Narc

by Crissa-Jean Chappell

  He didn’t even crack a smile. Not that he smiled much, anyway. “They told me not to.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “The whole school.”

  Okay. That narrowed it down.

  “What exactly did the whole school tell you?” Sometimes it took a little sentence mapping to get through to Nolan.

  “They said you’re acting different, and it’s really weird.”

  “Do you buy that?” I asked carefully.

  Nolan looked down at the pavement, where the Spirit Club had left one of their support messages for the football team:

  .50 WINS!!!

  The chalk letters were smeared with sneakerprints. Somebody had added a dot in front of the five, making it seem like half a win.

  “I think you’ve changed,” he said.

  It was my senior year. Why couldn’t I change? Or was everybody so caught up in the social chess game, we weren’t allowed to rearrange the pieces? Sometimes I wanted to flip the board upside-down. Let gravity decide the rest.

  “People have been saying stuff about you,” Nolan said.

  “What kind of stuff?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he said something totally bizarre, in true Nolan style:

  “You can’t just go hanging out with girls.”

  “Yeah?” I said.

  The bidi had shriveled down to nothing. All I had left were used matches. Real used ones, not the magic-markered kind. I flicked the bidi on the concrete. It landed in the pile of cigarette butts—some half-smoked, some rimmed with lipstick.

  “Maybe I like it,” I told him. “Did you ever think of that? Besides. It’s my personal right to hang with whoever I want.”

  “Not those girls,” he said.

  Out of everyone I’d met at Palm Hammock, Nolan Struth was the last guy I expected to go around judging people. God knows he put up with enough judgment on his own time.

  “Well, good luck with the plutonium,” I muttered, turning back toward the classrooms. I didn’t mean to sound harsh, but that’s the way it came out. Nolan cringed, as if I’d punched him in the stomach.

  Maybe it was true, what he said.

  I had changed.

  I called Morgan and apologized in a voicemail. For what, I wasn’t really sure.

  At first, she wouldn’t pick up. I probably called, like, five times. It was sort of stalkerish, I admit. When she finally answered, I held the phone to my stereo. Played her a few tracks by her favorite bands. She listened to every song. Then she listened to me.

  “That picture was on my phone, okay? That doesn’t mean I sent it.”

  “I know,” Morgan said quietly.

  “When I find out who did it, trust me, I will destroy them in so many ways.”

  “My hero.”

  I imagined her rolling her eyes. Yeah, it was official. I wasn’t anybody’s hero. That’s for damn sure.

  “So … we’re friends, right?” she asked.

  Friends.

  I’d never hated a word so much in my life.

  “Yeah,” I said. “We’re friends.”

  “Good. Because this enemy stuff is getting old.”

  It was kind of weird, talking like that again. Weird in a good way. No awkward silences, where you wonder if the other person put the phone down to take a leak. With Morgan, I could blab about anything from Bigfoot to weapons of mass destruction.

  I still couldn’t believe we’d made out. Blame it on the booze. Now I started to realize that all the guys at Palm Hammock ignored Morgan, who usually left the cafeteria at lunch to sit by herself, under a tree with a book. She was one of those weird popular girls, who everybody knows but nobody really is close to. Lots of “friends” but no real friends, it seemed. I secretly thought she was the hottest girl in school. They just didn’t get it. For some strange reason, neither did she.

  Morgan said she’d meet me later at the gallery in the Design District, which wasn’t far from my apartment. I could ride my bike, which was probably a smart idea.

  Outside, I heard Mama Pigeon fluttering around. Dad used to call pigeons “sky rats.” I yanked back the curtain. The chicks had finally hatched. They sat there, alone. Their beaks opened wide, like singers in a silent choir.

  “What’s up?” I whispered, as if they could actually talk back.

  In this building, people passed in the hall without talking. On the rare occasions I waved hello, they looked the other way. It totally creeped me out. We were living under one roof, yet I knew more about the pigeons than my next door neighbors.

