by Ginger Scott
I finish my homework in half an hour and spend the rest of the night awake in my bed, counting the number of cars I hear pass every hour. It’s very few. In my mind, every single one of them is driven by a gang member. They all have guns and drugs inside. Blood stains their floor mats. Tattoos number them like good soldiers. They run scared, but play tough. This is what Tristan wants me to see, and now it’s all I can imagine. This and the pleading look in his eyes when he begged me to go home.
I didn’t want to. Not until he left. I wanted to stay with him. I wanted him to stay out there with me.
He didn’t.
He can’t.
He never will.
Chapter Nine
Tristan
* * *
Dub was pretty high by the time I found him kicked back at a campsite on some dirt road about six miles from the highway. He was high, but he still knew exactly what he needed to say to me. I pulled up in my mom’s car, and he pushed back in the metal chair outside some guy’s camper, his boot resting on a propped-up piece of wood that had been singed in various places. He was chewing on something when I shut off the car. By the time I stood in front of him, he was ready to spit it out. He swallowed it instead, which means he either didn’t want me to know what it was, or it was Oxy. He loves Oxy, and those pills never go to waste.
Two days ago, he told me he kicked Joker out. Out of the Fifty-Seven, out of his life, and, “He better be out of this city when he gets his diploma.” Dub spoke those words and then my best friend lost his mind. Joker told me last night he had no idea where he went after Dub’s talk. My guess is he knows, at least he knows how it started. He went to Sophie’s Den, the house full of squatters near the warehouse district where anyone can load up on whatever poison they’d like for cheap.
It’s cheap, because everything there is cut with something else. Sometimes that shit isn’t even cut, it’s just acid and chemicals. It’s run by The Tribe, and it’s how they buy their power.
The need to be high terrifies me. I stay straight because of it. I’ve only been drunk and high a few times when I was twelve and thirteen because Dub made me. I made myself believe I liked it, because I wanted to belong and be just like him. I didn’t want that at all, though. I liked his power, the way he controlled everything and the way girls looked at him. The weed and the pills, though…I woke up feeling like my mom at her lowest—a place I will never go again, and I will crawl through fire to keep my mother out of that hell. I tell Dub I’m better sharp. I make it about him, just like I make my life about him. He likes it that way—respects my choice because it’s about him.
Joker was stoned when he showed up at my house last night. He didn’t make much sense, but he confirmed what Dub had said. He passed it off like no big deal. Kept telling me they both decided it was best, and he wanted out anyways. I know he did, but I also know getting out of the Fifty-Seven doesn’t work that way. It’s not like giving a resignation. Anyone who leaves becomes a risk, and Dub doesn’t let anyone go unless he has leverage, or unless they’re terrified of crossing him, which is why we all fucking stay.
That’s the thing I keep coming back to. Joker fucked up somewhere, and if he’s out because he was disloyal, he’s not safe. He has to know. He has to run.
He wouldn’t hear any of it last night, and this morning he was gone. I called him when the sun rose, and I drove my mom’s car over there before she got up for work. His car was gone, and his room looked like he’d just got up and left. I came to school thinking maybe he just came here, but I knew in my gut he wouldn’t leave for school that early. He either ran before they could find him, or he ran when they did.
My knee won’t quit bobbing up and down. So far, I’ve drawn a black circle with ink in the center of my journal; I’ve ripped through the paper with the pressure of my pen. This class is the last place I want to be, but I don’t know where to begin to look for Joker—I might as well stay here as if everything’s normal until I know where to go.
Riley’s back to not looking at me. “I’m glad,” I keep telling myself. Such a liar. I like talking to her. She listens, and I don’t feel crazy for having the dreams that I have when I’m around her. She’s so normal, like how people our age get to live and be in other places. In Miller, she sticks out—like a flower in a bed of weeds.
