by Ash Parsons
“Jason. Stay a minute, will you?” Mr. Stewart frowned at us.
“See you after practice.” Michael sauntered out the door.
Like I was going to wait around for him.
I walked up to Mr. Stewart, keeping my eyes down.
“Look at me, Jason.”
Any other teacher would have to wait for hell to freeze first. Any other teacher would’ve let me go on through the door without scrutinizing my face or the note too closely.
I looked at him, cut my eyes away fast.
“Here”—he held out some papers—“these are the notes from the three days you missed.” I reached out to take them, but he didn’t let go.
“Damn it, Jason.”
The curse caused my eyes to flit back to his face. He was staring at my hand. He grabbed my wrist, turning the palm up.
The notes spilled onto the floor.
I yanked my hand away.
“What the—” I bit off the curse that rose when he’d grabbed me.
“I’m supposed to believe you fell out of a truck?”
My chin snapped up and out. “Yes.”
“And yet your palms don’t have a mark on them. Your arms don’t have a scratch. But your face looks like you went a few rounds with a prizefighter.”
I shrugged. My eyes dared him.
“Jason.” His tone caught my eyes again—like bugs flying into a web. “I know.”
I shook my head. “What?”
“You didn’t fall out of a truck.”
“Yes. I did.”
He sighed, stooped, and picked up the pages. He turned and handed them to me. “You don’t have to do this. You can let me help you. There’s help to be had. Ways to get out—”
I must’ve laughed, because he stopped talking. He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose like his eyes hurt. “Take a chance, son.” His voice was soft. “Let me help.”
The only thing worse than a bully is an ignorant do-gooder. I walked to the door.
He followed like a kid sister. “I’m not the only one who knows, Jason. I’m ashamed to say, I didn’t notice like I should have, until your friend came to talk to me. We’re worried—”
I whirled on him, hands bunched. “Who? What the hell are you talking about?”
Was it Michael or Cyndra? Or someone else?
“I have to report this. I have to call the police—”
“Don’t do me any favors. You’ll make it worse.”
“Jason, it can’t get worse.”
My arms drew in. If he said another word, I’d hit him.
He saw it. Wasn’t completely ignorant of my past, then. Wise teacher.
I walked down the hall.
Mr. Stewart didn’t follow.
I went to study hall and sat, staring at nothing. When the last bell rang, I walked through the interior of the school toward the old gym. I would get the money out of the glove and leave before Michael or the others could find me. I figured I wouldn’t run into anyone because of football and cheer practice.
The hell with it. With them. Cyndra and Michael. With Mr. Stewart’s heart-in-the-right-place. With love and concern or game playing. Whatever it was. The hell with it all.
No one was around, and the money was still in the glove. I shoved it into my pocket and walked back into the afternoon sunshine.
“Hi.” Cyndra stood beside the door.
I waited.
She stepped closer. A hand fluttered near my face. “Sorry.” Like she had anything to do with it.
Maybe she did.
“I’m fine.” I shook out a cigarette and lit it, facing the security camera, thinking it’d be a relief to be sent to in-school suspension.
“Did you get my note?”
“You mean the one-sentence one? Yeah.” I hoped I didn’t sound like I felt.
“I can explain.” She took a step closer. Her hand landed on my arm.
I took a step back, still feeling the heat of her touch. “You don’t owe me anything.”
Thinking of the money she’d paid me in her room, thinking of her taking me to Michael’s bed.
“Look, I do stupid stuff sometimes. I don’t know why. I . . .” Her voice trailed off, palm scrubbing her thigh. “It was like revenge. You know?”
“What—sleeping with me or doing it in his bed?”
“Both.”
Smoke plumed out of my mouth. “Glad to be of service.”
“But it wasn’t just that. I mean, it was more than that.”
“Whatever you say, princess.”
Her perfect eyebrows lowered. She made a little grunt of annoyance.
I touched her shoulder; let my hand rub her hot skin. “It’s okay. You had your reasons. It’s not like I didn’t get anything out of it.”
She knocked my hand off. “I wasn’t just using you.”
I shrugged. “Sure.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I heard you. You weren’t just using me. Using me, sure. But not just using me.”
She let out a breath like I’d punched her.
I nodded and took the last drag, squinting like I was really thinking about it. And I guess a part of me was.
A tear slid down her cheek. “He scares me sometimes.” The last word added, like she wanted to believe it wasn’t all the time. “He used to make me feel safe. He’s not always like this. I thought he’d protect me. Somehow.”
Sometimes. Always. Somehow. I sighed. Didn’t know what to say. Because I wanted to believe it. Knowing even if it was true, it wouldn’t be enough. Because it still hurt.
She was studying me—must’ve seen it wheeling in my eyes, because she reached out again. Touched my arm. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Please believe me.”
“Why should I?” Her hand fell off my arm when I pitched the cigarette butt into the parking lot.
Her voice was small. “Because I like you.”
I tried to ignore the stupid skip my heart gave. Closed my eyes instead of looking into hers.
“I like you, too,” I said, surprising myself. “It’s okay.” Meaning it this time.