  To be totally honest, I was kind of lonely. My little sister had more of a social life than me. During the past few weeks, I’d seen less and less of Mom. She left Post-It notes all over the apartment in her jittery handwriting:

  Toilet is on the fritz. Jiggle chain in tank. Make sure everything goes down.

  Keep air conditioner on 75. Call me if it freezes up.

  Her latest:

  We need to talk about your grades.

  I crumpled it up and threw it away.

  Nothing left to do except practice my magic. I tried the levitation trick, but my feet wouldn’t stay balanced. I ended up falling on my ass over and over again. After a while, I gave up. I really needed to get a life.

  I jogged downstairs and threw my dirty laundry in the machine. Someone had already taken my jeans out of the dryer and tossed them in a wrinkled pile. Nice. I scooped up my faded Levis and smoothed them out, but they’d shrunk beyond recognition, the hole and worn part enlarged and clearly visible. This is what my world had become: shrunken laundry. How sad is that?

  The machine thumped like a metronome, putting me into a trance. After a while, I couldn’t listen to it anymore. I climbed the stairs and stumbled over the chewed-up carpet. I hadn’t explored this part of the building yet.

  At the top of the stairway, beside a fuse box with a mess of wires snaking out of it, a door dangled on its hinges. The other side was draped with Christmas lights. I stepped onto the roof. Airplanes roared overhead. Pigeons clustered against the railings, tucking themselves in for the night. I searched for my favorite pigeon, Wendy, in the flock, but I couldn’t find her black-and-white cookie pattern.

  This place was kind of chill. Somebody had even set up a little table and a deck chair. I sank into it. There was a six-pack of Presidente nearby. What the hell? Since I didn’t see anybody around, I cracked open a can. Then I saw something that blew me away. Mom’s earrings, the ones shaped like teddy bears to match her wacked-out scrubs. Had she been sneaking beers on the roof? The idea was so freaking weird, I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Guess I wasn’t the only one with a secret.

  I closed my eyes and listened to the surf sounds of traffic. I hadn’t been sleeping well, for obvious reasons. Now my internal clock was totally screwed up. Just as I started to drift off, my cell phone vibrated against my skin.

  “It’s starting. Where are you?” Morgan asked, her voice buried in a swirl of cackling laughter and car horns.

  “On my way,” I told her.

  I glanced across the roof, which was littered with empty beer cans. The Christmas lights blinked on and off. As I headed toward the door, I spotted something crumpled in the corner. A rag. Peering closer, I realized it was a pigeon. The wings were splayed above its head, and the feathers, dappled with blood, were black and white.

  12 : The Ringmaster

  Maybe gulping down a warm Dominican beer and hopping on a ten-speed wasn’t a smart idea. As I squinted into the bleary distance, I tried to concentrate on the buildings ahead of me, the cartoony, hand-painted signs advertising everything from car parts to human hair.

  I pedaled faster.

  Morgan’s directions made no sense. She said to meet at a place on northwest Twenty-third Street
, but all I saw were junkyards. Something hard and sharp bounced off my shoulder. I winced. On the corner, a pack of kids on low-riding bikes took turns chucking rocks at me. None of them looked bigger than my little sister.

  “Hey, man,” said a boy with a Marlins cap. “You got a flat.” He grinned, showing the spaces between his teeth.

  “Thanks,” I said as another rock sailed over.

  I ducked and lost control of the bike. Then I tumbled onto the pavement, scraping my knees and elbows. The kids clapped and laughed. They were still laughing when I twisted my handlebars back in place, hopped on, and veered down a side street just to get away.

  I had shredded a hole in my jeans, but for once I was in luck, because this looked like the spot. A crowd had gathered in front of a wall decorated with a mural: gigantic meat cleavers and steak knives. I chained my bike in front of a power station across the street, listened to the buzz of electricity, and started looking for Morgan.

  She wasn’t at the table near the gallery entrance, where hipster chicks in motorcycle boots and neon tights waited in line for booze. I asked if they’d seen Morgan. Nobody paid attention to me. Could I blame them?

  “Who’s asking?”