My arm is marked with faint blue lines, bruising from where she scratched me fighting to get her ball. I keep replaying how that all went down, how defiant she was. She’s fearless, and it’s going to get her in trouble. The courts are Dub’s domain, and if Joker is in the trouble I’m afraid he is in, I knew most of Dub’s close crew would meet up there eventually. Riley standing under the buzzing lights was like a sick joke, and I just had to get her to leave.
She fought me so hard. I went back twenty minutes later just to make sure she left, and I could finally breathe when I saw that she had.
There’s one scratch on my arm that’s still pink. Her nails clawed my skin as she slid from my body. I keep rubbing the place where it burns, glancing at her and hoping she notices. Part of me wants to make her feel bad that she went ballistic and hurt me in her rage, not that I’m hurt really. She’s just so physical. When Lauren and I were kids, we would fight about a lot of things, but I don’t think she ever climbed up on me. Riley didn’t hesitate. She just did it, as if we had history.
I clear my throat, and she doesn’t flinch. We’re reading a children’s book. Something about story structure or whatever. I’ve read this one, so I’ve just been looking at the pictures. I had this book when I was a little kid. It’s probably the only one I ever read on my own willingly. It’s about a little girl who’s afraid of the monsters in her closet. Every few pages she calls out for her parents to save her, and every time they come into her room to check on her, the monsters are gone. They tell her to turn off her imagination, but the moment they shut her door, the monsters are there again. Eventually, she decides to just make friends with them.
“Who’s our protagonist?” Ms. Forte is roaming in and out of the aisles as she talks, and for whatever reason she straightens my book as she passes my desk. I sit up and turn it crooked as soon as she passes.
“Emily.” The answer comes from one of the smart kids in the back of the class.
“Right. Emily,” Ms. Forte repeats. “And the antagonist…the monsters, right?”
The class behind me hums in agreement, and I chuckle, shifting in my seat to hide my eyes with my palm, elbow resting on the desktop.
“What’s our conflict?” There’s silence after her question. Soon, a few people murmur that the monsters won’t leave, and Ms. Forte tells them they’re in the “right ballpark.”
They’re not, though. Not even close. The problem isn’t that the monsters won’t leave. The problem is that Emily’s parents won’t listen to her—they don’t believe her. And her parents…they’re the antagonists. They’re the whole reason Emily has to learn how to sleep with the enemy.
I feel the vibration of my phone against my leg, so I take my phone out and rest it on my knee, scooting it in to read my message beneath the shield of my desk. My heart is pounding, expecting to see a text from Joker, but because it’s Dub, it takes me a few seconds to process and decode what he’s saying.
It’s dirty. Gonna throw it away.
I can’t make my eyes move from the words, and my teeth gnaw at the inside of my lip so hard that my skin feels raw in seconds.
Dirty. That word means a lot of things when we say it in our crew. It means cops. It means rat. It means problem.
It means Joker’s been looking for a way out, and the one he chose—the one he found—is going to get him killed instead.
I start to move more in my seat, and my shifting catches Riley’s attention. I can feel the heat taking over my chest, arms, and neck as I mentally piece so many things together. My friend ran, but before he ran…did he do something stupid? My breathing is rapid, and my body is flooded with uncontained energy. It’s not a need to fle
e, but more of a need to know—a need to see it for myself.
“Are you okay?” Riley’s whisper brings my attention to her fast. Her eyes are drawn in and her body is leaning over the desk between us. I must look ill. I glance over my shoulder and Ms. Forte’s back is to us. She’s talking; everyone’s listening but us.
“Can I borrow your truck?” My plea comes out urgent. Getting home is all I can think of, and I don’t have a car. Riley is my only immediate option, but she can’t come. She has no reason to trust me, and I can see her searching for an excuse while she stares at me without any reaction at all. She’s blank, maybe even stunned that I’d ask for something personal like this when last night I was trying to break her and make her obey. She’s going to say no, and I knew when I asked, but I’m desperate.
“Okay.”
