and sweat.

  "Get in and get out," I mutter.

  There are hundreds of people packing that gymnasium; time ticks off the game clock. I don't have long. I open the first locker and remove a duffle bag. I tug every zipper, stick my hand in every pocket. I push aside clothes and towels and water bottles. Nothing. I shove the bag back in the locker and move on to the next one. And the next. I check pockets of athletic pants. Jackets. And the next bag. And the next.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  I slam the last door shut. The sound pings off cinderblock walls, filling the room. "Dammit!"

  I unlock the door, crack it open. "Clear?"

  "All clear," Principal Howell replies. I ease into the hallway and follow him to the exit. "Any luck?"

  I steal a quick glance over my shoulder. We're still alone. "No. I'll try again soon. If I have reasonable suspicion of a specific player, I can get a warrant for a more thorough search. In the meantime, I need a list of every athlete at this school. I'll be back in Trenton tonight. If I find anything else, I'll let you know."

  He thanks me, and I slip into the night. I'm circling the gym, heading toward my bike, when the crowd cheers.

  The basketball game.

  It's no coincidence that Brandon Garrels, basketball player, was at that party. That he spotted me talking to Vince. That he asked me to put in a "good word" for him—like I have more connections than he does.

  If Vince De Luca is dealing....

  I pull the door handle and enter the gymnasium. The noises are amplified—the clapping and cheering and stomping, the squeak of new shoes scraping the gym floor. My eyes instantly find Blake Hanson. He dribbles the ball down court and makes a quick lay-up for two more points. The crowd roars.

  Mr. Perfect.

  And suddenly I realize.... I know what Jaden finds so appealing. What did I call him? Safe? Boring? Whether she loves him or not isn't the issue. He's nothing like Daniel—that's what matters.

  I spot her sitting at a table near the snack bar, chatting with Savannah.

  Four years ago, she would've been a freshman. Old enough to know her brother was arrested. Old enough to understand why.

  It explains a lot, actually. The focus. The determination.

  I get it. I get her.

  The third quarter buzzer rings and I jump, the noise catching me off guard. The players jog toward their respective benches.

  I glance back at Jaden, and, even across an entire gymnasium, her eyes find mine. She quickly averts her gaze, turning her attention back to whatever she was doing.

  Ignoring me.

  My muscles tighten, tensing.

  I can't blame her. She's heard the rumors. It's just...the problem with rumors? They aren't necessarily true.

  I'm not like that, I want to tell her. I am nothing like you think I am.

  And then, as if I spoke directly to her mind, as if she heard me above the conversations and the cheerleaders and the chanting…. She lifts her head again, and our eyes meet. Connecting. And when they do my heart stops crashing against my ribs. For that second, everything stops. She tucks her hair behind her ears and waves.

  I nod in reply, unable to hide my smile.

  She smiles back—a gloriously beautiful smile—then turns toward Savannah.

  I feel that smile everywhere.

  It doesn't have to be like this. I could march over to her table right now. I could say hi. We could talk about our project. We could talk about anything.

  It's not a big deal.

  I sat on her bed, for God's sake. I saw her third floor attic. I know her house isn't a restoration. I saw her sink faucet. Watched her almost cry.

  But something keeps me rooted in place—prevents me from crossing that invisible boundary. That line that divides—splitting our territories. Because girls like her don't associate with guys like me.

  My eyes drift, pulling me away from her.

  And there's Vince, huddled with a group near the bleachers, hands in his pockets, watching the game, laughing at something one of them says.

  Shit.

  He's here.

  He heads toward the exit, entourage following. And for a moment I'm torn. Part of me wants to stay—to find a reason to ease closer to that table by the snack bar. But Vince is leaving.

  When I glance back at Jaden, Blake is standing in front of her, blocking my view.

  At this, I slip through the door and step back into the cool night.

  I stuff my hands in my jacket pockets and move around the side of the gymnasium, following the sidewalk. Streetlights flicker overhead, struggling to illuminate the dark corners of the building—the courtyard shaded by trees.

  I hear them coming before I actually see them. I grab my lighter, remove a cigarette from the pack, light it, and inhale.

  I'm gonna need some serious detox after this assignment is over.

  They cross the parking lot, pausing by a motorcycle, talking—laughing.

  Miracle of all miracles, the door practically opens for me.

  I check the driveway, step off the sidewalk, and flick the ash from my cigarette.

