by Ginger Scott
“I mean, if we arranged a session and I had some better tools, I think I could get your cheekbones down a little better.” I take my own book back in my hand and look at it quizzically, pretending to be serious.
Riley moves her legs back under her desks and continues writing, her pen working faster now. As Ms. Forte moves down my row, I lean over the desk between us and whisper.
“You writing about me?” My lips pucker a smile that grows when her left knee begins to bob nervously. I don’t know why, but I love that I’m getting at her. The faster her knee moves, the quicker her pen inks out words until she finally slams the cover of her book closed, laying the pen on top, like a punctuation.
She leans forward and rolls her head to the side, and her eyes smile, the bright blue winged with crinkles at the corners.
“Yep.”
An anxious buzz forms in my lips and I try to keep my smile in place.
“Serious?” I ask, lifting one brow.
Riley’s eyes tease me for a second, dimming as she studies me as if she’s trying to read my poker hand. She quickly throws her own ace.
“Serious,” she says, grabbing her book in her hand and passing it to me.
I look toward the back of the class where Ms. Forte has stepped out the back door, propping it open with her foot while she talks to our principal in the hallway. Hesitantly, I take Riley’s book in my hands and look at her sideways, mostly expecting to open her book to see some story about her missing her old home or school or friends. I open the book and flip the first few pages before looking down to see if I’ve been fooled. My name jumps right out at me.
Tristan is a sexist. It’s too bad because I think we could have been friends. I’m not giving up on him entirely, but I’m certainly not letting him off the hook. I’m going to show up and play on his court every day. And I’m going to keep my head shaved just like this for as long as it takes for him to start treating me like I belong there. To be honest, I don’t miss my hair at all. I might not ever grow it back. But he gets zero credit for that.
It goes on, but I get the gist. Fine, I’m sexist. If she knew the truth, that I roll with killers and the worst people on earth, I would worry. I’m good with her thinking this instead. Strangely, though, the part that’s not sitting well with me is the statement “could have been friends.” We probably could have. I’d probably want more. Maybe she would too. It could have been one of those really sweet stories about how two people meet. Instead, I’m a sexist and somehow, I’m going to have to keep her away from everything bad that happens out there on those courts at night, without us being friends. That part actually makes me sick.
I practically sprint from the classroom when the lunch bell rings. It’s not all bad, but that outsider feeling starts to really suffocate me after an hour or two, and I had to rush into the hallway just to breathe. I didn’t even bother with my bag. There’s nothing in it of value, and I’m just going right back to that classroom in forty minutes.
I make my way out to the half wall I usually find Joker at, but he isn’t there. I wait on him for a few minutes, until people quit spilling out of the main exit, and finally give up and stand in the snack-bar line. My stomach is roaring, so I order two plates of fries when I finally get up to the register. I head back to the wall expecting to see Joker there waiting for me. When he’s not, I take a seat, straddling the wall with one leg on either side so I can scan most of the area and look for my friend.
My hand plucks fries one by one until I’m nearly sick from eating so many, so fast. I have about half a plate left when I notice Riley stand tall from the table she was sitting at with Lauren and a few of Lauren’s friends.
My eyes follow her to the trashcan a few feet away and then to the main office doors, where she slips inside and remains. I pull my phone from my pocket and message my friend when I don’t have any texts from him. I’m sure he ditched, or maybe he decided to spend his break getting high. He always takes some of the product we sell when we’re moving something for Dub.
After I hit SEND on my text, I kick my leg over the wall and drop my plate in the trash before heading toward Lauren and the other girls. My hands rest heavily in my pockets. My brown canvas pants ride low on my hips. I look down at my white shoes and grimace at the scuff on one of the toes; I let my eyes pass along the office entrance as I walk by just to see if I can spot Riley inside. My counselor’s door is closed, and irrationally I start to imagine the two of them sitting inside, discussing me.
“Why can’t you just be nice to the girl, you dumbass?” Lauren smacks one of her school books along my thigh and I jump in response.
