“We should go now,” Tariq says. “Who’s with me?”
“I’m already late for track practice,” Jared says.
“I’ll go,” Matt says.
Tariq looks at Madison.
“I should get rid of this mail,” she says.
Tariq and Matt strut to the school parking lot. Tariq’s short, squat build is accentuated by his baggy jeans and untucked polo shirt. Matt still wears his hooded sweatshirt and the camera case from the night before. Tariq’s white Nissan Sentra sits lonely on eighteen-inch chrome wheels and low-profile tires. Matt stares at the wheels.
“Pretty badass, huh?” Tariq says. “I bought ’em from a guy in Philly for two hundred.”
“Shiny,” Matt says.
Tariq drives with his left hand and fiddles with the stereo using his right, while holding his lit clove cigarette. He looks at the road, then back to the stereo, then back to the road. He settles on Dr. Dre.
They pull up to The Coffee Ground with the bass pumping. The white brick building has a flat roof, with large overhangs and semitinted windows. A large coffee cup sits on the roof with the store’s namesake written on the mug in Times New Roman. The rear of the building has a drive-through and a Dumpster. Matt turns down the stereo, his head pounding.
Tariq frowns.
“Low profile, remember?” Matt says.
The parking lot is three-quarters full, with late-model Hondas, Toyotas, BMWs, and Mercedes. Tariq circles the lot.
“Shit, her car’s not here,” Tariq says, as he parks near the Dumpster.
“I doubt her car is drivable.” Matt smiles at Tariq. “Her husband’s is though.”
“Is it here?”
“That dirty 4Runner behind us with the bears on the bumper sticker.”
Tariq grins. “You should stay here. I’ll do some recon.”
“You want me to stay?”
“If she sees me, no problem. If she sees you, we’ve got problems. I’ll be right back.”
“Take the camera.”
Matt puts up his hood and watches Tariq from the side-view mirror. Tariq creeps around the building. Matt loses sight of him. He watches the mirror. After a minute, he sees Tariq swaggering toward the car.
“She’s in there all right,” Tariq says.
“Did she see you?” Matt asks.
“Nah, I was smooth. She’s sittin’ by herself.”
A hefty black SUV trimmed in shiny chrome, with tinted windows, turns into the parking lot. Matt’s body stiffens. He grips the armrest, exposing the whites of his knuckles.
“Look at this baller,” Tariq says.
A tall balding man emerges from the Cadillac SUV. He looks like an ex-NFL quarterback or the movie star who’s a bit too old to be the leading man. He has a confident gait to accompany his protruding chin, high cheekbones, and active blue eyes. His white long-sleeve, button-down shirt is neatly pressed and tucked into his black slacks, with his sleeves rolled up.
“That’s who she’s waiting for,” Matt says. “You should get a picture.”
The man enters the coffeehouse. Tariq sneaks around the building. The man exits the coffeehouse alone. He hops into his SUV and rumbles off.
“Damn it.” Matt says.
Matt turns around, scanning the building and the parking lot. Dr. Hansen hustles to the 4Runner, with her hands in her purse. She opens the blue SUV, cranks the engine, and exits the lot.
Tariq yanks open the driver-side door.
“Hurry, Tariq. They’re getting away!” Matt says.
Tariq starts the engine and peels out of the parking lot.
“I know, shit,” Tariq says. “By the time I got to the building, they were leaving, but I was still searching inside.”
“They went right.”
Tariq turns right from the parking lot and floors his four banger.
“Watch the road ahead. I’ll check the side streets,” Matt says.
Tariq weaves in and out of traffic, eliciting a few honks. “They’re gone.”
They pass a three-story Days Inn on the right-hand side. The blue 4Runner is parked in front.
“Turn right at this light!” Matt says.
Tariq cuts off a minivan to get over. The van slams on its brakes, no horn. Matt looks back at the driver as Tariq makes the turn. The soccer mom presents her middle finger.
“The Days Inn, pull in the back,” Matt says.
Tariq parks behind the building. His breathing is labored; his hands are shaky.
