The Fixes

by Owen Matthews

  Eric doesn’t say anything. He stares at the ground. He’s still mad, and he’s tired, and he doesn’t know where this is going.

  “But we’re past that now, aren’t we?” Eric’s dad clears his throat. “People make mistakes, son. When you’re young, you make plenty of them. I wasn’t an angel; I made my share.”

  “So you did do it,” Eric says. “You beat that guy up in San Francisco, you and your friends.”

  Eric’s dad looks surprised. After a moment, he nods. “We’d had too much to drink. We were in the wrong neighborhood, and we were young and stupid and spoiling for a fight. I regretted what happened as soon as I sobered up.”

  “You committed a hate crime. And you paid your friends off to cover it up.”

  “No. It wasn’t like that, I promise you. And that moment—that one terrible moment of stupidity—it would have ruined me,” Eric’s dad says. “It would have derailed my entire future.”

  “What about that guy, Roger, or whatever? What about his future? After you kicked his ass, what happened to him?”

  The senator winces. “I don’t know,” he says. “He signed the agreement we drew up, cashed the check, and disappeared. We never heard from him again.”

  His dad straightens. “But after twenty-five years in political office, I’d say the good I’ve done more than makes up for it. And that’s why you can’t do things like this, son. This Corvette thing. You have too much potential.”

  Eric ignores this. “And Mom? Is that true too? Did you cheat on her?”

  “I didn’t—” Eric’s dad catches himself. Glances up at the rows of houses, like he’s afraid Eric’s mom might be listening. He sighs.

  “A moment of weakness,” he says. “That’s all it was. It wasn’t an affair. It was hardly a night.”

  “Does Mom know?”

  The senator glances at the house again. “She thinks it was a fabrication,” he says. “Lies my opponents cooked up to slander my name.”

  “So you never told her the truth.”

  Eric’s dad looks away. “What could I tell her? It’d have broken her heart.”

  “Yeah,” Eric says. “I guess you’re a hero, then.”

  He just starts walking. Down the block. Away.

  “Where do you think you’re going, Eric?”

  “Away,” Eric tells him.

  “You most certainly are not. You’re going to have to face some consequences for this Corvette thing, son. You’re grounded until your mother and I decide otherwise.”

  Grounded.

  Eric stops walking.

  Looks back.

  Laughs.

  “Grounded,” he says. “The hell I am.”

  150.

  “So you just walked away,” Jordan says. “And he didn’t try to stop you?”

  “What could he do?” Eric replies. “He can’t control me, not anymore. Not now that I know all this dirt on him’s real.”

  Jordan nods, his eyes wide. “I guess not,” he says. “But still. That’s a ballsy maneuver.”

  They’re standing in Jordan’s driveway. Haley and Paige are there, too, listening. They were all waiting out front when Eric’s cab pulled up. They all listened as Eric told his story.

  “Nothing you could do,” Jordan says. “So long as you kept your mouth shut at the precinct, it’s no harm, no foul. You didn’t talk, did you?”

  “Are you kidding? Not to a damn soul.”

  “You’re not wearing a wire?”

  “A wire? What the fuck, dude?” Eric draws back, kind of panicking. Relaxes when he sees the smirk on Jordan’s face.

  “I’m just messing with you.” Jordan puts his arm around Eric’s shoulder, steers him toward the house. “Get some sleep, have a shower. We have a surprise cooked for you later.”

  “What kind of surprise?” Eric says, but Jordan just smiles, and Eric’s too tired to pursue the line of questioning. Feels like a shell of a person.

  He follows Paige and Haley into the house.

  151.

  Eric sleeps all day. He wakes up and showers. He puts on a pair of Jordan’s board shorts and a beach hoodie—

  (it kind of hangs off him; he’s not as built as Jordan)

  —and goes downstairs and outside to the pool, where Jordan and the girls are lounging. They all look up as he comes out onto the deck.

  “There he is,” Paige says.

  “We were beginning to think you were dead,” Haley says. “Like, we’d have to send Paige up there to check for a pulse.”

  (Paige blushes at this.)