“Oww!” I rub my side and scowl at her before sitting down in the seat Riley left open. It’s still warm from her body being here. “What is that, a math book?”
She squints at me and mouths for me to F off.
“It’s an algebra book. I’m in algebra, Tristan. And I’m graduating…with my full degree. And I’m leaving this shithole.” She’s speaking slowly to me both to mock me and because I’ve pissed her off.
“Yeah, relax. I know, I get it…you’re better than the rest of us, blah, blah, blah.” I smirk at her and she breaks into a laugh, hitting me again with her book.
“I didn’t say that. And you know I miss as many days as you do in this place. I’m just saying I’ve got plans beyond here,” she says, leaning into me.
I’ve never said anything to anyone that would lead them to believe I want anything other than to step into Dub’s shoes when he’s done with them, but I’ve always gotten the sense that Lauren knows. She and I have a lot in common. Her dad ran with mine, which is mostly the reason she’s been so focused on her brother and cousin staying out of the gang’s business. Her mom also happens to be my mom’s sponsor. Where her mom had a weakness for alcohol, mine liked heroin. They run a thrift store through the church together now. Some of my shithead friends like to make jokes about ex-users selling used shit.
It’s never funny.
Lauren and I are woven together in all of the bad places in life, and that makes it easy to see right through each other, I guess. Kinda like how I know she’s probably not going to get very far out of this place after we graduate because even junior college costs money neither of us has.
“You get roped into those scholarship forms from that counselor lady?” I reach over and take a piece of the crust left from her pizza, and she pushes her plate in my direction, encouraging me to take it all.
“I have filled out seven of those things, and oh my God…it took hours!”
I chuckle while I chew, nodding.
“You filled one out?” Her surprise is a little insulting, but really…it’s true.
“I threw it out. What am I going to put on that thing? Special skills—I like to push people around so they’re afraid of me and I’m amazing at hiding weapons.” I stuff the rest of the crust in my mouth and glance to see Lauren’s disapproving face. I guess some of this stuff has been building up inside; I don’t really air it out much.
“Sorry,” I say, sliding out of the seat and taking her tray and the plate she let me finish up to the trash bin and rack. My eyes dart toward the office door a few times on my walk back to the lunch table that everyone but Lauren has now abandoned.
“You don’t intimidate people,” she says, shaking me out of my visual stalking mode of the last place I know Riley went.
“What?” I scrunch my eyes, not entirely sure what she said.
“I said you don’t intimidate anyone,” she repeats, which I can only react to with a harsh laugh. “Okay, yeah…people are intimidated by you, but you…yourself? Uh uh. You’re kind, Tristan. It’s your biggest virtue, and your most pathetic weakness.”
“Thanks,” I laugh, stretching my arms out and sliding my hands across the table to the other side. I let my forehead fall against the tabletop and close my eyes.
“You could do so much good, Tristan Lopez…” she says as I roll my head to the side then prop it up in
my palm, resting on my elbow. “If only you weren’t such a goddamned chicken.”
My mouth flattens more than it already is with the heavy kick her words give to my chest, and I’m left staring into her eyes. They slant with pity, and I swim in it for a few seconds before I step back into the life I have—play the part of the bad guy.
I sit up straight, drawing my hands in, palms flat on the table in front of me, and I look down at how much area my fingers cover when they’re spread out like this. These hands can do such terrible things. I curl my fingers and knock my right fist on the table as I stand, chuckling. Stepping into Lauren before I leave, I lean down and press one hand on the center of her book. Most people would look down and pray for me to leave at this point, but she matches me stare for stare, blink for blink.
My head leans slightly to the left, and I smirk.
“You don’t know shit about me, Lauren. I’m not afraid of anything.” I pause, cocking a brow and lifting the corner of my lip just a little more. “How about you?”
My eyes shift from one of hers to the other, and she doesn’t flinch despite how close we are. Eventually, she stands without ever breaking our sightline, and with her heels, she’s almost my height.