She stepped into me. Laid her arms gently over my shoulders—like we were at some dippy junior high dance. I put my hands on her waist.
“It hurts to look at you,” she said, frowning at my face.
Her eyes were an ocean.
I smiled. “It hurts to look at you, too.”
She grinned and pushed her body against me. “Well, that’s a pain I can do something about.”
Her kiss was deep but gentle. The way everything should be.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I confronted Michael privately after his football practice let out. I wanted to beat the living crap out of him, but I wanted the money more. So I told him if he mentioned anything about our parking lot conversation, or my dad, or if he talked to Mr. Stewart again, it was over and he could face his reckoning alone. Which he might be doing anyway. I was making no promises.
It was like truce talks after a battle. He denied talking to Mr. Stewart. Said it was maybe someone else in class or at school, and had I ever thought about that possibility? I left it alone. As long as my message got through.
Cyndra had given me the clothes she’d bought, and I put them in the locker room of the old gym. I changed Friday morning before joining them in the parking lot. No one asked where I’d been all week, and no one mentioned the bruises. The weekend came and went and nothing happened. I spent most of it playing video games at Clay’s.
On Monday, Nico and Spud were waiting for me as I crossed the athletic field. Nico shifted his knit cap, olive green today. He thumbed his nose, a gap-tooth smile spreading.
“We found out who’s dealing.”
His face, the irrepressible, impish grin, told me I
knew who it was.
“Dude. Everyone thinks it’s you. But it’s not.” Spud held up his hands like he meant to stop a presumed cutting denial. “We know that.” Rotating a hand at the three of us. The privileged circle of knowledge.
I shook out a cigarette. Lit it. Waited.
“It’s Cyndra.”
Smoke gouged my throat.
“What?”
“It’s true,” he said. “She’s dealing to everyone, but real sly. Hiding behind you, saying she’s getting it from you. Ain’t that something?”
She liked me. She wasn’t just using me.
Slurry filled my chest. Ice cold and rigid. It didn’t take a genius to tell whom she was really dealing for.
Something buzzed in my ears and under my heart, like a fuse, disbelief and numbness sparking, devouring only to detonate.
I thanked Nico and Spud. Let them throw one-arm hugs on me. Slapped hands.
Then I went to the parking lot.
Cyndra was in her car, laughing with Samantha and Monique, waiting for Michael to arrive. Since I hadn’t gone to the old gym to change, I must have beaten him to school.
I rapped a knuckle on her window. She took one look at my face and climbed out.
“What is it?” She touched my arm. I didn’t say anything, just turned and walked away. She followed.
I went to the old gym. For privacy. For time. To get away from the bite in the air that seared my lungs with cold.
On the track that looped the court, I turned on her.
“You’re dealing for Michael.” Not a question. “Why are you saying it’s for me?” Making myself stop from asking the next question, the question underneath. What are you doing with me?
“I never say it’s for you.” She reached out. “I just don’t say it isn’t for you.”
I shook her off. “Big difference in results.”
She shook her head, fast and tight. “You don’t understand. I’m scared.”
My heartbeat sped. The slurry in my heart sludged into my veins. For the first time, I looked at her. Really looked.
There were smudges under her eyes. Sleepless circles, drawn over with makeup. Her lips were chapped—the queen of lip gloss. Like she’d been chewing on them. Little webs of strain tensed the muscles of her face.
“Is he hurting you?”
“Michael? No. No!” She grabbed my forearms. “I wanted to help him. He told me everything—about Cesare. But something’s not right. He’s hiding something.”
Air huffed through my nose. “Just one thing?” Feeling it, how everything with him was this ocean of lies. Of ego. Of control. Manipulation.
Her hands dropped. She stepped away from me. “He’s not like that.”
I closed my eyes. Took a deep breath. Pushed it out slowly, through my nose. Because now I knew, what I hadn’t been able to ask. Where I stood with her.
“What do you think it is, then?” I asked.
Her head shook again. That minimalist move. Almost unconscious. “Maybe I’m wrong.”
The silence stood between us. My hands itched, wanted to reach out and stroke the hair feathering her temple.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “He’s the one I should be talking to, then.”
She didn’t say anything. Chewed her lip instead of looking at me.
I left her standing there.
As I crossed the parking lot, the bell sounded. Michael wasn’t at his car, so I went inside, to his homeroom. He wasn’t there, either.
I went to my homeroom.
Michael was waiting by the door. “Come on,” he said, taking my arm and propelling me toward the bathroom.
I shook off his hand, but followed him inside. Michael checked the stalls to make sure we had privacy. He spoke before I could.
“I’m dealing for Cesare,” he said. “Cyndra’s helping me. But everyone thinks it’s you.”
My teeth ground tight. “Why are you telling me this now?”
Michael’s hand went up to the blade of muscle alongside his neck. He squeezed and pulled, trying to shift an invisible creature. “You were eventually going to find out. I thought it would be better if I told you myself.” Knowing that I’d already heard.