  I recognized that twangy Southern accent. Finch, the guy from Skully’s party. He never stopped smiling. His stupid mustache would put Dali to shame.

  “A friend,” I told him.

  Finch’s smile tightened.

  We marched through the gallery’s cavelike entrance, which was draped with strips of plastic. Inside, I found Morgan talking to her unstable ex-boyfriend, Brent.

  “Do you think anyone would notice if I smoked a joint?” he asked.

  Morgan giggled. “You crackhead.”

  “What if I smoked a cigarette at the same time?” he said. When he spotted me coming, he scowled. I kept looking at the studs in his chin. If only I had a crowbar.

  “Aaron. You made it,” Morgan said.

  Normally, I’d be getting a little freaked out. I couldn’t handle parties, and these people made me feel stupid, like I could never say the right thing. But as long as Morgan was around, I’d be okay.

  “Yeah. Well, I almost got assaulted by a gang of ten-year-olds on bikes,” I said.

  Finch barged between us. He kissed Morgan on the cheek. “You know this guy?”

  “Doesn’t everybody?” she said. “He’s my hero.”

  “Is that so?” Finch stared.

  “She’s kind of exaggerating,” I said.

  “Finch,” the guy said, sticking out his hand. Was that his first name or his last?

  “Yeah. I remember. You were at Skully’s party.”

  Finch took off his hat and bowed. His hair was a tangle of reddish-brown snarls. He was older than us. Maybe in his midtwenties. He had a few crinkly wrinkles around the eyes, as well as freckles.

  “Walk,” he said, steering Morgan toward a metal staircase.

  “I am walking,” she said.

  He pushed her forward. “I would say you’re sort of shuffling.”

  “Don’t touch me.” Morgan jerked away.

  They wandered down a hallway on the second floor, and Brent and I followed them. The air was sweltering. My T-shirt clung to my back. “Where the hell are we going?” I asked.

  Finch jingled a set of keys and unlocked a door. Inside was another musty room with a cement floor. The walls swarmed with hundreds of postcard-sized doodles.

  “Welcome, kids,” he said, extending his arms.

  I squinted at a drawing of a topless girl, splattered with something dark and gluey, like chocolate syrup. Her arms and legs were all twisted, her bazooka-sized boobs swelling out of the frame. It was scary as hell.

  “Stop staring at my breasts,” said Morgan, sneaking up behind me.

  “That’s you?” I blinked.

  “Part of me,” she said. “Wanna buy some art?”

  “How much?”

  She grinned. “Ten.”

  “Ten bucks?”

  “No. Ten thousand. But for you, I’ll take a rain check.” She tore one of the drawings off the wall—a girl morphing into a tree—and stuffed it in a plastic baggie. “Gracias,” she said, handing it to me.

  I tucked it into my messenger bag. Did Morgan really see herself like that, with her body all out of proportion?

  “Smells like dogs in here,” said Brent. “Your place is in serious need of AC. It’s hot as balls.”

  Finch led us toward the back. We snuck behind a curtain that separated the gallery space from the “sitting area,” as Morgan called it. She collapsed onto a saggy couch and kicked her feet near an industrial-strength fan.

  “This isn’t helping. It’s just throwing hot air around,” she said.

  “Quit your bitching,” said Finch, pulling back another curtain. I got a glimpse of pizza boxes and sleeping bags and finally put two and two together. Not only did Finch own the gallery, he lived here.

  Finch returned with a plate loaded with white powder. “You want K or coke?”

  Brent clapped his hands. “Decisions, decisions.”

  Morgan didn’t say anything. She just stared at the plate.

  Brent was the first to take a hit. He leaned in and sniffed a line. Could be cocaine or ketamine, a pet tranquilizer used by vets. The cops had prepped me, but I couldn’t tell the difference. I’d have to watch and see how he reacted. Either he’d space out or talk nonstop.

  “What about you?” Finch jabbed a finger at me.

  “Ladies first,” said Morgan. “It’s my opening night, remember?”

  Was she joking?

  “You don’t have to,” I said.

