by Ginger Scott
Riley pulled a notebook from her bag before she dumped her bag. I don’t even have a notebook, and as I scan the rest of the desks in this class I realize I’m the only one. I don’t know any of these people. I recognize Miss Forte because she stands out front in the mornings and yells at the cars and busses.
“Welcome, Riley and Tristan. You’re new in IB, so if you have questions about how we operate in here, just ask. We’re a small group, and I don’t buy the whole hand-raising-wait-until-you’re-called thing. Just ask.”
The teacher leans into her desk while she holds an attendance sheet against a math book in her hands, glancing around the room and checking off names. I count twice, getting seventeen of us both times. That’s less than half as many people that are in my homeroom…my old homeroom, I guess.
“What’s IB?” I ask.
A girl with short black hair and super trendy glasses turns around and stares at me. I pucker my lips and shrug at her before whispering “She said I could just ask questions.”
“It’s the International Baccalaureate program. Your counselor placed you in here for the rest of the year. She talked to you about it yesterday?” Miss Forte stares at me for a couple of seconds after answering then looks back down at her list of names to check her work.
I’m in the smart kids’ class. What the actual fuck?
“No,” I say, standing from my desk and lifting my bag back over a shoulder. I laugh to myself at how light and empty my bag looks compared to everyone else in this room.
“No, as in she didn’t talk to you?” Miss Forte pushes her glasses down her nose and maneuvers herself between where I’m standing and the door.
“No to all of it. I need to talk to her. No offense, but I can’t be in here.” I move closer to the door and she puts her palm on it, leveling me with the kind of expression Joker’s mom did when we were kids and she caught us ripping off the ice-cream truck.
“Fine, I’ll see her after class.” I breathe out heavily and slump back to my desk.
She hovers around the door for the next twenty minutes as she walks us through this thing she calls a writing prompt. Eventually, the bell rings and I get up just as she’s passing out notebooks with hard covers. They look expensive.
“We’re not done, Mr. Lopez,” she says with her back to me.
“Yeah, that was the bell,” I say.
“Not our bell. Sit.” I move in a circle in the small space between my desk and the fortress one Riley and I are trying to keep between us.
“Not our bell?” I repeat her then run my hand through my hair, my forehead hot. I feel trapped in this place, and I’m starting to wonder if it’s just a really vivid dream. I don’t sit until Miss Forte is directly in front of me, and even though I look down on her by a few inches, it doesn’t seem to matter in our power scale.
“Not. Our. Bell.” She slaps one of the booklets down on my desk and points at it with her finger, her thick, red fingernail making a clicking sound. “Now, write about yourself. Anything about yourself. You can’t fail. It’s the easiest thing we’re going to do in here.”
I sink back into my seat and flip open the cover, glancing around the room at the busy pens and pencils held in clenched hands that have already nearly filled a page. Writing about myself is literally the last thing I can do. I have to be bad at it. And I have to get out of this class.
Over the course of an hour and fifty minutes, I learn that this classroom—with these seventeen other people—is where I will spend every minute of my day at South, except for lunch and weight lifting, for the next seven months. Unless, of course, I can make my counselor realize what a terrible mistake she’s made.
Joker’s texted me ten times wondering where the hell I’m at. They quit letting us leave campus for lunch two years ago, because more than half of the students wouldn’t come back.
I text him from right outside Ms. Beaumont’s office.
Bro, my schedule is WTF. I’m at the office.
My phone buzzes in my hand with his response, but I don’t have time to read it before my counselor is ushering me into her office. I sling my bag over my shoulder and tuck my phone in my back pocket, kicking my untied shoelaces ahead of me as slide into her office. I bend down to tie them when I sit.
“How’s IB going?”
I’m still bent over in the chair, finishing my laces when she asks.
“Uh,” I pause to finish tying, then reach into my bag for my blank scholarship form. “I don’t really think I want to do it.”