My chest shudders with the release of the breath I’ve been holding. Riley leans forward and pulls her keys from her bag resting on the ground by her feet. Her head tilts as she sits back up, her eyes scanning the back of the room to make sure no one is noticing. She leans over again and slides the keys to me under her palm and along the empty desktop between us, waiting until I reach across and our hands touch. Mine covers hers; I’m surprised by how cold her skin is under mine, which is burning up. She moves her hand away slowly, and my fingertips brush along every bump and curve until the only thing left is the feel of her fingertips tickling against mine.
Her hand slips away from the desk carefully, and her eyes stay forward—away from me. I bring her keys into my lap and clutch them in my fist next to my body, and I glance back again wanting to thank her, but she stays locked in her stare. I know she can feel me looking at her because at one point she scowls slightly and almost turns her head, letting her eyes flit close to me, but never directly at me.
I scare her.
She knows.
She helped me anyway.
Ten minutes pass, and the clock feels like it’s actually slowing down and working against me. I can’t wait for answers—not even the few hours it is until lunch. A lot of things can happen in a few hours in the world that exists outside of this school. So many things can change, and I won’t have a hand in any of it—I won’t be able to help tell the story because all of the important pieces, the protagonist, the climax…the monsters, will be written before I get a chance to.
“Excuse me,” I say, clearing my throat as I stand and slip the keys into my pocket unnoticed.
Ms. Forte twists and our eyes meet, hers full of warning, mine full of determination.
“Bathroom,” I say, pointing out to the hallway.
She studies me for a full second, trying to decide if what I’m saying is bullshit. I’m close to just bolting, knowing she won’t be able to catch me, when Riley stands next to me.
“Me, too. We’ll be fast,” she says, moving toward the doorway without even allowing our teacher the option of saying no.
I follow her out and don’t say a word while we both grab the plastic card passes hung on the wall. The door clicks closed behind us and we follow the normal path down the hallway to the restrooms around the corner on the right. Riley never looks back at me, walking into the ladies room without giving a single clue to anyone that might be watching. I want to thank her, but I also want to leave, so I don’t pause at all, moving quickly to the end of the hallway to the parking lot doors. A security guard stationed there glances up. I raise the pass and my keys.
“Forgot a book,” I say, not that the guy really cares. These guys make ten dollars an hour and their only job is to look at our bags and make sure we’re not carrying. He waves me by and goes back to whatever viral video he’s watching on his phone.
I wander through a few rows of the packed student lot until I spot the tailgate of Riley’s truck in the very last row. I jog, and eventually break into a run until I get to the cab of her truck. The door is unlocked, which is stupid to do even if she thinks her truck is a total piece of shit. Pieces of shit can still be jacked and sold for parts that are worth more than the whole. It happens a lot here. It’s one of the ways The Tribe makes money.
My knees hit her steering wheel, so I reach down and pull the lever to slide the seat back before I close the door. I put the keys into the ignition and try to familiarize myself with the dash as the dinging sound of the engaged key echoes. That’s when I see the stick shift.
“Shit,” I say under my breath.
I don’t know how to drive a stick. I’ve never really had an opportunity to learn, and when I drive for Dub, the point is usually to be fast and to get us the hell out of some place. Not really a good time to stall out and blow a transmission.
I wrap my fingers around the steering wheel and flex my arms straight. I can do this. I press the clutch down to the floor with my foot and palm the gear shift, easing up the left while giving gas to the right. I can feel the truck begin to jerk, so I gas it hard and let up on the clutch, stalling out with a heavy shake that sends my body forward into the steering column.
Dammit.
After a few seconds of frustrated, hard breathing, I look to the left to see if anyone noticed my epic fail. The guard near the front of the school is still leaning on the wall. I’m sure he heard me, but he’s not walking my direction, and he hasn’t removed the radio from his hip to call me in.