  Another deep drag. "Nice ride," I say, approaching them. "Hayabusa?"

  "Yeah," one of the guys says.

  "First generation?"

  "Got her used."

  "She's nice. She top at one-eighty-five? One-ninety?"

  He eyes me curiously. "You know bikes?"

  "I have a seven-fifty parked around back."

  "For real?"

  "Bought her last year."

  "Brand new?"

  "Yep," I reply. "You can come check her out if you want. I'll let you hear it."

  The guy looks to Vince for approval. "We got time, Vin?" he asks.

  Vince nods, so we head to the back lot.

  "You got this when it came out?" the guy asks, circling it.

  I keep my eyes trained on Vince, watching him inspect the ride with the rest of them. "Right off the showroom floor. I know guys who've gotten to one-eighty-two on this thing."

  He swings his leg over, straddling it. "You ever taken it that fast?"

  "Made it to one-twenty on the freeway in Hamilton one night."

  Lie.

  Truth is, I respect my bike. One of the joys of being a first responder is that I'm privy to what, exactly, happens when you don't respect them. And while Callie doesn't trust me at all, I'm actually one of the safest drivers I know.

  One-twenty is not an option.

  "You street race?" he asks.

  I shrug casually. "Sometimes."

  "Man. We've probably seen you down that way, then. There's a group that hangs around I-four-forty."

  I know all about the guys who race illegally after hours. They're very hard to catch.

  "I've been down there. You know Justin Raitt?" I ask. "He has a seven-fifty like this. He's the reason I got mine."

  "Don't recognize the name."

  "So what do these things run?" Vince finally steps up to speak.

  "Twelve base, but I knew a guy."

  He eyes me curiously. "You're not from around here, are you?"

  "No. We've met, actually. At a party the other night. You needed a cigarette."

  His eyes narrow, but he nods, remembering. "Bedford by way of Michigan. I know you. You go to school here?"

  "Unfortunately. I'm Parker."

  "Vince," he replies.

  "Gianni," the guy sitting on my motorcycle says. "That's Dave." The other guy nods.

  "So, your dad must be a nice guy," Vince says, eyes flicking over the engine, the dash.

  "My dad sucks," I reply. "I earned every dollar I paid for this."

  "That's a lot of birthday cash."

&n
bsp; I laugh. "You can start her if you want," I tell Gianni.

  We spend the next twenty minutes hanging in the parking lot, talking motorcycles, until we hear that final buzzer, signaling the game's end.

  "Come on," Vince orders. "We gotta head out."

  Gianni gives me a half-handshake half-hug. "Thanks, man. She's gorgeous."

  "Any time."

  "We're hanging in Trenton tonight, if you're interested."

  "What's the address?" I ask.

  "Six-six-seven East Elm."

  Same house as before.

  "By campus, right?"

  "Not too far."

  "I might make an appearance later."

  I get a handshake from Dave. And then Vince.

  And, just like that, I'm in.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  People pour out of the gymnasium, crossing the lot, making their way to their cars. My eyes remain peeled for Jaden, but I don't see her anywhere. Even after half the parking lot clears, she's nowhere to be found.

  I need to get to Trenton. But her car is still here—the little white Civic parked on the second row.

  I'm here. She's here. I'll just say hey.

  They finally emerge: Jaden and Blake, Savannah and Tony.

  Shit.

  Of course they'd leave together.

  I back away from her car, away from the streetlamp, slipping into shadows.

  "Guido's, right?" Tony calls.

  "Yeah. Jaden, we'll meet you and Savannah over there," Blake replies.

  Double date at Guido's? I force my eyes not to roll.

  Jaden climbs into her car, fastens her seatbelt. I watch her back out of the space and pull out of the parking lot. I watch until her taillights disappear.

  And again I can't believe she's dating Blake Hanson. Athlete or not, star basketball player or not, safe or not—the guy is clueless. Guido's? That's the best he can do?

  I don't know why this matters—why this bothers me so much. I'm with Callie.

  But…what if I wasn't with Callie?

  And for the first time, standing alone in that icy parking lot, with the moon sliding in and out of clouds above, I let myself imagine what it would be like. If I wasn't tied to anyone else. If Callie wasn't in the picture. If I met Jaden at some other time, in some other universe....

  I would've asked her out.

  I would've asked her out in a second, and I wouldn't have taken no for an answer.