by Sean Rodman
“Listen, Dar,” says Jonathan, turning me toward him. “You have got to do better next time. That was ridiculous.”
“What?”
“The world’s fastest fight, followed by…that?” He gestures at Sam and his teammates. “You’re going to be on their hit list for weeks. Worse, I might even get on that list if you keep it up.”
“Yeah, you got my back, don’t you?”
“Dar,” he says. “This isn’t about our business partnership.”
I rub one hand over the lump on my head. My mouth tastes like copper. “Then I don’t think this partnership is going to work.” I pull on my hoodie.
“Ah, don’t get like that.” Jonathan rolls his eyes and puts a hand on my shoulder. I shrug it off. “I’m saying that you and I, we’ve got a good thing going. You’re the star of the fight club. And I’m making us money.”
I stare at him for moment.
“You’re a shark, man,” Jonathan continues. “I’m like those fish that hang out with sharks, clean them up, show them where the food is.”
He slaps a bunch of bills into my hand. I flip through them. Fifty, as promised. “So don’t screw up this relationship, all right?”
I stuff the money into my jeans pocket, grab my backpack and head for the door.
“What, you’ve got nothing else to say to me?” says Jonathan.
I turn back. “What do you mean?”
“Not even a thank-you? For the money? For keeping Sam’s crew from kicking your ass?”
I just mumble, “Thanks” and pound the door open to the bright sunshine.
The empty garage is a few blocks from the grounds of Norfolk Academy. About ten minutes if I hustle. And afternoon class starts in fifteen. Jonathan originally wanted the fight club to be at night, because it would be cooler. But it turned out lunchtime brought in more of a crowd. So that’s when we fight.
I pull on my blazer as I cut across the grassy quad. The temperature drops as I pass underneath the big old oaks. I’m almost to the rear entrance of the McAlister Building when I see her. Keisha is walking in from the other direction, hands dancing around as she tells a story to her friend. Crap. I don’t think I look too roughed up from the fight. But I don’t want her to ask questions I can’t answer.
I angle toward the other side of the building. I’ve almost made it when I hear her call out.
“Dar!” She’s waving at me, big smile. Her friend looks less impressed, binder clutched to her chest.
I nod at her, hesitate for a second and then walk over.
“Keisha. I didn’t see you—”
“It’s okay. Where you coming from?” she asks.
For a minute I think she knows where I’ve been. Then I look at her brown eyes, wide and trusting. Tough to lie to. But she doesn’t know about the fights.
“Just getting something for lunch. You know, at the Quik Mart.”
“What happened to your forehead?” says her friend, raising an eyebrow. “It looks like—”
I cut her off in a rush of words. “It’s fine. Gym class. So hey, Keisha—you still up to going out tomorrow?”
Keisha nods, her smile turning a little shy. “Yeah, of course. Pick me up at seven.” She turns, brown hair cascading back over her shoulder just like in the shampoo commercials. For the hundredth time I wonder what I’m thinking, trying to hang with her.
Her friend stares a minute longer at me, then hustles to catch up to Keisha.
Chapter Six
By the time classes finish, I’m wiped. I doze off on the subway ride home, head against the glass. Wake up with a start right before my stop, wondering for a second where I am. The walk to Franklin Estates wakes me up a little, the cold fall air making my lungs ache. Crossing the quad to our apartment tower, I see a couple of kids playing basketball in the parking lot. TB waves to me from his usual post, slouched in a beat-up lawn chair outside his townhouse. I don’t wave back—I just hurry into the lobby of my building.
The elevator smells like cat piss. The old lady riding in the elevator with me has her nose wrinkled up and her eyes locked on the changing numbers above the door. Like she can make me and the tangy stench go away, just like that. When we get to her floor, I hold the door open for her. She doesn’t thank me, just shuffles out. Never meets my eyes. I could get mad, but it happens every day. Kid with big muscles, mean face, hoodie, jeans. I fit the profile.
