by Ginger Scott
Am I saying no to Dub? To Joker and the other guys? To my dad? I swear the X on my skin burns with that thought. I wrap my fingers around my wrist and twist lightly, trying to rub away the sensation.
“Tristan, do you want to go to college? Have you thought about what this could mean for you?”
I quiver at her pointed question and my chin lifts as my eyes snap to hers. The questioning expression on her face is exactly the way I feel inside—it’s so familiar, the look in her eyes. It matches my uncertainty. It feels like my doubt.
“I don’t know,” I say, and just getting those words out causes a spike in my pulse. I shift in my seat to rid my limbs of this instant nervous energy.
“Do you not believe me when I tell you that you can? Are you afraid of wanting to go?”
Her psychology degree is paying off here. Yes and yes, and probably yes to her next seven questions.
“I don’t know,” I say again instead, letting my gaze slide down to her chin. It’s hard to be vague when I look in her eyes.
The wheels of her chair screech against the tiles of the floor, and I flinch but don’t glance up as she moves from her seat. From my periphery, I watch her walk around her office to a small table pushed against the wall to my left. She squares herself with me and leans back, sitting on the table with her arms and ankles crossed.
“If it isn’t this, Tristan, I’m going to find something else,” she says, and I look up enough to catch her stare. “I’m not giving up on you.”
“Don’t make me your project,” I say back quickly. I open my mouth to try to apologize, but I’m not really sorry, so I breathe out and close my lips, shaking my head instead.
“It’s my job,” she says, after a few seconds of silence between us.
She has a really shitty job. It would be easier to build a rocket out of her office supplies than to motivate teenagers at South.
“Do you get, like…I don’t know, evaluated or whatever on how many of us go to college? ‘cause you’re screwed if that’s the case.” I cross my right leg over my knee and thread my fingers behind my neck, stretching my elbows out to the sides.
Ms. Beaumont laughs.
“The only person who evaluates me is me.”
I hold her stare for a breath then laugh as I sit forward again.
“I’m sorry, but that’s really cheesy,” I say, showing a small lift in my shoulders.
She copies me, but the longer she stares at me the more serious the look in her eyes becomes. Things feel a lot less cheesy all of a sudden. They feel…sad.
“If you don’t want to try to make a change this way, Tristan, then I’m going to find another way. For as long as I have access to you, I’m not going to stop. This road you’re on, it’s got you so twisted, and I…God, Tristan, I see it. I can smell it in the air when we talk, and I can taste it. It’s so sour and bitter, and I know it’s making you sick. It’s making me sick for you, Tristan. And yeah, I know I have no idea how bad it actually is, but I know more than you give me credit for. I see your map, and I’m begging you to just consider this alternate route I’m showing you. You don’t have to go this way, Tristan. You can turn.”
I’m sure she can see the sweat on my forehead. I feel it, but I won’t reach up to stop it. I won’t give it power. The air in here feels thick, like it’s squeezing my entire body trying to drown me in the truth she just blew into the room. I’m staring at her waist, at the threadbare spot along the bottom of her red jacket. There’s a string barely holding onto a gold button, and it won’t take much to pull it away and leave the button without a home. As polished as she presents herself here every day, she’s worn and battered too. Maybe she does belong here after all. Maybe…just maybe…this is exactly where she’s meant to be.
“Nine weeks,” I say, glancing up briefly. I catch her hands fall away to her sides, a hopeful gesture. I look back down.
“Eleven weeks tops.”
Her voice cracks.
“Eleven is a lot more than nine,” I say through my exhale, as if the time commitment is really the issue. It’s committing to anything that’s the issue—anything that isn’t Dub and the Fifty-Seven and Joker and the secrets I know that would topple this entire world.
The bell rings to return to class, and I pull my phone from my pocket one more time. Joker finally responded. He sent a pic of his emoji, smoking weed. Figured.
This is my road. This is my travel mate. Everything leads to the same disappointing place. I’m capable of so much more.
“Okay,” I say before I have time to play out the other side in my head. That other side is based in fear and habit. It’s hopeless. And it isn’t brave.
“Tristan, this is so great!”
Ms. Beaumont is already buzzing around her desk, gathering a packet of materials. She pulls the phone from its receiver and begins to dial the front desk, getting the secretary.
“Jaime, I’m going to need to get some consent forms, and I’ll need some time with Gary,” she says, her eyes whizzing around from one thing to the next. Gary is the principal. His name is Dr. Normal, which is why everyone—even the students—call him Gary. His formal name and title sounds like a super villain. He’s too nice for this school. His car has been jacked twice, and now he drives this really old station wagon that doesn’t start half the time. He’s been at South for three years.
“Can I just pick this stuff up after school? I need to get back,” I say, feeling this odd pressure in my chest. I know it’s not because I’m worried about being late, but I tell myself it is just to get me out of this room.
“Yes, perfect. I’ll see you at three.” Ms. Beaumont waves me out without looking, and I leave before I can hear the secretary’s shocked reaction to her idea of having me coach girls. Most of the teachers in this place work their asses off trying to keep the guys away from the girls’ activities. She invited me in, though.