“Uh huh.” She leans back in her chair and folds her arms, rocking herself slightly while she pushes her tongue in her cheek.
“And I don’t think I can do this,” I say, setting the bent scholarship form on the desk between us. It unrolls just enough to expose all of the blank lines.
She pulls it toward her and flattens it out, nodding slowly as she looks at it.
“I’m just not college material, Ms. Beaumont. It’s fine, really. I’m good. I’ll be fine.”
I shut up when she leans to her right and reaches into a drawer, pulling out a folder thick with forms. She licks the tip of her thumb and flips through a few of the pages until she finds whatever it is she’s looking for and pulls out a green sheet of paper that she gives to me.
“You can get this one. I know you can,” she says, turning the page around so I can read it.
COMMUNITY LEADER SCHOLARSHIP $5,000
I spin it right back around and push it closer to her.
“It’s the same problem as the other form. I’ve got nothin’ to say about myself. Not that some scholarship group wants to hear anyway.”
She just slides the paper back.
“Then let’s find things for you to say.” She’s adamant, but I laugh because she has no clue how hopeless this cause is. And the more she fills my head with potential, the sadder I get about my reality.
“That IB class thing…I don’t think I’m supposed to be in there.”
I’m not arguing my case very well, and that’s part of the problem with all of this. I’m not articulate. I’m not some genius in hiding. I looked at some of those assignments listed on the board in Ms. Forte’s class and I didn’t know what most of them meant, or if they were science things or math or whatever. I’m not sure what I did to land myself in here, or why I’m her cause, but she just needs to drop this and leave me alone.
“You’re giving up too fast, Tristan.” She leans forward on her elbows, and I instinctively slide my chair back a few inches.
“I don’t want this,” I say, shrugging and looking around her bare office. She has two pictures on her desk, one of her with an older man and a little girl, the other is a man dressed in a military uniform. I point to it.
“That your husband?” She shows a hint of a grin then moves her hand to the picture to turn it so she can look at it straight on.
“It is. He’s on his third tour with the Navy. That’s our little girl, Melody.”
She twists the other picture more so I can see. I bet she has these pictures in here to seduce kids like me into the illusion of a happy, normal life like hers. If Dub were in my situation right now, he’d say something to make her uncomfortable—not a full threat, but just something that makes her feel off. I could talk about how lonely she must be with her husband overseas, or I could tell her a lie about how I know someone who just died in the Navy. I could even just sit here and stare at her with the right look in my eyes that makes her want to do anything she can to get me out of her office.
But this is where I’m not like the others—not like my dad or Dub. When I was a kid, I’d watch the older guys start fights at restaurants or yell things at women on the streets. They’d celebrate and laugh like it was Christmas afterward, but by the time I was eleven or twelve, I realized that they really weren’t doing anything other than acting like dicks. I saw the expressions on other people’s faces, and a lot of them were scared, sure…but most of them were just disgusted.
“Melody’s
a nice name,” I say, pulling the form into my hand to read it. “I’ll fill it out as far as I can, but I really don’t want to be in that class, Ms. Beaumont.”
I stare at the same few words that were on the last form—volunteerism, clubs, philanthropy—while she stares at the top of my head. We’re at a standoff, and she knows she can’t make me do anything, really. My mom could force me into the class, but even she knows that forcing me won’t make me happy, and I’ll just quit showing up. Me finishing school is a big deal to my mom—for me it’s only leverage.
“How about…for two weeks…” I glance up into her waiting eyes and hopeful, but faint, smile. “You just try it. We’ll talk again after two weeks, and if you’re just as unhappy being in there as you say you are now, I’ll put you back on your old schedule.”
I can say no to this. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to. It’s one of my few rights as a seventeen-year-old—the right to be obstinate. I’ve never been anything but obedient, though. I obey everyone. I even do what Joker says, even when it’s a dumb idea, like trying to make two grand by tomorrow with shitty weed and a thinning crowd of potheads to sell to.