“See?” she begins, glancing past me at something briefly, then coming back to meet my eyes. “Instead of doing something good, you’re standing here trying to pick a fight with me.”
I breathe in rapidly, twice. I swallow and force myself to draw in my next breath slowly through my nose.
“Riley just left the office. She looks upset. But you’ve got things to do, don’t you? A line to draw for her safety or whatever…isn’t that the story you tell?” She laughs softly and shakes her head as her eyes move down my chest, eventually tapping on the center of it with her long, red fingernail.
Lauren leaves me there alone, chuckling more as she pulls her bag up and walks away. I should be offended, or angry. This is where guys like me pound their fists into things and let the rest of their immediate company know how pissed off they are. My jaw flexes, and my hands are fisted tightly, but the only person I really have to be mad at is me. Lauren was just holding up a mirror. The fact that I don’t like the person looking back at me is my fault entirely.
Joker still hasn’t shown his face, and I’m sure he’s high and goofing off by now. The easy choice would be to take off for the rest of the day to go find him and keep him in line. A week ago, that’s the decision I’d make. Ten minutes ago, before talking to Lauren, I’d still probably be walking the opposite direction, out the doors and into Miller’s streets to find my just-as-doomed friend.
I glance over my shoulder, though, my feet still rooted where Lauren left them. The office doors are closed and Riley is long gone, but my counselor is in there, along with a bunch of pipedreams. Chewing at the end of my tongue I will my body to turn, forcing one step then another until my fingers are wrapped around the office door handle. There’s a blast of cool from the air conditioning as I step inside, and the smell of fresh copies stings my nose.
Ms. Beaumont is in her office, but she’s occupied with whatever’s on her desk. I could still leave unnoticed, but wouldn’t that be the easy thing to do? Wouldn’t that be running away? Like something a scared person does?
“Got a minute?” My own voice surprises me almost as much as it does my counselor, who jumps in her seat and covers her chest with her palm.
“Tristan…oh man you got me. Yes. Of course!”
She gathers up some folders on her desk, pushing them into a stack. One of them has Riley’s name on it, and my eyes must rest there a little too long because she quickly flips them over.
My throat clears.
“I…can I get a new copy of that application?” I hold the inside of my cheek between my back teeth and meet her gaze. My legs are bobbing nervously; I push my feet back under the chair I’m sitting in. It only makes it worse, like a sprinter in starting blocks.
“I messed it up, so now it’s just a bunch of scribbled out stuff. I know we have to type it in on the online app in the computer lab, but I can’t even read it now, ya know? Ha. Anyhow…”
She’s already slid open her side drawer and leaned down to rifle through folders. She comes up with the form quickly, a grin on her face as she places it in front of me. I’ve never even been in our school’s computer lab. I’m such a fraud.
“I’m glad you’re here, Tristan. I actually had an idea, and I think maybe it will help you in your applications,” she says.
I suck in air and slide the form toward my body, ignoring my inner voice of doubt that keeps telling me I’m just going to throw it away again. I fold the paper in half, maybe partly thinking that will quiet the voices in my head. It doesn’t.
“Yeah,” I say to her, hoping to trade the conversation I’m having with myself for one with her.
“I’ve heard you play a little basketball…not for the school, but with your friends and stuff,” she says.
I bite down on my bottom lip and feel my eyelids freeze open and rigid.
“Uh huh,” I answer. My pulse is beginning to double its rhythm in anticipation of wherever this is going. Maybe she wants me to think about tryouts and joining the school team. We suck, but I guess I could put up with it for a couple months. It would give me something to talk about on those essay questions. Maybe I’d be a superstar compared to the other guys that tryout…maybe I’d get a scholarship that way. Dub would be proud of this. If I was a baller? That would be okay. This would be an exception that the guys would all overlook.
I’m ready to agree before I really know the terms, but by some miracle I keep my mouth shut until I get the real bite.
