Still Waters

by Ash Parsons

  He chuckled. “She’s good. Got to give her that.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Given your background”—he waved a hand—“you reached certain . . . conclusions.”

  My mouth snapped shut so fast my teeth clicked. My eyes dared him to say it.

  “She’s got him right where she wants him.”

  My jaw ached with the words I held back. Typical abuser justification. Excuses. She-wanted-it rationale.

  Michael kept talking. I imagined breaking his nose.

  “It’s what she gets off on. Power. It’s how she gets everything she wants. I’m telling you so you can stay in control. You work for me—not her. If you want out, just say so. But don’t expect any freebies, from either of us.”

  My head hurt.

  “You can’t blame her,” he said. “For setting you up to ‘save’ her. It’s her favorite game.”

  I stood—fighting the urge to argue.

  “So tell me now. You want to quit?” Michael asked.

  My heart pounded, but I was still on the outside.

  “Didn’t think so,” he said. He was back in control, and he knew it. “Let’s go.”

  We walked back to the car. He opened his door, grinning. “I’m glad we had this little talk, son.”

  On the drive down, he drummed the wheel and took the corners so fast I thought we’d go up on two wheels.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  “The school.”

  He didn’t ask why, just took me there and cut the engine once we were in the deserted lot.

  “Postponing the inevitable, huh?” he asked.

  I was tired of trying to understand him. I stared blankly.

  He gestured at my jaw. “You’re in no rush to go home.”

  I made an effort not to look away.

  “It’s not a mystery, you know,” he said. “Once you start paying attention, it all comes together.”

  I shook out a cigarette. “You got my money?”

  It was his turn to ignore me. “For example—all the fights. The legend of the ass-kicker. What better way to learn to kick ass than to have yours handed to you at home?”

  I blew smoke in the car.

  “And punching that teacher. That was for your little girlfriend, but she was trash. So what was that really about?”

  I unlocked the door and held out my hand.

  “Your sister. Janie, right?”

  “Keep her name out of your mouth unless you want it wired shut.” Inside my head there was a buzz-saw whine and the calm that comes before I start throwing fists.

  He fished in his pocket and brought out a fat roll of cash. “You know you had twenty-five absences last year?”

  “Are you going to pay me, or do I grind this out on your dashboard?”

  He handed over a twenty.

  “That business with the shirt. That’s about your back. What was it, a belt buckle? Extension cord?”

  He peeled off another twenty.

  “You know what gets me?” he asked, handing the second bill over. “According to your file”—waving the wad of bills toward the school—“your home has been reported to DHR three times since you’ve been at Mercer. That means it’s been investigated, and you’re having to lie to them. You’re having to work to stay where you are.”

  I felt like a fish in the open air.

  “My file?” I’d never even thought of one—at least, not one that reported more than my absences and discipline referrals.

  Michael smiled. “I got LaShonda to make a few copies. She’s an office aide. Future Business Leader of America, my ass. I told her to think of it as corporate espionage. Then she went for it. Sick, right?”

  He handed over another twenty.

  “Yeah. Congratulations. You’re real good at manipulating people.”

  “It’s a gift.”

  He unrolled the wad of cash and fanned it.

  “What I can’t figure out, and no file will ever tell me, is why you’re still there.” He held out a bill, a lure to talk.

  I took it. “Foster care is worse. Group homes, too.”

  “Not for you, though. For her.” Walking the line. He peeled off another bill. “Okay, no foster care. And also no running away. Janie again. I get it.”

  My hands clenched.

  He held out the bill. “Why don’t you just kill him?”

  The air went out of my lungs. I imagined my plan—a few years from now—the barrel of the gun pressed into his temple or jammed into his mouth.

  Pulling the trigger.

  “It’s not that easy.”

  Michael pulled the bill away. “If that’s your answer . . .”

  I scrubbed my hands on my legs. Hating him. Wanting the money.

  “Look, so I kill him. Then what? He’s dead. I go to prison. Janie—”

  My mouth snapped shut.

  Michael slid off another bill and held it out.

  “Who said anything about getting caught?”

  I took the money. “He’s strong. And he’s not stupid. He’s paranoid. I’d have to shoot him. My record? They’d put me away.”

  “Make it self-defense.”

  “How exactly do I do that?”

  “Well, shoot him, like you said—”

  I interrupted him. “With what?”

  “His gun.”

  I shook my head. “Impossible. He keeps it on him.”

  “You could use mine.”

  My head spun. “Okay—so I use your gun. How is it self-defense?”

  “The DHR referrals. Your record.”

  “My record shows a kid who got sent to juvie for decking a teacher. Among other things.”

  “Make it airtight. Make him go for you. In front of witnesses. And then, shoot him.”

  “What if a judge thinks I need counseling or a residential care center or a group home? You can’t just shoot somebody and get away with it.”

  “I could.”

  He changed like a fast-moving storm, intensity lighting his eyes. I laughed but felt like running.

  “Sure, Prom King.” I put my hand on the door.