“Two weeks,” I repeat, my stomach bubbling. I want to say no, but I just can’t. I’d rather survive the torture of two weeks instead with the hope that when I sit in this chair again and she asks me what I want to do, I can really tell her the truth and not let her convince me otherwise.
She stands with her hand held out, and I breathe in deeply through my nose. I roll my head as I rise and eventually squeeze her palm with mine, sealing my fate.
I leave her office with a different paper but the same task, just as impossible, and my body feels like all of the earth’s gravity is pulling at me and trying to hold me still. Joker is sitting with his back to me on the edge of a bench outside, near the bus turn-in.
“Hey, Joke!” I yell out for him, and just as he starts to turn, I see who he’s sitting with.
“Dude, you’re so late. I think they stopped serving lunch already,” my friend says, his face plastered with the grin he gets when pretty girls acknowledge him. My stomach rumbles, and I know I’m hungry but I’m also sick, and Riley is staring at me over Joker’s shoulder with the same poisonous expression as before.
I hold her stare for an extra second, a blip too long, because in this small space of time her mask slips and I see how upset she is underneath her play of anger.
“Nice to meet you, Paul.” Riley’s eyes linger on mine while she swings her arm into my friend as she calls him by his real name. It’s odd to hear, because when I’m with him, it’s usually just our crew, and all we ever call him is Joker. He’s Paul with my mom. Paul with the regular world. Riley is the regular world, and that’s why this line is here.
“Tristan.”
I nod as she says my name and leaves. There was this tiny break in her voice. She thinks I’m a dick. I am. I’m also a lot of other terrible things.
“She’s so pretty,” Joker says.
He uses this baby voice as he lets his tongue fall out of his mouth while he watches her walk away. I haven’t gotten to talk to him yet, so he doesn’t realize that I’m going to have to follow her, then spend the next three hours with nothing but a desk between us, and a bunch of lessons that are so fricking far above my head it’s impossible for me not to look like a clown.
“She’s going to meet us out at the courts today. She asked if we were going again, and I mean…”
I blink slowly and look at him sideways.
“What?” He holds his palms up, so innocent.
“Maybe you can ask her if she wants to buy some weed,” I say, shaking my head and moving toward the main doors for the school.
“Baby, that’s not fair man. I’m weak with pretty girls. You know I am, and she’s just different. She’ll be gone before it gets too late, and…”
I feel my chest snap, and I grit my teeth hard, but it doesn’t do any good. It’s my dad’s blood—it’s my own, well-honed discipline. I don’t mix the real world with our world.
I turn into my friend just before the school’s exit and stop his steps as my chest brushes against his. I’m bigger. I’ve always been stronger. And I am smarter.
“Don’t call me that, Joker. Only Dub—it’s just Dub’s name for me. It’s not my real name.” I can feel the irrational mix of emotions churning inside my body, like a cocktail of dangerous drugs. Joker pushed a button. My emotions were already high. And fucking Riley—her sad eyes and the way she was so nice. Her whole damned other world seems nice. I crumple the scholarship paper in my hand until it’s a ball that I can easily discard, then turn back to the exit and toss it in the can by the metal detectors they don’t bother to use when people leave. They only worry about the things someone brings into this place, I guess.
“I’m sick, so I’m going home. You’ll have to drive me, Paul.”
I use his real name in front of the guard, who looks at me sideways. He’s not buying my lie, but he also doesn’t feel like working hard. I sign a scribble for my signature on the front pad and Paul does the same, then I give him a good enough excuse to let us go.
“My mom said she’d call the office on her next break. She runs the thrift store, and I guess it’s senior discount day or whatever. She works with his mom; so they both know.” I sell it with a roll of my eyes and a shrug. It gives the guard enough to sit his ass back in his chair. I don’t know his name. He’s newish. The old guard, Rodney, got promoted to drive around campus in the little cart. Rodney would have just let me go anyhow, though, because he didn’t really care either. This place is just somewhere for them to go during the day and collect. It’s better than the alternative, which I guess is how I’m going to make my living.
