by Jake Coburn
Jerry walked slowly over to me in his new Nautica jacket. “What up, Thet?” he said, throwing his palm out. “What you doing here, yo?”
“What’s going on?” I asked, ignoring the jab.
“Nothing. It’s mad hot upstairs.”
“How many peeps?” I said, surprised by my own slang. I could feel my pulse skipping, just being around it all again.
“Crazy heads up in that crib,” he said. “Too many West Side peeps. I’ve been chillin’ down here smokin’ blunts and shit. You wanna puff?”
Jerry loved to mess with our Spanish teacher, Madame Cis neros. She was a senile old lady known for wearing this horrible wig, and Jerry was famous for telling her that she had something on her glasses. He loved to watch her slide them back on, one side at a time, so that she didn’t shift her head of hair.
“I think I’m gonna wait a bit,” I said. “Hey, you seen Greg?”
“LUST? I think so, yo.”
Adam stumbled toward us and gave Jerry a playful punch. “Wazzup, boyz?” he cackled. “Yo, someone taxed my Big Bamboos.”
“Well, I think I’m gonna go check out upstairs,” I said, shaking hands with Adam.
“Coolio.” Jerry nodded. “We’ll see you back up there. And hey, if you decide you wanna puff, we got lots of fucking herb.”
The elevator doors slid open, and Ashley Burton stepped off with two friends I’d met before. They were all wearing tank tops and tight black pants, and Ashley’s hair was held up in a bun by two miniature blue chopsticks. The three girls were in the grade below me, but they’d dated a couple friends of mine, and they knew they’d date a couple more.
“Nickie, sweetie, how are you?” She leaned in to kiss me. Both cheeks. “You know Stacy and Emily.” Ashley was much prettier than her friends and you could see that she enjoyed that.
“Is Jenny with you?” I asked, searching for something to say. Jenny had dated Adam for most of last year.
“I don’t know what’s up with that girl,” Ashley complained.
“Oh, my God,” Emily said, laughing. “Is she the one with that clunky cell phone?”
Stacy grinned. “That thing isn’t a cell phone. It’s like a portable phone with good reception.”
“Talk about StarTac-ky,” Emily said, nodding.
“She’s just changed,” Ashley continued. “But people change, right, Nickie?”
“It’s like you think you know somebody,” I said, keeping a straight face. There’s nothing more annoying than a girl whose life philosophy is based on the shape of her ass.
Ashley raised her shoulders playfully. “Well, we’re out of here.”
“I don’t even know why we came all the way up to Ninety-eighth,” Emily hissed at Ashley.
“Sara’s good people,” Ashley said defensively.
I nodded. “She’s great.”
Emily grinned. “Well, if I break Ninety-sixth Street, I feel like I should be doing community service.”
Ashley kissed me on the cheek once more. “So good to see you, Nickie.” She walked out of the lobby with her two friends and disappeared into the crowd.
Ashley and Kodak used to live in the same building on Fifth. Years ago, she had a habit of passing out at all the wrong times, and her girlfriends were always calling Kodak and asking him to take her home. He didn’t mind because she had a tiny frame and, I guess, some attention is always better than none. Kodak wasn’t a horrible-looking guy but it’s not like girls were passing notes about him. One time, he showed me some of the pictures he’d taken of Ashley sleeping. When he first pulled out the binder, I braced myself for some sick shit, but they were all really beautiful portraits. Some guys would’ve taken advantage of her, but that just wasn’t Kodak’s style.
As soon as I stepped off the elevator, it was clear which apartment the party was in. A guy was sitting in the hallway with his back to the wall, resting his head in his hands. He was coming down from something, and his girlfriend was standing angrily over him, her purse slung across her shoulder. When I reached the front door, I could see the doorknob rattling in time to the stereo’s bass.
I opened the door and a wave of smoke, alcohol, and body heat washed over me. People were everywhere. Every couch, chair, table, counter, desk, and rug was covered with kids. There were people hanging out in the den doing coke off compact mirrors and two couples screwing around underneath an oak dining-room table. I hadn’t been to a house party like this in over a year, and I couldn’t decide if I was nervous or excited or both.