  He handed me another twenty. “I did it, officer. It was me.” His voice shook with nerves and adrenaline. “I was worried about my friend. You know his dad beat him? Damn useless social workers. I was getting worried. It was escalating. I tried to get him and his little sister to run away.” His voice was panicked. A good kid caught in a bad situation. “They finally agreed. I went over to get them—was gonna take them to the bus station. I walked right into it. It was the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”

  I sat, transfixed.

  A tear slid down his cheek.

  “I didn’t know what to do!” His voice broke. “His dad was killing him. I found the gun—”

  “What gun?”

  He dropped the act. “The one you had.”

  “Mine?”

  “Weren’t you listening? I gave you mine. We don’t say that, though.”

  I shook my head. “What are we talking about here? You’re going to kill him?”

  “I could get away with it.”

  He could, too. And I could stay out of juvie and maybe even get appointed as Janie’s legal guardian.

  “You’d have to get the crap kicked out of you, but that’s no big deal. Is it?”

  He talked about it so easily.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I just mean that’s happening already, right?”

  “Why would you do it?” Not asking about his alibi—asking the real question.

  He shrugged. His lips pursed. “I’ve never killed anybody.”

  He said it like it was an experience he should have. Something on a bucket list. He didn’t give a damn about me. My situation was his opportunity. Noth
ing more. Chills marched over my skin.

  “It’s too risky,” I said. “It wouldn’t go down like that.”

  “You’re wrong. It’s perfect.”

  “It’s messed up.” What I was thinking: that he’s never watched someone getting killed, either. That he might go for the double header. Watch me get killed, then shoot him after.

  “You don’t trust me.”

  Which was so obvious it didn’t warrant a response.

  “My dad’s not stupid. He might smell it and not go for it. And that’d leave me worse off than before.”

  “The same.”

  “Worse.”

  He put his window down and propped an arm there. “You don’t trust me.” Repeated, like he could fix it.

  “I don’t trust anybody.”

  He sighed. “Maybe there’s another way we could do it. Some way you’d trust.” He made it sound like we were a team.

  “Sure,” I said, but my tone was fat-fucking-chance. I opened the door. “You have your own problems to worry about.”

  Michael smiled. “Don’t you see? This would help with that. It’s perfect. Cesare would leave me alone for sure once he heard I’d killed someone and gotten away with it.”

  I shook my head, put my foot out.

  He held out a bill. “What’s going to happen when you get home?”

  I ignored the bill and stood. “I’m not going home.” I slammed the door and waited for him to drive away.

  He got out and leaned on the roof. He waved the money. “How much would it take to get you to try it?”

  “More than you have.”

  “All right, give me something else, then.” He counted out a hundred. Held it out to me. “You can have this if you let me see your back.”

  My blood turned to ice. “Go to hell.”

  He added another bill to the stack. “Now?”

  I stood.

  He added another. “Now?”

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the money.

  He put another twenty on top. “Now?”

  I watched him. Would he keep going? What would I do when he stopped?

  He must have sensed me waiting, driving the price up. He pocketed the rest of the bills, leaving the big stack fanned in his hand.

  “And that’s my final offer.” He dragged the bills under his nose. “Don’t you love the smell of it?”

  A hundred and sixty dollars, and all I had to do was turn around and show my back.

  My hand twitched. I walked around the car and stood next to him. He smiled, that pedophile-on-a-church-picnic look in his eyes.

  A coil of nausea burned in my stomach and threaded up into my throat. I told myself the money was compensation, because who paid to see a scar?

  It didn’t mean anything.

  It was just too much money to walk away from.

  I took off my shirt. Turned around. Accepted the use.

  I stared at cigarette butts flattened on the pavement and thought about Janie.

  I put my shirt back on and faced him.

  Michael handed the money over. “Interesting. Not quite what I’d expected.” A doctor at the freak show.

  I glared at him. My voice wouldn’t come. I didn’t look for it.

  “See you tomorrow,” he said, getting into his car.

  I watched him peel out, feeling the lump of cash in my hand. The parking lot was empty. A gang of crows wheeled overhead—diving and falling, chasing a lone outcast across the sky.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sometimes you can feel yourself sinking. Black water sucking at your heels, and it gets harder to move, harder to fight.

  I felt it starting when I took the money—hate sucking at my heels, self-destruction not far behind.

  And underneath that, the knowledge that it didn’t matter when I finally went home. Now or tomorrow or the next day. My dad would be waiting.

  At least if I got it over with now, Janie wouldn’t be there.

  I went to the old gym. Lifted the window and climbed through. Stood in the dank shower room.

  Felt the wad of cash coal-hard in my pocket.

  The black water settled in my chest. I pulled the money out and spread it on a bench. Two hundred and eighty dollars.

  Tore through my locker, and brought out a boxing glove. Wadded up the money and shoved it inside the glove before putting it back. My dad would be waiting, and I wasn’t about to hand over the cash after all the crap I’d gone through.

  I turned back to the window. My reflection in the clouded mirrors, wild-eyed. I climbed out, closing the window behind me.