“Are they here?” Tariq asks.
“I think so.”
Matt and Tariq creep along the building to the front. They peer through the automatic sliding doors. The balding man is at the front desk. He looks over. They jerk their heads back from the door.
“I’m gonna go check the 4Runner. Keep an eye on him,” Matt says.
Matt crouches along a row of cars, until he’s behind a Dodge Durango, next to the 4Runner. He slips along the Dodge to its passenger window. He peers through the front windows of the Durango into Dr. Hansen’s car. She gazes at herself in a handheld mirror, spritzing hair spray. Matt runs across the lot to Tariq, who crouches between two cars near the double-door entry.
“She’s still in the car,” Matt says.
“He went to the room,” Tariq says.
“Please tell me that he didn’t get on the elevator.”
“Nope, he went down the hall to the right.”
“We gotta find the room before she gets there.”
“Who is this guy?”
“John Jacobs, the developer of Kingstown.”
“Holy shit.”
Matt and Tariq skulk along the building, glancing into rooms with open curtains. Matt catches a glimpse of a man kicking off his shoes. Matt puts his arm up to stop Tariq from walking in front of the window.
“He’s here,” Matt says. They see Dr. Hansen scurry across the parking lot. “I’m assuming we only have a few seconds to get some shots of them together before he closes those curtains. Would you take the pictures?”
“I gotcha,” Tariq says, pulling out the camera.
John Jacobs sits on the bed and flips on the television. MSNBC stock tickers slide across the screen. Matt and Tariq hide behind a squared holly hedge, primed like the paparazzi. John stands up and saunters toward the door, letting in Dr. Hansen.
A bead of sweat falls to Tariq’s eyebrow. Dr. Hansen kicks off her high heels and hops into John’s arms. Tariq shoots as the embrace ensues. They turn around, Dr. Hansen’s legs still latched around John, her skirt hiked. She rubs her pelvis against him, like a cat in heat. They kiss. Tariq continues to shoot. John tosses her on the bed, Dr. Hansen smiling in midair. She glances out the window, scowls, and points. Tariq and Matt hit the dirt in front of the hedge, like they’re taking enemy fire. Matt sees John looking out, shaking his head. John draws the shades.
[ 12 ]
Gotta Play the Game
Matt strolls to Ms. Pierce’s classroom, going opposite the lunch traffic, like a subway commuter traveling toward the city in the afternoon. Students give him a wide berth, with the occasional, “Hey, Matt.” Matt waves or nods, trying to vary his greeting, but feels awkward that he doesn’t know their names.
“Hey, Ms. Pierce. Same lunch?” Matt asks.
“I make my lunch in a big vat on Sunday, because I don’t have time to cook during the week, so pretty much the same thing all week.”
Matt places his duffel bag on the windowsill. He retrieves a sheet of paper from his notebook.
“Can you look at this and tell me what you think?”
Ms. Pierce speed-reads the history pretest. She grins and hands it back.
“Your responses remind me of a boyfriend I had a number of years ago. He was like this drifter.” She shakes her head, with a smirk.
Matt raises his eyebrows. “You went out with a drifter?”
Ms. Pierce laughs. “Well, sort of. He was probably the smartest guy I’ve ever known. I actually thought we might
get married, but he had some real problems. He was a pretty paranoid guy. He used to rail on about how much he hated the government. He always called the government, ‘the state.’ You used similar terminology on your test. Anyway he used to tell me all these outrageous stories about how governments try to start wars on purpose to increase their power over their citizens.”
“For example?”
“Oh, let me think.” She taps her index finger to her lips. “He once told me that the Gulf of Tonkin never happened, that we were led into Vietnam on a lie. He told me some of the same stuff you wrote too.”
“What happened to him?”
“It actually went really well for a while. We got along great. I learned a ton about history, the real history. He shared all his sources, and it really opened my mind. It was pretty shocking stuff. I felt like I was dropped into a rabbit hole that just went deeper and deeper, the more I uncovered. It really made me question my profession. Then he got really focused on the idea that the very nature of government is immoral, that it was impossible to have a moral government, because all their power originates from the barrel of a gun.” Ms. Pierce takes a deep breath, looking through Matt. “So anyway I think I can understand what you’re up against.”