When I get to the apartment, I realize I’ve forgotten my key again. I bang on the door until I hear the rattle of the dead bolts on the other side. The door swings wide open, and there’s my little brother staring at me with big eyes.
“Runt, dammit. What I’d tell you?” I say.
“About what?” he says, knowing he screwed up but not how.
“You always use the chain. Never throw the door open like that.” Not that the little chain would stop some of the real predators around here. But the boy needs to at least try.
“Sorry, Dar,” he says quietly.
“Good little man,” I say, wrapping my palm over his head and giving it a little shake. “Where’s Mom?” He nods toward the kitchen. Our apartment is small, but bigger than some in the building. Two bedrooms. Runt and me in one, Mom in the other. Kitchen opening into a living room with a red couch we got from the thrift store and hauled up in the freight elevator. A small table for eating. Mom’s tried to make it cheerful with some posters she found at a garage sale—pictures of sand and palm trees, happy people spending money.
I drop my backpack on the hallway floor and stick my head around the corner.
“Dar!” says Mom, her head surrounded by a cloud of steam. She finishes draining a pot of pasta and clangs it back on the stove. “You’re just in time to wash up for dinner.” I nod and muscle into the bathroom beside Runt. Make him wash his hands right. By the time we get back, Mom has put two bowls mounded with noodles and sauce on the table. She pulls off her apron, and I see she’s wearing her uniform.
“Sorry, guys. I’m going to have to run to the drugstore. Judy called in sick, so I’ve got an extra shift.” She leans in to give Runt a kiss, then over to me. “Dar, you make sure the dishes get cleaned right—” She stops short, staring at the purple bruise on my forehead. “Explain what happened. Right now.”
“Aw, Mom. It’s nothing. Gym class. Basketball. I smacked into someone. I was watching the ball, not where I was going.”
She tenderly pushes back my short hair. Testing the bruise with her cool fingers.
“What did the nurse say?”
“The school nurse?” Is Mom testing my story? “Never saw her. The teacher didn’t think I needed to.” I push her hand gently away. “Seriously, no big deal.”
She drills into me with her eyes.
“You know I sent you to that school to get you away from the rough stuff, right?” I nod.
“But you’ve got to make it work. I find out you’re fighting again, even if it’s on the basketball court, I’ll—” She stops and shakes her head. I bet she doesn’t know what she’ll do, because there aren’t a lot of options left.
I stare down at the noodles, cooling in their bowl.
“I get it, mom,” I say. “This was just an accident, okay?”
She sighs, then checks her watch. “I’ve got to run. We’ll talk about this later.” She shrugs on her coat and trades her slippers for work shoes.
“Do what I said. Clean up. Get your homework done. Riley’s got some math—”
“I’ll take care of it, Mom. I will.”
She opens the door, then looks back at me. “I know you will, Dar.”
Runt is pretty good for the rest of the evening. He works hard, scrubbing down the counters while I wash the dishes. I swear the boy doesn’t have an Off switch—he talks nonstop, and I just have to pretend like he’s a radio or something. Tune him out. We get his homework done, and then I let him watch TV in his pajamas. I sit at the table and work on my essay. History. The start of World War I, assassinations, terrorists. We were assig
ned a country to write about, and I was given Switzerland. I didn’t even know where it was at first, but it’s actually kind of interesting. I’m on a roll with the writing when Runt suddenly speaks up.
“I just saw Dad on the news,” he says, still watching the glowing screen in the corner of the living room.
“What?” I stand up from the table and go over to the couch. It’s the eleven o’clock news—already? How’d that happen?—and it’s a clip about Newhaven Penitentiary. “You did not see him.”
“They showed a bunch of guys in the courtyard, and he was right there.”
I sit down, pushing him over to make a little room. But the clip is over, and now they’re talking about the weather.
“It’s a big place, Runt. And those guys all look the same in the blue jumpsuits.”
“No, I know it was him!” he says. “It was!”
“All right, okay.” I hold up my hands. “Don’t cry about it. It was him. Fine.” We both watch the weather map, full of colors and lines. Rain tomorrow, getting colder.