I walked down the main hallway, between conversations and over a couple of passed-out freshmen. Sara’s parents were rare-rug dealers, and her apartment was covered with these beautiful Oriental carpets. Nobody at the party cared. Everywhere I looked, there were stamped-out cigarette butts and kicked-over cans of cheap beer.
I checked the front rooms first. The kitchen, the library, the living room. No sign of Greg. Walking through the dining room, I tripped over a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and nearly shattered my elbow on a grandfather clock. In the master bedroom, I spotted Tim in the far corner. Nancy was leaning against his chest and Tim was talking with a linebacker from Fiedler. The linebacker had had a couple too many, but linebackers always do.
Turning back around, I headed down another hallway. The walls were decorated with dozens of elegant family photos, and I wondered if Sara’s parents would still be smiling when they came back home. I tried one of the doors, but the lights were off inside and all I could hear was sloppy breathing. In the bathroom, I found three kids tearing through a case of nitrous tanks. No Greg. Where the hell was he?
A kid walked into me carrying a pair of half-eaten DoveBars. He looked up at me with a confused smile and then pressed on. At house parties, the fridge always gets raided and desserts are usually the first to go. I couldn’t believe how I used to live for this shit.
I walked back into the living room and scanned the crowd for Greg’s red hair. An old Dr. Dre tune came blasting out of the speakers. Next to the bookshelves, I found Adam flipping through Sara’s father’s collection of classical CDs.
“Adam,” I yelled, hoping he wasn’t a total waste. “Where’s Greg?”
Adam stared up at me, pupils the size of quarters. “Schubert died mad young, yo.”
“I need to talk to Greg,” I said. “Jerry said he was here.”
“Boy probably peaced out.”
“Where’d he go? It’s important.”
“Important,” Adam said, fighting a burp. “Shit’s crazy necessary?” The burp won.
I nodded. “Can you get in touch with him? I don’t have his cell anymore.”
“Yo, chillz, I could find him.” Adam plucked a CD from its jewel case and slid it into the back pocket of his khakis. “Give me a few.”
“I’ll be back,” I said, annoyed. Why wasn’t I sitting next to Kris at the late show, breathing in the popcorned air? Last night, I’d left Victoria’s convinced that everything in my life was about to change, but I never thought that meant for the worse.
I wove my way out of the living room and headed for Tim and Nancy. I figured I’d hang with them until Adam tracked Greg down.
Tim spotted me from his corner of the bedroom. “Nick,” he shouted. “What are you doing here?”
“Changed my mind,” I said, shrugging it off.
He studied my eyes and tightened his grip on Nancy’s shoulder. “For real?”
Leaning toward Tim, I shielded my mouth. “Danny, you know, Kris’s brother? He’s in trouble with these MKII kids,” I said, intentionally mumbling my words. “I want to talk to Greg Carmichael about helping him out. Before MKII beats the shit out of him.”
Nancy shook her head slowly. “Oh my God, Nick.”
“What’s wrong with those kids?” Tim lifted his beer. “They’re fucking deranged.”
Sara popped out of the crowd looking like she was about to burst into tears. “Tim, what the hell am I going to do?”
“Ask some people to leave
,” he said.
“Some of those IPO guys took all my mom’s fucking jewelry,” she cried.
“Those IPO guys are assholes,” I muttered. “Are they still here?”
“I don’t know,” she groaned.
“Fuck,” Tim said. “I’m sorry, Sara.”
There was a thud in the other room and the sound of glass breaking. Sara turned around and looked at her apartment. “I don’t know any of these people,” she shouted as she dissolved back into the party. I felt for her but she was crazy to throw an all-city party.
Tim crushed his empty. “Where’s IPO from?”
“Dwiggins,” I said.
“What’s it stand for again?”
“Ill Posse Outlaws. Or maybe it’s International Posse Outlaws. I can never remember,” I said, reaching for a fresh butt. “All lacrosse players, I think. Real blue-blood thugs.”
“That’s so strange,” Nancy said. “I mean, in my town most of the screw-ups aren’t, like, the rich kids and stuff.”