  “Go easy on him,” Jordan says. “Neither of you spent the night in a holding cell.”

  Eric smiles weakly. He’s still groggy. He’s still feeling a little, you know, shaken by the whole experience.

  “Anyway, he’s alive.” Haley sniffs the air. “And he doesn’t stink anymore.”

  Jordan claps his hands. Stands up from his deck chair. “Which means it’s time to get cracking.”

  152.

  They all pile into a car.

  (The car is not Jordan’s BMW.)

  (It’s a Tesla. Model S.)

  “What’s this? Where’s your Bimmer?” Eric asks him.

  “This?” Jordan starts the motor and the car hums to life. “It’s my dad’s, technically. Not that he ever drives it. It doesn’t sound like a real car, he says. He likes his AMG better.”

  (Jordan’s dad’s AMG has a 6.3-liter V-8 engine. It howls. It also burns gas like a mother. Fuck the environment.)

  Jordan drives out of the garage. The driveway gate slides open, and Jordan pilots them out onto Marine Drive. He turns left, away from Capilano.

  “Uh, how far are we going?” Eric asks them. “I’m still pretty, you know, beat from last night.”

  Haley leans forward. Slaps Eric’s shoulder. “Man up,” she says. “You spent a few hours in the Capilano jail. You’re not Nelson Mandela. You’ll see where we’re going when we get there.”

  “It’ll be worth it, E,” Jordan says. “I promise.”

  153.

  They drive out of Capilano and up to the highway. It’s dusk by the time they reach the on-ramp, the sun setting through the trees. Jordan takes the northbound ramp and points the car up the coast and into the mountains. He drives until he reaches the little dirt-road turnoff to Fincher’s Bluff. Then he turns.

  Gravel spits up against the Tesla’s underbody, ping-ping-pinging as the car climbs up the narrow logging road. The trees close in on all sides, tall and dark and imperious, and the Tesla hums louder as the grade gets steeper. Eric takes out his phone, watches the signal disintegrate from LTE to 3G to one bar to none. They’re up in the wilderness now. Fincher’s Bluff.

  The road climbs for a while, and then it levels off. It widens into a clearing, marred by the remains of old fire pits and beer cans pockmarked by BB pellets and birdshot. It’s almost full dark again, the stars out in abundance, something you never see in downtown Capilano. But Eric isn’t looking at the sky. He’s looking across the clearing, to the very middle, where Jordan’s BMW is waiting for them.

  Jordan stops the Tesla at the edge of the clearing. “Okay, everybody out.”

  The girls climb out of the back seats. Jordan’s looking at Eric, waiting for him to move. “I don’t get it,” Eric says. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “So the Fix didn’t work out as planned. We’re not going to let a little speed bump ruin our party, are we?”

  154.

  Eric climbs out of the car. Looks across at the BMW, lit up in Jordan’s headlights.

  “So, what?” he asks.

  “We have to do something with Jordan’s car,” Haley says. “We can’t take the chance that asshole Headley saw me and Paige drive off in it last night. It’s evidence now.”

  “You did your job,” Jordan says. “But we still have to take precautions. Why get caught if we don’t have to, right?”

  Then he smiles. “Also,” he says, “my dad bought that thing for my birthday. He
sent his assistant, with a credit card, to pick it out.”

  He pauses.

  “I just want to see that fucker burn.”

  155.

  They burn the BMW to the ground.

  Jordan’s Molotov cocktails work wonders, and he also brought four jerry cans of gasoline. Eric and the others drench the Bimmer inside and out with gas. Then they step back, light their cocktails, and hurl the bottles at the car.

  The BMW erupts into flames. The explosion takes Eric’s breath away. Instantly, the flames are devouring the car, sending choking columns of black smoke up into the night. The fire is ferocious.

  Eric and Jordan and Paige and Haley step back to the edge of the clearing to watch. They’re utterly alone up here; even the lights of Capilano don’t make it this far around the mountain. Nobody will ever know what they’ve done.

  It’s a weird feeling, being so wild. So utterly free.

  Eric is captivated.