“Where is he now?” Matt sits at the edge of his seat.
“I probably shouldn’t talk about ex-boyfriends with you.” Her face flushes; she looks away.
“So, what should I do?”
“You and I both know that you know the answers that Mr. Dalton’s looking for. You could easily ace that final in a fraction of the time it takes to get deep into the truth. My ex-boyfriend, he always chose the truth, no matter what the consequences, and it really cost him. Sometimes you have to go along to get along. Our system is pretty flawed, but it’s all we have. If you constantly go against the grain, it can wear you down. Do you understand?”
“I think so.” Matt unpacks his lunch. “I have another thing I wanted to run by you. I have a business proposition for you.”
“Oh, yeah?” Ms. Pierce raises an eyebrow.
“I wanted to see if you’d be interested in hiring me as a sharecropper.”
She laughs. “Sharecropper? Are we in Mississippi at the turn of the century?”
“I’m serious. It doesn’t have to be exploitive. You want good produce, and you already pay a lot for it, and you have land that you can’t take care of. But I don’t have any land or money. I can only offer my labor. So, I do all the work, you provide the land and materials, and we split the harvest.”
“It sounds like a great idea, but it doesn’t sound very fair.”
“How about a sixty-forty split of the harvest?”
“That’s not what I meant, honey. I don’t think it’s a good deal for you. You end up doing a lot without getting paid. I’m not exactly rich, but I could pay you forty dollars a week on top of the harvest.”
“Deal.”
Emily stands in the doorway, her gaze on Matt, then to Ms. Pierce, then back to Matt. Her head’s cocked, and her hands are on her hips.
“Emily, don’t linger. Come in, honey,” Ms. Pierce says and motions with her arms.
“I’ll come in on Monday. I didn’t know you had someone here,” Emily says.
“Matt may be here on Monday. I’m sure he’d give us some privacy, if you need to talk.”
“I can go to the lunchroom,” Matt says, packing his lunch and stuffing it into his bag.
“That’s not necessary,” Emily says. “I’ll go.”
“No, I’d be happy to leave this time.”
“Good, go. That’s what you’re good at.”
“Guys, what is going on here?” Ms. Pierce asks, standing from her desk.
“Nothing,” Emily says.
“That’s what I am to you—nothing,” Matt says, as he zips up his bag and swings it over his shoulder.
“Then why did I cover for you?”
Ms. Pierce slips out of her classroom, with her lunch in hand.
“Did you? Your mom says she has a witness.” Matt crosses his arms.
“Come on. I know you’re smarter than that. If she knew it was you, you’d be done.”
Matt drops his arms, sets his bag on the floor and sits in his desk chair, facing Emily. He stares at her feet. “Why’d you do it? You could’ve just let it go. They destroyed my stand. Your note was the beginning of the end for me.” Matt blinks; a tear beads on his lower eyelid.
Emily walks closer, standing one desk away. “What note?”
Matt wipes his eyes with his shirt sleeve. “Let’s not do this.”
“I wanna know. What note?”
“It’s funny you don’t remember, because I remember like it was yesterday. It said, ‘I never want to see you again. I was only nice to you because I felt sorry for you.’”
Emily sits in the desk across from Matt, dazed. She closes her eyes and exhales. “I didn’t write that, I swear. And I didn’t know your stand was destroyed. I saw that it was gone, but I thought it was from the police. I’m sorry.” Emily looks away.
“Why didn’t you ever come back? I needed you.” Matt’s voice is soft, like he might break if he speaks too loud.
Emily turns toward Matt. Her neck and upper chest are blotchy; her eyes are glassy. “I didn’t know what to do. I thought you hated me after our fight. Then when you came to my house with your uncle …” Tears streak down her face. “I’m so sorry.”