“Manhattan’s funny like that,” Tim declared.
“That’s an understatement,” I agreed.
Prep-school hoods could only exist in a city like New York. Take the average pissed-off teenage guy, add a platinum card and workaholic parents, and put him in a city where every drink, drug, and weapon can be delivered within the hour, and there’s a good chance he’ll end up like Greg or Derrick. Suburban kids just don’t have the toys.
Nancy tugged on Tim’s sweater. “Baby, I’m going to go use the powder room. Okay?”
“Do you want me to go with you?” Tim asked.
Nancy smiled at me. “I’m a big girl, guys.” She placed a kiss on Tim’s cheek and made her way out of the bedroom.
A kid from Daley walked by with a case of Natty Light, and Tim grabbed two. “So, Kris asked you to help out her brother?” he said, tossing me a beer. “ ’Cause you used to know these sorts of kids.”
“Not really. I mean, I just bumped into Danny after I left you guys. So I figured . . .”
“Huh.” Tim flexed the tab of his beer until it gave. “This girl’s got her hooks into you pretty deep, Nick.”
“This isn’t just about Kris,” I said, brushing it off. I’d never talked to Tim about that night and Kodak. I guess I’d never really talked to anyone about it. “Besides, I’m just as hooked on her.”
Tim laughed. “That’s what I meant.”
I took a slug of my beer. “What about you? Shit with Nancy looks good.” Tim never said it outright, but I could tell he was pretty taken with Nancy. And standing there pissed off at Luke and Kris and everything else that was fucking up my weekend, I understood why.
“Good. I guess,” Tim said, pausing.
“What is it?”
“Real confidential,” he said, lowering his voice.
“Done.”
“Well, I know this is ridiculous but it makes me nervous.”
“What do you mean it?”
Tim leaned toward me. “I mean it.”
“Oh,” I said, trying not to look surprised. Last week, he’d mentioned that they were talking about sleeping together. “It’s supposed to make you nervous.”
Tim always jokes that he’s a V-card gold member since birth and we used to all agree that Tim had “the curse.” For the first two years of high school, every time he’d make a move on a girl, something would go wrong. February of sophomore year his cab got a flat tire going across the Brooklyn Bridge. He had to stand outside in the snow apologizing to this Andrews girl who never spoke to him again. Twice during junior year his date passed out while they were kissing; once he did. The worst was at the beginning of the summer when Anne Gough’s mother walked in on them sixty-nining on the kitchen floor at two in the morning. She screamed so loudly that the neighbors called the cops. Mrs. Gough thought there was a dead guy in the kitchen.
“Have you ever taken a really good look at it?” Tim asked, and burped.
“At what?” Tim wasn’t talking about sex.
“At it. Like really up close?”
“Depends,” I said. “I guess, sort of. But usually I don’t stop and stare.”
“No, I’m not saying I stop and stare. But you can’t help but take a good look. And that’s when I get a little wigged-out.”
“Well, I’m sure she’s just as nervous when she’s dealing with you,” I said, trying to reassure him.
“I don’t think so. She seems to know what she’s doing.”
“Are you quick?” I said, grinning. That’s what I loved about Tim. No matter how stressed I was, he’d always have me laughing within five minutes.
He blushed. “Yeah.”
“How quick?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could you make it through the ‘Star-Spangled Banner’?” I smiled.
“Who’s singing?” Tim laughed.
Adam hollered to me from across the room. He’d stripped down to his wife-beater and he was carrying a skinny Nokia in his raised palm, like a five-star waiter. “Thet,” Adam shouted. “I gots Carmichaels for you.”
Tim slapped me on the back. “Good luck, kid.”
Adam passed me the phone and then leaned up against the wall with a satisfied smile on his face. He was five minutes away from yelling at the carpet.
Pressing the phone to my chest, I scanned the room for a quiet place to talk. I couldn’t say what I needed to in front of Adam and Tim and everybody else at the party. I wasn’t even sure I could say it in the first place.