  Eric is . . . exhilarated.

  Jordan has a joint going. He puffs twice, passes it to Haley. Then he turns back to watch the flames.

  “You guys don’t even know,” he says, and the fire dances in his eyes. “You don’t even know how far we could take this.” Then: “We could fix this town forever, if we really put our minds to it.”

  156.

  Afterward, when the flames have died down and the BMW is mostly just a smoking pile of ash and charred steel, they stand in a circle at the edge of the clearing and stare up at the stars.

  And now that they’ve had this, well, orgasmic experience burning down Jordan’s BMW, it’s time for the real talk.

  The gritty stuff.

  They start having those meandering, embarrassing heart-to-heart convos you always have when it’s late and you’re drunk and/or high with your best friends in the world.

  They start saying things they’ll probably be ashamed of, but won’t ever really regret.

  (You know how it goes.)

  Jordan starts.

  “They kicked me out of town,” he says, looking up at the sky, not a cloud anywhere, just a carpet of stars. “My parents. They, like, they gave me a choice: either move, or go to juvenile hall.

  “I beat some dude up,” he says. “Some shitty actor, that’s why I’m here. I nearly killed this idiot.”

  The others don’t really say anything.

  “He deserved it, though,” Jordan continues. “Not that I’m condoning what I did, but he wasn’t even a good actor. Like, don’t put on airs like you’re king shit because you had two lines in a toothpaste commercial. You’re a long way from Brad Pitt, you know?”

  The others kind of nod. This is Jordan’s story. Let him tell it.

  “And I got off,” he says. “That’s the most fucked-up part of all. I should be in jail right now, but because my dad makes Hollywood blockbusters they cut a deal and I’m up here and nobody gives a shit. Like, nobody cares at all,” he says.

  “Hypocrites,” he says.

  Just the wind in the trees for a while, then—

  “I tried to kill myself.” Haley’s staring across the clearing, and her voice is nonchalant. “This is right after I went away. I did this whole fucking urgent care thing for my, like, eating disorder, talked to some stupid shrink for an hour every day for, like, weeks, and then I get out and I’m actually feeling okay and I come back to Capilano and it’s, like, the worst. Thing. Ever.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Seriously, my mom and dad didn’t know what to say to me. It’s like they thought I was going away to, like, fat camp or something, like I would come back and suddenly know how to be perfect and skinny and beautiful. Like Tinsley,” she says.

  E has only ever seen pictures of Tinsley. She’s smoking hot, but it’s not like Haley’s ugly. Compared to, like, ninety percent of the people in the world, Haley is hot as hell. But Capilano’s for the one percent of the one percent. Capilano’s for people like Tinsley.

  “I went up on the bridge to the city one night,” Haley says. “I thought I would jump off. Just, like, fall. Hit the water and break every bone in my body and die there, and that would be that.”

  Paige gasps. “I remember that! You posted that picture.”

  Haley nods. “Instagram,” she says. “On top of the Lions Gate Bridge, one o’clock in the morning. I guess I wanted to see if anyone cared.”

  “And?” E says.

  “And I got, like, twenty-three likes.” Haley laughs a little, hollow. “But nobody actually cared.”

  Jordan puts his arm around her. “I do.”

  Haley leans into him—

  (and E feels a little pang of jealousy).

  “I was, like, up on the railing when he called me,” Haley says. “He was the only person in the world who actually got it.”

  She doesn’t say it like she’s accusing anyone, but E and Paige look down anyway, look away, self-conscious.

  (They knew Haley then. Where were they?)

  “I told her it wouldn’t matter,” Jordan said. “I told her, if she died, nobody at Cap High would come to any, like, big, huge epiphany about the error of their ways. They would just think you were some weakling who couldn’t cut it.

  “I told her she wouldn’t do anyone any good if she jumped off that bridge, but she sure as hell could teach those assholes a lesson if she didn’t.”

  Haley nods. “That’s why I’m out here.

  “That’s why the Pack,” she says.

  157.

  “I guess we’re all doing this True Confessions thing tonight, huh?” Paige says, after they’ve digested Haley’s story for a while. “Does that mean it’s my turn to spew?”