Matt stands and approaches Emily’s desk. She gazes up. He leans over and wraps his arms around her upper back. She tugs at Matt’s hips and sinks her head into his chest, tears pouring out, her weeping reverberating through his body like seismic activity. She calms; the storm passes. Matt lets go.
“So what now?” she asks.
“I don’t know. Can we go back to where we were before?”
“Can we be friends?”
“You don’t want things like they were?” Matt asks.
“It’s just …”
“It’s just what? Your boyfriend?”
“Well, … yeah. I’m sorry. I want you in my life. I do.”
“Just not like I want.”
“I don’t know. It was really hard when you went away, and now you’re back, but I’ve moved on.”
“I get it. I do.” Matt grabs his duffel bag.
“You guys okay?” Ms. Pierce asks, standing in the doorway.
“We’re fine,” Matt says. “I’m gonna eat in the media room. I forgot I had some stuff to do for the newspaper.”
Matt trudges to the lunchroom instead. His head pounds; he’s overloaded by the sights, sounds, and smells of a thousand kids trying to eat lunch in twenty minutes. He finds a sparsely populated back corner table, slumps into his seat, and unpacks his lunch. He’s inundated with greetings and offers of good tidings across cliques and genders.
“Hey, Matt.”
“What up, Matt.”
“Maaaattt, wuzzzz uuuup.”
“Um, hi, Matt.”
“Hey, do you mind if I sit?”
“What’s up? This seat taken?”
Matt feels a tap on his shoulder. He looks up to see a busty brunette with high cheekbones biting the corner of her lip, flanked by two leggy blondes. “I’m Megan. Can we sit?” she asks.
+++
Matt sits at the round table in the media room, opposite Madison and Tariq.
“Where’s Jared?” Matt asks.
“Spring football meeting,” Tariq says. “He should be here in a few minutes. Madison doesn’t think we can use the pictures of Dr. Hansen bonin’ that Jacobs guy.”
Jared saunters in. “What up, party people.”
“Jared, we’re just talkin’ about whether we can use the Dr. Hansen photos,” Tariq says.
Jared dumps his backpack on the table. “Why not? That shit is scandalous.”
“I’m not saying we can’t use it, just that we need more,” Madison says. “That might get her fired in our Jesus-freak town, but it might not. If it doesn’t get he
r fired, we’re fucked. I think we need to start looking at Mrs. Campbell too.”
“Where are you going with this?” Matt asks Madison.
“You remember when all those kids were in her office because someone, who shall remain nameless, destroyed her car?”
“Yeah?”
“You know what all those kids have in common?”
“They get into trouble?”
Madison grins, her nose ring flaring with her nostrils. “Nope, they all did a stint in juvie because of that fucking bitch.”
“Holy shit,” Tariq says.
“Damn,” Jared says.
“Indeed,” Matt says.
“We need to find Hansen’s jailhouse connection,” Madison says. “At first I thought maybe we should look closely into the SROs, but I think this might be over their heads. That’s why I was thinking of Mrs. Campbell.”
“Chief Campbell’s wife,” Matt says.
“Bingo.”
[ 13 ]
The Connect
The neighborhood’s quiet, with dew on the grass. Matt treks along the sidewalk, Civil Disobedience in the back pocket of his jeans. He hears the roar of George’s Mustang. George pulls over to the curb with a screech of his tires. The passenger window motors down. Abby looks forward, like a horse with blinders.
“Where the fuck are you goin’?” George asks across Abby.
Matt walks over to the shiny black coupe.
“Saturday detention,” Matt says.
“Get in, motherfucker.”
“I can’t. I really have to be there.”
“You think I’d wake up this early for no reason? Pull up the seat, Abby. Let him in back.”
Abby sighs and shakes her head, avoiding eye contact with Matt. She steps from the car and pulls the seat forward. Matt squeezes into the backseat. Abby sits in the front seat and slams the door. George mashes on the accelerator, leaving rubber tire tracks in the street.
They park close to the school, in spaces normally taken by the early birds. George and Matt walk together. Abby follows, pouting with her arms folded.
“What are you in for?” George asks.
Against the Grain Page 14