Joker and I keep up the act until we get to my friend’s car near the back of the student lot. His backdoor creaks when I pull it open. I toss my backpack inside and slam it closed, the handle rattling like it always does. I fix the blanket that covers my half of his front seat, then climb in and count as I draw in a slow breath while he starts the car.
“We’re ditching. We’ve got a grand to make in one day, so we’ve gotta go push it somewhere else,” I say, looking over my shoulder to the backseat floor of Joker’s car. I find one of my old hats. I grab it and shake off the dirt before pushing it low on my head. I like to hide in the shadow, even if it’s only pretend.
“Mall then?” my stupid, stupid friend asks.
“I think it’s time we saw a movie,” I say, leaning against the passenger window and pulling the brim of my hat down a little more.
“Heh heh, now we’re talking,” Joker says, pulling the gear shift down to reverse and spinning his tires as he fishtails out of our school lot.
I’ve never been the lead at this, but I know all of the same buyers. It’s Dub’s money in the end. I know he’ll be all right with me selling in his special spot. I pull my phone from my pocket and send out the usual text, only I tell people to look for me, and me alone. We’ll have everything sold within the hour, because rich, suburban kids like to throw parties. Then we can head to the courts to make sure Riley doesn’t meet anyone she shouldn’t.
I get a time and a theater number in return. Nothing left now but to buy a ticket. Though I feel like I bought mine years ago.
Chapter Four
Riley
* * *
I can tell the courts are empty before I get close enough to confirm it with my eyes. The only sound I hear is the occasional jingle of the chains and clack of the rim from a missed shot. A kid pushes the ball up from his chest when I step up, and his noodle arms can barely lift it high enough to ricochet off the bottom of the hoop. It doesn’t keep him from trying, though.
His feet are bare, wet socks and laceless shoes discarded in the middle of the court. His red hat is turned to the side, and his sleeves are pushed up over his shoulders so he can mimic his heroes as he dribbles out and then in. As I get closer, I can hear his whispers as he tries to create
the sound of a roaring crowd. His steps slow as he prepares for a layup, taking twice as many steps as are allowed, then flinging the ball up in the air and only making it to the corner of the backboard. He jogs in my direction, hot feet slapping at the pavement as he chases his ball.
“You’ve got some pretty tight moves.” I nod at him, and he shoves his tongue in the side of his mouth as he slows his jog into the saunter of a little man. I flex my jaw to hold in my laugh, because he’s trying so hard to be tough, but it’s nothing but adorable.
“I come out here right after school to practice. That’s how you make money at this…you put in the time.” He lisps through his Ts and it melts my heart a little more, making it impossible not to at least grin at my new young friend.
“Good advice,” I say, dropping my ball to my side and dribbling with my left hand. “Wanna practice a little with me?”
“Uh huh.” He rushes to the place where his ball rolled, near the fence, then back to me, facing me and trying to dribble just like I am.
“You have to trust your hands,” I say, stopping my ball on the ground with my foot. I kneel down and hold his still and hover my hand over his feet, glancing up to look him in the eyes. “Can I make a little adjustment to the way you’re standing?”
“Uh huh.” He nods again.
I glance down at his bare feet and smirk.
“You run through the sprinklers on your way here?” I look up at him with one eye squinting, and he shakes his head no. I tilt my chin to the side a little, and he shakes his head harder.
“I put them in the drinking fountain,” he finally admits, a bubble of laughter exploding from him when my eyes shoot wide and my cheeks puff out. I’m only half exaggerating because I drank from that fountain yesterday. Feet are gross.
“Well, mind if I nudge your ankle a little…right…here?” I push his right ankle out slightly with pressure from my fingertip, then his left before glancing up at his eyes.