“We have a few students…female athletes,” she nods quickly while she speaks as if I’m supposed to nod back. I do, agreeing to whatever direction this is going with a small gesture. “As I’m sure you know, we don’t have anyone to coach the girls team this year. And without a coach, the team won’t be able to form, and one of the girls is quite good. I really think she could play in college, but without her senior year, well…”
Every muscle in my face is working to make my expression look exactly like it did when I walked into this office. My eyes are fighting me, wanting to widen, and my mouth is watering—my stomach a concert of my drumming pulse.
“And I just had this idea…actually…you coming in here sorta sparked it,” she says, giggling. I’m laughing too on the outside, but my insides are trying to win over what I can see unfolding. All I had to do was keep walking to class, or even better, leave to go find my friend. But Lauren put that shit in my head and now here I am, sitting in front of some bright-eyed woman who has an idea that she’s spilling out excitedly while I struggle to pay attention. Her words are muted against the protests happening inside my head right now.
“You would be doing it as a volunteer, of course,” she finishes, and I don’t respond for several seconds, still registering the small portion I actually heard with the bits I’m filling in that my mind made blank.
She’s asking me to be the volunteer coach for the South High girls’ basketball team. I know who the girl is that’s good. I know every girl in this school, and only one of them is good. She just happens to be spectacular.
“I’m pretty sure students aren’t allowed to do that,” I say with a shrug, my pulse slowing down a little with the excuse. I’m pretty sure I’m right, and even if I’m not, having students coach other students feels like a really bad idea.
“I can get an exception. You’ll have a supervisor, but he won’t really do anything. He’ll just observe while he grades, and he’ll be there for you to check in with when you need him. We have some leeway because of the district budget, and our staff numbers. It’s only because you’re seventeen.” Of course, she has an answer. My blood warms again, my beating heart kicking off my ribs.
“And he can’t just coach?” I throw one more idea out.
She laughs, which means it’s not a good idea.
“It’s Ron Green. He’s in his sixties, and he doesn’t know a thing about sports. And he didn’t volunteer to stick around after school, he actually gets paid to lock up at night. Not much, but enough to do it,” she says.
“I don’t know.” I exhale and sink into the back of her office chair, that I don’t even remember sitting down in to start with. I drag the new, and still quite blank, application into my lap, and I stare at it and try to imagine how any of this goes. Why would she ask me to do this? I know she’s heard the things that are said about me and the others like me. Her eyes have grazed over the X on my wrist a few times in our past meetings. She is purposefully not looking at it now, though. She’s going out of her way to avoid it, conveniently ignoring this big question mark about me in favor of fitting me into a puzzle she’s trying to finish. She needs something from me for someone else, I need this for this thing she’s convinced I want—college.
“I’m not sure I really have time…”
“Three times a week, two games a week, eight weeks.” She folds her hands, one palm over the other, resting them on her desk as her mouth pulls tight into a “gotcha” kind of smile.
“Games don’t start right away, so ten weeks,” I say, shrugging and blinking my eyes as if somehow that trumps her.
“Nine weeks. It starts next week.” She reaches into her drawer, which I’m starting to think is a bottomless pit of so very many things, all of them problematic for me. She pulls out a sheet that seems like a calendar, and lays it on the desk between us, the words facing me. “If they make it to the playoffs, it will be a little longer, but think of how good that will make you look?”
“You mean how good it will make that girl look,” I correct.
Her head tilts and she glances at me sideways, one eye smaller than the other.
“How good it will make you both look,” she corrects.
My eyes flit up to hers briefly then back down to the schedule. I pull it closer with my finger, then rest my hands in my lap behind her desk, where I can crack my knuckles one at a time, over and over again. I can feel that I’m rocking, not much, but slightly back and forth. I did this when I was a little kid and I had to make a decision. I was never good at it because I knew that saying yes to one thing meant saying no to the other. But what am I saying no to here…at least if I say yes to this?