I crank the engine again, and the truck sputters to life. I’m a couple feet from the spot I started in a few minutes ago. I go through the same routine, my arms stiff and my body rigid as I sit tall and watch over everything. I can feel the pressure building under my feet, the place where it starts to slip, and I give it gas and ease off the clutch this time, which ends up spinning Riley’s tires against the gravelly asphalt and spilling smoke from the sides until the truck kicks forward again and dies.
I squeeze the steering wheel hard, the veins on my hands growing, the blue becoming more vibrant. I begin to shake the wheel, and when it doesn’t move, I pound against it with my open palms, missing a few times and hitting the horn. My heart feels like it might rip its way from my chest. The beating burns against my bones, and my mouth tastes of stomach acid. This all feels like a sign.
There’s no way I haven’t been heard by now, and with the problems at our school, people hanging out in the parking lot for too long are treated hostile. Police will be called by our resource officer soon, if they haven’t been already.
I give up, yanking the keys from Riley’s truck and sliding from the driver’s seat in one swift movement, slamming the door closed hard behind me. The guard is holding his radio in front of his body, either waiting for someone to answer, or watching to see what I do—if I bolt. This school is run like a prison. I guess it has to be. I don’t know.
“Found it,” I say, as I pass him.
He hasn’t radioed yet, and my walking back inside seems to have cooled everything. I hold up a folded-up piece of paper that I pulled from the pocket of my jeans. It’s the questionnaire from Ms. Beaumont that I haven’t looked at since I got a second copy of it. I should throw it away, but it would seem weird to do it now, right after I supposedly “found it.”
My hands sink deep into my pockets, and I cruise back into class while Ms. Forte is drawing lines through words on the white board. The front of the room looks like a word jumble, and I realize from the amount of writing, I’ve been gone for a while.
One hand is propped on her hip while her other hand holds out an uncapped marker. Her eyes follow me as I make my way from the doorway hook where I hang the restroom pass down the row to my empty desk. My things are still here, which helps my story, so I go with it, holding up a hand in a silent apology for the interruption then pressing it on my stomach to fake that I’m sick. I match it with puffed cheeks that sell my point, and Ms. Forte rolls her eyes and returns to the board. The second she does I slide my palm along the desk with Riley’s keys cupped underneath. When I don’t feel her touch right away, I look at her and glance from her eyes to my palm, urging her to take her keys.
“I can’t drive a stick,” I whisper. Her mouth pinches in the corner, I think just disappointed that she wasn’t able to help me.
She slides her hand toward me to take her keys back, grazing my hand with her fingers as she does. I don’t know why my own fingers curl into hers just before she slips away, but suddenly we’re both frozen in this brief touch that I am instantly desperate to hold onto. My eyes flit up to her face, and her own are widened and focused on our hands. A slight twitch of her finger paints my skin like a feather, and I react by quickly pulling away. She pulls her keys into her lap and holds onto them for the rest of the lesson.
Our journals are passed out when Ms. Forte is done, and she gives us directions for today’s assignment. She asks for a poem, and all I can think about is the rap song that was playing under Dub’s voice when he told me Joker was out.
Boy gotta gun, think it gonna make him gangster,
But I say no sir, cuz I can cap you faster.
Joker isn’t fast. Dub’s faster.
I scribble the lyrics down and underneath give credit to DC Combs, the author. I read them over and over and continue the song’s bleak message in my head while my arms and legs grow more restless. After ten minutes of imagining the worst for my friend, I give in to the temptation to answer that last burning suspicion I have.
How dirty was Joker?
The classroom is quiet enough to hear the crackling of the ductwork inside the school ceiling and walls, but it’s as good of a time as any. I grip my backpack strap and step away from my desk in one smooth stride, slinging my bag over my shoulder and marching through the widest row of desks until I reach the door.
“Tristan!”
I hear my name being called, and I’m honestly not sure if it’s Ms. Forte or Riley yelling for me. Neither of them will catch me, though. I break into a sprint the moment my feet hit the hallway, and I push through the back door, speed by the guard and lift myself over the fence with one hand and a kick of my legs in the air.