“How’d he look?” I ask.
“Well, he was in the background,” Runt says, looking up at me uncertainly. “But I think he looked proud.”
“Proud?” I say. “What do you mean, proud?”
“You know that look he had when I drew something nice and he’d put it on the fridge? Like that. Proud.”
I study Runt’s smooth face in the blue light of the television, watching to see if Dad appears again. Then I reach out and pull his little body close to me. “Damn straight he’s proud. Proud of his two men, right?”
Runt looks up at me seriously. “You shouldn’t swear, Dar.”
I just laugh. “Time for bed, Runt. Too much TV is gonna rot your mind.”
Chapter Seven
I hear Mom rattling the locks on the door and squint at the blinds beside my bed. Dim gray light from outside, so it must be before six. I put on some clothes, trying not to wake Runt. By the time I get to the kitchen, Mom’s got the coffee-maker going.
“How’d it go last night?” she whispers to me.
“It was good. Got my essay done. Runt behaved himself.”
“Riley,” she corrects me without thinking about it. “Call him Riley.”
I shrug and help myself to coffee and toast. I start eating over the sink and hear Mom sigh. “Sorry. I’ll get a plate,” I say.
“It’s not that. But, yeah, get a plate.”
I grab a chipped one from the cupboard and turn to face her. She’s slumped against the fridge, mug in hand. All of a sudden I notice how old she looks, how tired. It’s funny how she changes. Some days she acts young, which is the truth—she’s only in her early thirties. But some days she’s a hundred years old, like right now. Makeup not hiding the wrinkles, the worry. Not that I’d ever say that to her.
“Rough night at work?” I ask.
“Not too many crazies.” The all-night drugstore she works at tends to attract the weirdo 2:00 am crowd. “I was glad for the extra shift.” She looks up uncertainly from her mug at me. “We need the money.”
“Always.” I wipe crumbs off my hands over the sink. Pour some more coffee and reach for another slice of bread.
“No, Darwin. I mean, we really need the money,” she says. “We’re not going to make rent this month.”
“For the apartment?” I stop, bread in midair above the toaster. “What’s going to happen?”
“Keep your voice down. It’s fine. We’ll figure it out.”
“No, this is not fine. When Dad went away last year, you promised we’d figure it out. That Runt and me wouldn’t go stay with Aunt Martha. Or to social services, like the kids down the hall. You promised back then we’d figure it out.”
“I know, I know,” she says, putting her mug on the counter. “And I’ll keep that promise. Things are just a little tight.”
We stare at each other uneasily. Then I snap.
“It’s ’cause you’re spending it all on Norfolk. Isn’t it?” I take a step closer to her. “You’re giving away all the money we need for a roof over our heads. Giving it to a bunch of rich folks in the suburbs so that they can get richer. While we get poorer.”
“So you can get a proper education,” she hisses. “And not end up on the streets. Or worse, like your daddy.”
“Don’t say that about Dad.”
“He nearly beat a man to death, Darwin.”
“Dad decked a guy who deserved it.”
“Your father was drunk. And violent. And it was only a matter of time before he brought both of those things home to us.”
“Shut up!” I shout.
“Don’t you speak to me like that.” Her face twists in anger. “You did nothing but get into trouble at school, even before your daddy went to prison. Now don’t tell me that I made the wrong call giving everything we have to get you to a better place.” She taps me on the chest. “I always put this family first. And now you have to as well. Make something of the chance I’m giving you. Don’t you forget it.”
I shrug, suddenly helpless. Feeling like someone just pulled my plug, and I’m empty of anger, of everything. I’m tired of it all. Just like Mom is, I guess.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“What’s going on?” says Runt, standing in the doorway, hair spiked up from sleep.
“Nothing, honey,” says Mom. She wipes her eyes with the palms of her hands. “You want some Cheerios?”
I watch her pour a bowl for him while he waits, spoon in hand. “Keep an eye on him while I shower?” she says. I nod, and she disappears into her room.