Cyndra. Giving him the heads-up. She’d probably texted him as soon as I left her. A muscle jumped in my jaw, something telling it to bite. “We’re done.”
I turned to the door.
Michael lunged in front of me. Blocked the door, hands up like I was a car skidding across ice.
“Wait! Why should this change anything? It’s exactly what everyone has been thinking anyway. Ever since you started hanging out with us. Ever since you started showing up at our parties in new clothes.”
“Think I don’t know that? Move.”
“Stop and think. You’re not dealing. I don’t want you to deal—”
“Good.”
“It’s perfect. Classic misdirection. Everyone thinks it’s you. But it’s not. You won’t get in trouble, you won’t get caught, because you’re not actually doing anything. Meanwhile, they’ll never even think to check me. Or Cyndra. It’s perfect. It helps me, but it doesn’t hurt you.”
“How do you know what hurts me?”
A smirk curled his lips, but he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.
“What if you get caught?” My fist pressed his chest.
A wide smile split his face. “I won’t.”
“If you do? I’m sure you’d take the weight for everyone, right? For me?”
He tried to shrug, but pressed against the door, it looked more like a small struggle than a gesture of nonchalance. “If I get caught—if—I can handle it. And no one else will get involved.”
Like he wouldn’t throw me under the bus if it came to it.
“I told you. I can get away with murder,” Michael said.
Using the expression, although it was literally what he’d proposed.
I let my fist drop. Because he was right. It didn’t change a damn thing. It was what everyone thought, and nothing would change that. And it didn’t even matter if it did. I was already implicated. So the only real question was: Would Michael get caught?
I told myself it didn’t matter what people thought. That it didn’t matter what Michael did or didn’t do. That it didn’t make a difference what Cyndra did, either. And what would happen if I quit now? It sure as hell wouldn’t be safer. If Michael wanted to run his little schemes, he could do it just as easily without me. At least if I kept working for him I could keep an eye on him.
It was too late. I was already involved.
What could I do to protect myself and Janie? The answer was simple. Help Michael get away with it. Help him get out of his jam. Think of all the angles. Cover them.
Exactly what Michael wanted.
“Fine.” A smile tugged my mouth. “Hey, thanks for telling me.” In honeyed tones of fake gratitude.
Michael had done what he always did. Tried to get in front of the situation. Take control, by “breaking” the news to me.
So he could either think I’d bought it, which I wasn’t a good enough actor to sell, or I could call him on it. So he knew I wasn’t a clueless idiot.
Either way. He was right.
Nothing had changed. I’d keep taking his money, and he knew it.
And Cyndra had shown me precisely where I stood.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The rest of the week and half of the next one went by quickly, feeling like a curve in the track. I kept my eyes open and my mouth shut.
Michael acted different—like he knew something. Like he’d gotten the upper hand, maybe with Cesare. Maybe with someone else. It put me on edge, but the money kept coming, and all I had to do was hang out.
It was safe enough. I’d see it coming—whatever it was that put that
oil-slick grin on Michael’s face.
And it was too easy to keep going. I’d walk Janie to the bus, then walk to Clay’s, and then to school, where I’d change clothes. Breakfast in the parking lot with Michael and his gang. Break in the courtyard, lunch outside at the picnic tables (except one day when it rained and we displaced the drama nerds inside), and afternoons of mostly free time.
Rinse. Repeat.
It was weird. Weird because I got used to it so fast.
Janie got me some greasy bruise-ointment from the Asian grocery. By the end of the week, they’d faded to yellow-brown and my ribs felt good enough with the brace on that I went to help Jonesy.
More money. Every bit got us closer.
I even fell into a routine with Cyndra. At break she’d sit with Michael, playing with his fingers, threading hers into them or holding them near her mouth.
But at lunch she’d sit close to me, leg alongside mine, leaning against my arm. Sometimes she’d show up in the hall after my first period, and we’d cut class, ducking into the back of the library to talk or going to the dugout to make out. Another thing I told myself I was in control of. Or that it didn’t matter, because she was there, and she wanted me, and I needed that something she gave me.
Told myself she felt the same way. Made it sound simple. We each needed something from the other, no more than that. Even though the ache in my chest when she’d walk away called me a liar.
If anyone else knew that Cyndra had won the bet, they never said anything. But Monique had backed off, and so did the others.
Cyndra was like two people: one, this sexy, pouty bitch-princess who taunted you, shot her hips when she walked, and let her eyes burn. And the other was the girl I knew. The one I started to think of as mine. The one with the laugh so loud it sounded like a shout. The one who, when we were really talking, would change, her face shifting, like she was letting a pose fall away. She could transition between the bitch-princess armor and the real girl so quickly the slingshot force of it would send your brain leaking out your ears.
After a while I got used to that, too.
Although I never really got used to the fact that she had to change in the first place.
Michael didn’t seem to notice or care about me and Cyndra, and he didn’t mention Cesare. But sometimes I saw the slick grin slide off, and the scared kid would reappear in his eyes. Just for a moment. But after he’d show, I started to notice that Michael would do something mean. Like play Beast off Dwight. Or throw out down-to-size remarks.