  Jordan sparks a joint. Passes it to E. “Only if you want.”

  Paige doesn’t say anything. She just stares across the clearing at the smoke billowing from the ruins of Jordan’s BMW.

  (Time passes.)

  Then she looks up. “I got a job,” she says. “I start tomorrow. My first day.”

  (Cue the record-scratch.)

  Work?

  “It’s my dad’s fault,” Paige tells them. “All his money’s tied up with this court case, and I need tuition money. Hence, you know, I have to work.”

  There’s a shocked silence as the other three picture Paige in, like, Tory Burch, tagging clearance items and ringing in sales.

  Paige catches their expressions. “It’s not like that,” she says. “ got me a PA job on the movie he’s shooting. It’s actually kind of fun.” Paige forces a smile. “Hey, it beats flipping burgers, right?”

  An awkward silence.

  “Right,” Jordan says finally. “I mean, of course. Right.”

  But it’s weak, and Paige sees right through it. Her smile disappears. “Oh, fuck you,” she says. “Fuck all you guys. You’re going to be judgmental assholes like everyone else, huh?”

  “No.” Haley shakes her head. Holds up her hands. “It’s not like that, Paige. We’re just, like, surprised.”

  “I didn’t know it was that bad,” E says.

  (And Paige casts him a withering stare.)

  “No,” she says. “You wouldn’t.”

  “It’s just so fucked up,” Jordan says. “You were supposed to get out of here. Freaking Yale, right? They don’t have scholarships?”

  “Yeah, they do.” Paige sighs. “I applied for a couple. The rest are all based on financial need. My dad’s still freaking loaded, on paper.”

  “On paper,” Jordan says.

  “But he doesn’t have a dime in the real world. His accounts were all frozen. Plus there’s the lawyer fees and blah, blah, blah.” She shrugs. “So, you know, I have to work. And in the meantime, everybody in Capilano knows my family’s a joke.”

  “Fuck them,” Haley says. “You don’t need those assholes anyway.”

  “Haley’s right,” Jordan says. “You have us. You have the Pack.”

  Paige stares across at the smoke. “Yeah,” she says. “Thank god for that, at least.”

  15
8.

  E’s head is swimming, and when he looks up from the gravel he sees the others looking at him, all of them, and he knows they’re waiting for him to confess something, too.

  (And there’s one BIG, OBVIOUS CONFESSION that would be perfect for this moment.)

  (Dudes, I’m, like, gay.)

  And E knows this is the time to tell it. He knows he’s part of the Pack now and nobody here will judge him, or laugh at him, or, like, turn on him for liking boys. He knows that . . . rationally.

  But E’s distracted by the way Haley’s nestled into the crook of Jordan’s arm, cuddled in tight. He’s preoccupied by the way Paige still looks at him, talks to him, like she’s still feeling betrayed and hurt and angry and she isn’t getting over it anytime soon.

  (And anyway, liking boys and liking Jordan are pretty much one and the same in E’s mind right now, and he’s kind of thinking of he’ll start out with the I’m gay thing and then get nervous and spew the rest of it, and how awkward would that be, with Haley and Jordan so obviously banging?)

  The moment stretches.

  (The weed fucks with E’s brain.)

  The Pack stares at E, waiting for his confession.

  And E studies his shoes and tries to think of the words.

  And he can’t.

  159.

  “I got nothing,” Eric tells the others.

  Haley shakes her head, smirking like she knew this was coming. Paige makes a face like she’s hurt and betrayed all over again.

  Only Jordan doesn’t look fazed. He smiles. Cocks his head at Eric. “Nothing?” he says.

  Eric feels his thoughts buzzing. Feels like he wants to open up and just scream about everything, every fucking conflicting feeling and emotion rattling around in his head, every repressed urge and impulse he’s ever struggled with, everything that keeps him weighted down like a freaking anchor chained around his chest and chucked overboard, like he can’t breathe and he’s plummeting down all at the same time, and there’s nobody who can even freaking relate to anything that he’s feeling.