Runt turns on the TV, switching channels until he gets to cartoons.
“That stuff will rot your brain, Runt,” I say, not really thinking about it.
“I know,” he says happily, around a mouthful of cereal. I’m watching him eat when I think of something. I go to the bedroom and pull out the bills from the jeans I wore yesterday. The fifty Jonathan gave me. Not much, but rent’s due soon. Maybe I can pull together some more by then. And figure out how to lie to Mom about it.
Chapter Eight
We rush to catch the last train out from downtown. Cold, hard stars above the entrance to the subway platform. Nothing on the street except some black-and-white cabs. Meth head holding out his ballcap to us at the top of the stairs. Keisha pushes closer to me as we walk by him. He gives me a rotten-toothed smile. I give him a hard look and he turns away.
I keep my arm around her as we walk down the long tunnel to the eastbound platform. Our steps fall into the same rhythm. Her hair smells nice, a little like peach or something. We hit the platform. No train. Just an old guy in a long black coat, sitting on a bench, coughing into a handkerchief. And a young kid in a puffy, white snow jacket, looking edgy. I look down the dark tunnel. No sign of the subway headlight. I check the kid again, trying to figure out if he’s going to be a problem. Subway isn’t that safe at night, even with cameras and cops around. Distracted, I don’t hear Keisha until she thumps me on the chest.
“I said, you were quiet tonight. Did you have a good time?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Your friends are nice.” But she’s right. I didn’t say much at the restaurant. Weird how you can feel alone in a place that crowded. We had been crammed into a booth with a bunch of her friends, mostly girls. I spent the night mainly watching her laughing, talking about stuff I didn’t understand with people I didn’t know.
“They’re actually pretty nice, if you get to know them,” she says. “Which you didn’t.”
“Don’t get me wrong—I’m not complaining about your friends.”
Her lips purse as she frowns. She’s cute when she’s mad. I laugh. “All right, all right. I don’t have much in common with them. They’re just kinda…”
She punches me again in the chest. “Kinda what?”
“Naw, nothing bad. Just different. From me.” She starts to turn away, but I pull her close.
“Look, when we met, I thought to myself, There is a girl
who’s out of my reach. She’s going to college, I’m going to work at—I don’t know, a convenience store or something. I live at home with my mom in Franklin Estates. You grew up in a nice house away from—” I sweep my hand around at the dirty subway platform. “Away from this, anyway.”
“So you think I’m too good for you?” One eyebrow arches up.
“Damn straight you’re better than me. You just don’t know it yet.” She shakes her head, tries to interrupt. I keep going.
“But I’m not passing up the chance to be with you just because you’re making a mistake.” Now she laughs, light and nice, like wind chimes. The nervous kid looks over at the sound, then away.
“Know what, Darwin?” she says. “I think I’m pretty happy with my mistake.”
There’s a roar behind me as the subway finally arrives, and I turn to protect her from the dust and wind. We take the last car and head right to the back, settling into a bank of red plastic seats. My arm goes around her shoulders, feeling like it’s in the right place. Like I’m in the right place.
Back row, two in from the left. That’s my desk in History, but there’s a guy sitting in it. Blond hair, buzzed right down. Blue eyes set in a soft, pale face. Gray blazer, white shirt, blue tie. Just like my uniform. His pen taps in time with the tunes running through his earbuds, until I tug one of them out.
“This.” I nod at the desk. “This is mine.”
He looks up, and I’m expecting anger, fear and resentment. Instead, his eyes widen and he smiles.
“You’re Downtown Dar. I saw you yesterday.” He mimes a punch. “Sweet.”
“Whatever.” I nod my head to one side. “Out of my seat.”
“Yeah, sure.” He swipes his binder closed and practically jumps out of the seat. “No problem.” He hovers over me as I sit down, like we’re about to have a conversation. But luckily Mr. Hassel walks in, and my groupie has to find a seat on the other side of the room.