I made my way back out into the hallway and searched for an empty bathroom. A few steps from the living room, I found a closet that nobody seemed to be using. Pushing aside a rack of overcoats, I stepped inside and closed the door. It had to be ninety degrees inside the closet, but the sound of the party was cut in half.
I stood there for a few seconds and tried to pull my shit together. What the hell was I doing? For nearly two years I’d been pushing Greg away, rehashing excuses, blocking—now I was about to ask for a fucking favor.
“Greg, it’s Nick.” My voice was steady.
“Wazzup? You miss me?”
“I got a little bit of a problem.”
“Yo, you gots to speak up, I’m in a cab with Julie and Tyler,” he yelled.
“I got a problem,” I repeated.
“What? Where you at, yo?”
“I’m at Sara’s party.”
“That place is whacked. We bailed a while ago.”
“Greg, is anything new with MKII?” My fingers were trembling and I grabbed the closet doorknob. What was I so afraid of?
“They dropped that baller from Freid. Smashed his nose in. One sec . . . Nah, we’ll be theres in a minute . . . Yeah, Nick . . . In two minutes, chill . . . Nick? And I think they’re after some head who got nice with Derrick’s girl, but I don’t know what that shit’s about.”
“The kid they’re looking for is Kris’s brother.”
“Your Kris? Well, he better hide. Get scarce, kid . . . Don’t smoke all that . . . And Nick, don’t be chilling with this dude when they find him. MKII’s crazy indiscriminate like that.”
“They already popped him once,” I said. “What can we do?”
“With guys like that, there’s not much,” Greg said, inhaling. “Derrick’s mad twisted.”
“Any more than the rest?”
“Definitely. My boy keeps rats. Like as pets and shit.”
“What? How the fuck does he do that?”
“Keeps’m in a cage on his roof. He’s always feeding them pigeons and shit. I’ve seen it. It’s fucking sick.”
The closet door shuddered as somebody leaned their date against it. “So he’s out of his fucking mind,” I whispered. Danny was a dead man.
“Yup,” Greg wheezed, holding in a hit. “Boy’s real antisocial, but he runs a tight crew.”
“There’s gotta be something we can do.”
“Something we can do?” Greg laughed. “I was thinking about what you could do, Nick.”
“Is that how it is?” I said, trying not to raise my voice.
“That’s how your ass wanted it last time I checked.”
I kneeled down below the suits. “And there’s nothing to be said for old friends?”
“Am I talking to Nick or Thet?”
“What?” I stammered. This was humiliating.
“Nick or Thet?”
“Both.” I knew Greg was tooling on me, but I couldn’t watch another friend of mine go down. Not Danny.
“Fuck that. Neither.”
I leaned my forehead against a rack of boots. “Thet,” I said, tensing my chest. “At least for now.”
“My brother,” Greg cried.
The closet didn’t spin me around like Clark Kent, but something changed. Instead of going home, watching the late movie, and jerking off, I was suddenly committed.
“I’ll need to set up a meeting with’m,” Greg said. “I’m sure Derrick won’t want to give up the manhunt, but I can spin my diplomacy vibes.”
At Collier, Greg loved to think he took care of me. When we got busted smoking a joint on the stoop outside school, when a liquor store called the cops on my fake ID, Greg always wanted to take the hit. It made him feel important.
“How soon?” I asked.
“Sooner’s always better. If we want this shit dealt with humanely.”
“Name the spot.”
“Okay, you know a head named Jeremy Prescott? Tall peep from Troy, always eating cherry Pez. Been a Dignitary about a year.”
“I’ve heard his name before,” I said.
“He lives on Fieldston Road in Riverdale. His parents are gone for a while, so we’ll all be chillin’ there later. He’s got a choice house, so shit’s real laid-back.”
“All right.”
“And call my celly when you get to the Two hundred forty-second Street station.” I reached into my jeans for a pen and wrote the number on my wrist. “I’ll have some peeps come and pick you up.”
“We’ll be there ASAP.”
“What’s your celly?” Greg exhaled.
“I don’t have one,” I said, bracing myself for Greg’s comment. Kris and I both agreed they were more trouble than they were worth. Besides, half the calls would be from Elliot.