I catch Lauren’s eyes just before she heads into her science class. I used to have that class with her before I was moved—before I became Ms. Beaumont’s mission. Lauren winks at me and sticks out her tongue through her wide smile because she thinks I went chasing after Riley. In a way, I guess I did. I didn’t go in there entirely for her, but if that’s not where I’d seen her leave in tears, I’m not sure I would have. Not today.
I glare at Lauren, but she doesn’t notice; she’s already gone. I don’t know why I’m compelled to save face in front of her anyway. I work so hard trying to show people I don’t give a damn about my life or my future. I try so hard that I think maybe I convinced myself I didn’t. There’s a sliver in me that does, though. I feel it beating now in the pit of my stomach. It’s this victim, kicking and screaming while I drown it one day at a time, making it quieter and quieter until I almost don’t hear it at all.
Someone gave it a voice, though. It’s loud today—loud now.
I pull open Ms. Forte’s door, and Riley’s back is to me, her skin pink along her neck, blotchy from crying and grabbing at herself, no longer protected by a thick wave of hair because she shaved it all off—because of me. Her thumbnail is caught between her front teeth and her lips are parted while her glassy eyes stare off ahead. My bag is right where I left it, and hers is on the ground next to mine this time, instead of in the seat between us.
I slip into my seat, leaving my legs to the side so my body is facing her. Almost everyone is here, and Ms. Forte is going to start talking soon. I have seconds to speak without it being a class interruption—without anyone but Riley hearing me. They tick away until there’s almost nothing, and with barely a breath left in my chest I eek them out.
“I volunteered to coach your team. You’ll have a team. I’m the best they could do, but…you’ll have a team. I just thought you might want to know.”
I don’t say it like I’m excited, because I’m not. I’m dreading it, mostly. In the seconds since I agreed to do it my mind has been flooded with all of the things it’s going to interfere with—of the things I won’t be ther
e for and that Dub will turn to someone else to do. They’re all awful things that I don’t want to do, but they’re my job. I’ve always been the one. I might get replaced and lose my place in the ranks.
Riley blinks, her long lashes splashing away a tear. Her smooth head and delicate profile is so soft, and even from the side I can see the crystal blue color of her eyes. They’re like diamonds. Her lips draw in lightly and she puffs out a breath, a release. She doesn’t look at me, and I’m glad. I think if she did right now, that voice inside would get even louder, and I can’t take that much conflict in my soul. As it is, I’ve justified doing some good to offset all of the bad things I’ve been a part of.
But seeing her reaction makes me feel right. I’ve done something right. I’ve made thousands of choices since I was old enough to exercise free will. Other than the rush I used to get from being on lookouts when I was nine and ten, I have never felt like I do right now, sitting in this dumb desk that’s too small for my body, in this classroom that’s too advanced for my education. Somewhere there was a fork and I went in a different direction from the one I always choose. Why am I desperate to go back and choose differently?
Ms. Forte leads us through a psychology lesson for the rest of our class time. I fade in and out of her lecture, but the parts I catch feel incredibly close to home. We’re learning about the differences and similarities between psychopaths and sociopaths, and the entire lesson feels like a checklist for Dub. When Ms. Forte passes out a self-evaluation quiz, I take it first for Dub, answering things like I know he would. Lack of empathy, inability to feel remorse, habitual lying and disregard for rules or law—every trait is him, including the big one that elevates him to psychopath.
Do you have any close bonds, including to family members?
Dub doesn’t. I’ve seen him laugh through funerals, and I don’t think there’s a single soul he wouldn’t feed to the sharks, and that includes me. I used to think he was close to my dad, that they were like brothers, but I think they were just the same and that’s all their connection was based on. If lives depended on it, they both would have pulled their guns and shot at one another without a blink. They’d probably both end up dead in the duel.
Such a waste.
I start to wonder where I fall on this scale, and if I’m just trying not to be like Dub even though I’ve practically been raised to be just like him. I struggle this time through, and there are some traits I answer in ways that seem completely heartless, resounding yeses to criminal versatility, juvenile delinquency and promiscuity. We’re given girls in the Fifty-Seven. They’re rewards, basically, and it’s almost like this arranged pairing when we’re old enough to get a hard on. Girls in the gang are desperate to belong to someone, and the men cheat as much as they want. Girlfriends and wives even accused of cheating or just disrespecting their man are punished. Two of Dubs are gone, and I never asked about it because I know the truth in my gut. It bothers me, and the more I think about my answers, the more I think I’m just afraid of being anything other than cold—because warm gets me noticed and noticed gets me gone.
I close my eyes and think about the characteristics on this list and what I would say about myself if I grew up in, say, San Diego or some small town in Montana. If I had the choice, would I turn to crime? Would I do some girl in a parked car because my friends all did if I didn’t think they’d beat the shit out of me for passing her up?
Would I be coaching a girls’ basketball team if I wasn’t getting anything out of it for me?
The afternoon bell dings before I get to finish my evaluation, so I fold it in half and stuff it in my backpack where it will sink to the bottom and become forgotten. I don’t actually think I’m either of those things—a sociopath or a psychopath. I think I’m just surrounded by them, and I think I’m thinking too much for a guy who doesn’t really have a choice about the people he hangs out with.