  On the walk home, I had to stop myself from breaking into a run. Black tissue spread through my chest, tumorous fingers squeezing my heart. I took the porch steps two at a time.

  The sound of the slamming door brought him out.

  I felt myself smiling. The blackness buzzed in my ears, whispered, screamed. So I cursed him.

  He came at me, lips curled onto his teeth. Fang-groove creases arrowing down over his mouth.

  The black tide covered me, bubbled up in my chest like laughter. His fist drove at my face in a straight line, rolling as it came—perfect and true. Beautiful.

  I stepped in, dodging his first punch before the second one caught me. Lightning flashed in my skull. My legs gave out and I was falling. The black water rushed over my head before I landed.

  • • •

  “Jason?” A little voice, mouse-gnawing on the sparking wires in my brain. A hand shook my shoulder.

  “Jason, sit up.”

  I realized my eyes were open, although one was nearly swollen shut.

  Janie’s cheeks were wet. She helped me stand. The floor tilted like a ship.

  “You provoked him. And you told Clay you weren’t coming here.” An accusation. Janie wedged herself under my arm, too tight against my ribs.

  I hissed.

  “Sorry,” she breathed. “But you probably deserve that. Jerk.”

  “Don’t be mad.” My voice was slurry and cotton-packed. “Honest pay for honest work.” I laughed.

  We stumbled up the stairs. In the room, she helped me fall onto my bed.

  I felt full and light, a balloon swelling to pop.

  “Okay, what’s two plus two?” Janie asked. “What did you eat for breakfast?”

  “Four. Knuckles.” A giggle fizzed in my chest. Nothing hurt. “It’s fine, Janie. It’s better this way.”

  “Yeah. You look better.”

  “Bitch.”

  “Shitbird.” She sighed and pulled her hair into a ponytail. Planted hands on narrow hips, skinny elbows daggering the air by my head. Her eyes scoured my face. My laugh bubbled out again. Endorphins and relief and low tide.

  “See”—I shook a finger at her—“never forget the evil bastard is a sadist. If you seek it out, he pulls his punches.”

  Her eyebrow rose. “Well, that’s abundantly clear.”

  The laugh came out a cough. It was like unstopping a can of soda that’s been knocked down the stairs. I started laughing and couldn’t stop. I laughed because I wouldn’t be going to school tomorrow or the day after that, and that might screw up Michael’s plans. I laughed because Cyndra had pills that were extra strength. I laughed because she wasn’t mine, and Michael was the future prom king. Laughed because the new clothes finally felt right.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Janie took care of me. Changed out bags of frozen peas on my eye. Propped my head on her pillow and mine. Popped migraine medicine down my throat at regular intervals. The caffeine, cold, and elevation were her attempts to reduce bruising and swelling.

  I checked out. Let my brain buzz like an amp turned up but not playing any notes. Let time pass. Didn’t talk. Didn’t think.

  A day passed. I stared at the wall or slept.
Janie skipped school, too. She read some teen-romance novel, card-shuffling the pages over her fingertips like the book was a puppy and she was rubbing its ears. She got us food and sodas, started movies or played music on the laptop, kept me company.

  The dark waters receded, but under them were jagged rocks and creatures with sharp pincers.

  Another morning, and now the frozen peas were changed to a hot pad, resting across my eyes, the plastic a hot body bag zipped over my face. A plate clinked on the floor next to the bed. She took my hand and closed it around the bread.

  The door clicked as she left.

  I ate the sandwich carefully. Automatically. Time passed. I took off the hot pad and got up. Went to the bathroom. Avoided looking in the mirror over the sink.

  I slowly made my way downstairs, got some water and some plastic-wrapped muffins. There was broken glass and spilled food on the floor. I made a halfhearted attempt at cleaning up until the headache came back.

  Back in the room I fished my cell out of the pocket of my hoodie.

  Where are you? A text from Michael.

  Are you okay? From Cyndra.

  I’m coming over after school. From Clay, sent this morning. I smiled until it pulled at my face too much.

  I went back downstairs and cleaned some more, taking it slowly. When it wasn’t quite a wreck, I stopped. Then I climbed the steps and went into the shower. The hot water made me feel stronger and scooped out simultaneously.

  I kicked the dirty clothes under my bed and got dressed in an old T-shirt and battered jeans.

  Janie came home from school. “You’re looking better.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  “I’m going to go to the store, then. Need anything? I thought some sport drinks or something?”

  “Okay. Clay’s coming over.”

  “Good.” She leaned over, planting a gentle kiss on my forehead, like a blessing.

  I went downstairs and out onto the porch. Shook out a cigarette and waited for Clay as I sat on the stoop. The cigarette made me feel sick instead of calmed. I pinched off the cherry and tucked it back into the pack.

  A few minutes of waiting, watching little kids chasing each other around the duplexes. Then Clay appeared, his shuffle-lope quicker than normal as he came up the street.

  I shook my hair into my face but held up a hand in greeting.