  I didn’t really expect her to do anything, but she pulled back her hair, bent forward and bumped a pile. Then she flopped against the couch and sighed. I watched her chest heave beneath her flimsy tank top.

  “Next,” said Finch, passing the plate.

  “I’m good,” I told him. This was so shady. I’d never even seen someone snort coke before. It kind of grossed me out.

  “He’s the guy you mentioned?” Finch asked Morgan. Something in his voice had shifted, all jokes and smiles gone.

  Morgan said, “Let’s have a race,” and jogged around the room.

  “Crazy girl,” said Brent. He closed his eyes.

  Finch glared at me. Shit. Things were getting out of control. I was in for it now.

  “You interested in something else?” he asked.

  I studied my fingernails. “Maybe.”

  “Who you buying for?” Finch asked. He fished out a pack of Camels and lit up.

  “Just me.”

  Finch blew smoke at the ceiling. “This ain’t how I do business.”

  There was no doubt in my mind. Finch was the supplier. The alpha dog. The shot caller. Whatever you wanted to call him. This was the guy. Now I had one plan: bring him down so Morgan and Skully didn’t get dragged along with him.

  “It’s all good,” Morgan said, skipping behind the couch. She slung her arms around my neck. “He’s cool.”

  Finch didn’t look convinced. He took a long drag, then flicked the cigarette across the floor, scattering a trail of sparks. “What’s your name again?”

  “Aaron.”

  He shook his head. “How about mollies? I got some real nice pills from Amsterdam. Not too speedy.”

  “Does a body good,” said Brent, snickering. “Unless they’re meth bombs.”

  Finch shot him a dirty look.

  “Give me a jar.” That’s what the cop told me to say. He even gave me the cash, which they had photocopied.

  “Why so much?” Finch narrowed his eyes.

  “Some for now, some for later.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I gotta take a drive
first.”

  We exchanged phone numbers, then made a plan to meet in the parking lot at Pollo Tropical, a local fast food joint, in an hour. Just when everyone started to breathe easy, Finch took hold of my shoulder.

  “You a cop?” he asked, keeping his gaze locked.

  I faked a laugh. “Are you?”

  Finch didn’t look away.

  “What time is it?” asked Morgan, breaking the silence.

  “Time to jet,” I said, stumbling away from the couch. I grabbed Morgan’s hand to help her up and she beamed at me.

  “You can let go now,” she said.

  But I didn’t ever want to let go.

  13 : Pit Stop

  Finch yanked back the curtain. On the other side, a crowd of bored-looking girls had gathered. He switched gears again, turning on his megawatt smile. This seemed odd. Was he the alpha dog or just a foot soldier? It could go either way.

  My beer buzz had worn off. At that point, I could’ve used another. Not that I was supposed to be drinking in the first place. I felt like the living dead.

  I noticed Skully in her heart-shaped glasses, standing in the corner, smoking her cloves. She smiled and did this weird little curtsey, like a queen in an old movie.

  “Hey, Double A.” She pulled me into a hug. “Let’s dance,” she said, twirling around. Her skirt puffed up, giving everyone a glimpse of her polka-dotted panties.

  “I don’t dance.”

  “Sure, you do,” Skully said. “Just go like this. Feel the beat.” She swung her shoulders back and forth.

  I tried to mimic her movements, but I stumbled all over the place. Skully laughed. “Loosen up, Double A,” she said. “God, you should take yoga or something.”

  Morgan came out and sort of sleepwalked over to us. She pulled me away, and then we were swaying together. We held each other like that for a while, our feet perfectly still.

  The warehouse could’ve burned down in flames. I wouldn’t have noticed.

  Then, for no reason, she pushed me away, and I was standing there alone again, looking foolish.

  The girls, Brent, and I ran down the metal stairs, back into the cavernous room where the lights had dimmed. Video games flickered on the wall. People spread out on the floor, playing vintage Metroid, the final battle, where the player’s helmet comes off and you realize that inside the metal suit, the hero, Samus, is a girl.