I swing my bag over both shoulders and turn to exit the room. Any peace I had with my fate explodes the minute I feel her arms wrap around my shoulders and neck.
“Thank you.” Riley’s voice is a meek whisper, and her chin pushes into the crook of my neck when she speaks.
I’m frozen with surprise, and maybe more with something else. The instant she touches me my mind is zapped with this intense clarity. I’m nothing like any of them—Dub…my dad…even Joker. I want some other life so badly I can almost feel myself in it. I feel it in the way her air tickles at my neck as she stutters her breath. It’s in the way she fits against me as my hands slowly rise and flatten on her back. My heart is literally tapping out a distress call and hunting for an escape. Anything, as long as this isn’t the only time I ever get to hold this girl.
Her hold loosens, so I do the same. She isn’t some reward, and I would never trap her. She moves away from me without even looking, and all I’m left to do is take in her raw honesty as she runs the butt of her hand along her cheeks to erase her overwhelming emotion. That was a different girl than the one who marched home and cut off her hair just to make a point. That was a girl who almost lost the only way she had to get something she truly wants.
And now I’m the guy who gets to help her. I’m walking two paths beginning right this minute, and I can’t let them cross. The collision would be deadly.
Chapter Six
Riley
* * *
“Just because I’m tall does not mean I’m athletic,” Lauren says.
I offered to pick her up for school this morning. She’s hit her limit for days she’s allowed to miss. I’ve never missed a single day of school, so it’s hard for me to imagine. I don’t think she misses for fun, though. I think that’s an act, because I’ve seen her working on homework at lunch. She cares about it more than someone who’s coasting. Her brother gets to school early to help in the cafeteria, and her mom can only make the drive once. She was stressed about it yesterday, so I said I’d drive her for the rest of the year.
She wasn’t expecting the strings attached. I feel a little guilty about them too.
“Being on a team of some sort looks good when you apply for college.” I rifle around her bedroom while I talk and pull a pair of shorts from a drawer. She snags them out of my hand and tosses them in the corner.
“Riley, I never would have become your friend if I knew you were going to rope me into some running shit. You know what? Forget it…I’ll walk my ass to school,” she says, zipping up her backpack and walking out of her room.
I grab the shorts she threw in the corner and pick up one of the several T-shirts I found and she threw on the floor.
“School is six miles. You’ll exercise less playing basketball with me three times a week,” I say, catching up to her just as she opens her front door. I step out and wait while she locks it, then hold up the clothes I stole.
“Riley. I said no,” she says. Her head leans to the side, which means I think maybe I have wiggle room.
“Yeah, but it’s not a hard no,” I say as I walk backward to my truck.
Lauren’s hands rest on her hips and her backpack slides from her shoulder and dangles from her elbow. She huffs and looks to her right, eventually laughing. It’s not a happy kind of laugh, but I think it’s the giving-in kind.
“I regret you,” she says, shirking her bag back up on her shoulder and pointing at me as she moves forward.
“You love me,” I smile, opening the driver’s side door.
“I hate you. And I’m not good, so don’t expect much.”
Lauren slides in on her side and drops her bag on the floor between her knees. She’s wearing boots, which means I’m going to need to get her shoes for tryouts today.
“Stop smirking.” She jerks her seatbelt and buckles it sloppily, swearing under her breath.
I wait for her to finish and before I back out of her driveway I pause and force her to look me in the eyes.
“Thank you,” I say.
I mean it, sincerely. If I can’t somehow put together a team for my senior
year, then years of hard work are going to be for nothing and my goals will die a harsh and instant death.
Lauren purses her lips and her eyes scowl, but her features ease eventually as she exhales through her nose.
“You’re welcome.”
She means it sincerely, too. Even kicking and screaming.
“You get to show your hair to your dad yet?” she asks during the drive.
I start to laugh then palm my head, remembering the feel of my dad’s hand in the very same place just this morning.
“He saw it this morning. It took him six bites of breakfast before he noticed. Wanna know what he said?” I muse to myself just thinking about my dad’s humor as my friend nods for me to share. “He said this should cut down on shampoo costs and shower time. Then he grunted out a smile and ate his toast.”
We move through the last intersection on our way to the school, both laughing at my dad’s reaction compared to the one Lauren says her mom would have.
“I guess our parents want us to look like them,” she says, busting out a laugh. “My mom’s hair is long and silky, and your dad’s is…”
“Yeah…you’re right. He’s bald,” I say, smiling.
I don’t think that’s why he wasn’t shocked. I actually think a part of him was, but if the biggest hurdle he has in raising a teenage girl as a single dad is the fact that she shaves her head, then I think he’s relieved.
I was a little crazy by the time I got to Ms. Beaumont’s office yesterday. I went in to find the principal because I’d heard he was also the athletic director, and I’d seen the list posted for the boys’ basketball tryouts but nothing else. Lauren’s brother was the one who told me that they didn’t have funding for girls, so I went in armed with everything I know about Title Nine and equal opportunity to play.