by Jake Coburn
“Thanks for picking us up,” I said, trying to figure out how Danny and I were going to fit safely on the two Ducatis. Whatever. It was too late to start worrying about shit like that.
When Danny and I were set, we flew up the Riverdale hill. I thought we were going to tip over coming around 243rd, but Dave didn’t even flinch. He was too numb to be scared. Dave had the glossy-eyed look of a kid who’s been partying so long he thinks he’ll never have to go home again. A few minutes later, we pulled onto a narrow road that led into several driveways.
The Prescotts’ house was a three-story colonial with a two-car garage. It was set at the top of a small hill and surrounded by a semicircle of pines that seemed too perfectly placed to be natural. Half the lights in the house were on, and two lit rooms on the top floor seemed to stretch the green-and-white fence into a smiling jack-o’-lantern. A guy and a girl sat on the front steps puffing a joint, and I could hear the muffled sounds of a boom box. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have been able to tell it was a party.
“Is that Jeremy Prescott?” I asked.
“Nah,” Dave said. “That’s the center for Dwiggins—eighteen points per.”
When Jarvis and Danny arrived, we walked up the cobble-stone path to the front door. My joints and muscles still ached from being chased, but I wasn’t about to ask for an Advil. Adrenaline would have to do.
“Brits drive on the wrong fucking side of the road,” Danny said, leaning toward me.
Evergreen bushes lined the sides of the walkway and, as we reached the top, I saw a young guy lying smack in the middle of one of the shrubs. He was passed out and snoring violently.
“Any peeps show?” Dave asked the basketball player.
“Same derelicts,” the girl said, nodding.
“Same dereliction,” Dave added.
We walked through the coatroom and into the main living room. The walls were painted a stark white and decorated with a collection of African masks. They reminded me of pieces that my father used to collect, and I wanted to ask where they were from. A pool table sat along the far wall near two gigantic, light blue couches.
Three girls were lounging on the near couch, each with a tall glass of red wine, and the coffee table was layered with pasta dishes and slices of chocolate mousse cake. On the other couch, a young guy sat clutching a bottle of Stoli and sniffing remnants of coke. Two of the girls started laughing, and one of them spilled a slosh of wine on the couch. I think I was the only person who noticed.
“Who wants sushi?” one of the girls shouted, picking up the cordless.
“That Nippon place is whack,” the guy muttered. “Sushi’s mad dry by the time it gets here.”
“Don’t worry, darling.” She smiled and pulled out her gold card. “My tekka maki will be here before you can say Enola Gay.”
“That’s Jeremy?” I asked Dave.
“Nah. That’s one of our newest Dignitaries.”
There are two types of parties. There’s the raging, cop-calling, hard, blunted house party that seems to end itself, like Sara’s. Then there’s the house party that doesn’t ever really begin or end. People cluster and disperse. There are moments of ecstatic pleasure followed by boredom, but there’s no panic. Instead, there’s this sense that everyone is partying because they don’t know how to stop anymore, or what that would even mean. I could still remember what it felt like—the stiffness, the fourth and fifth highs—I didn’t miss it.
Dave motioned for Danny and me to follow him up a staircase. I was glad to get out of there. Each step was littered with dozens of CDs, like someone had spilled a Case Logic on the way down. I tried not to step on any of them but I couldn’t help it.
On the second floor, Dave led us down a long hallway lined with bedrooms. As I passed each room, I caught half-second views of two or three or four kids lost in their own little worlds. In one bedroom, there were three hoods eating take-out Chinese food, taking glass bong hits, and playing Mario Cart on N64. The next room had two kids from Dwiggins and a pair of black lights. Nobody was moving, and nobody was planning on moving.
At the end of the hall, Dave showed us into a den with a bunch of guys. Each of them was dressed in a well-pressed designer suit, and their hairdos were meticulously gelled. Everyone else at the party looked like they were two hits away from passing out, and these guys were ready to shoot the back cover of GQ. What the hell was going on?
“Where’s Greg?” I asked. “He was supposed to be here.”
“Lust gots held up with some business,” Dave said. “Don’t worry. He’ll be here in a few.”
Danny and I fell into a black leather couch in the corner and I studied the players. One of the guys was staring out the window, cleaning his nails with a mangled paper clip, and another was impatiently flipping the bezel of his teardrop cuff link, open-close, open-close. Eventually, two of the suits eyeballed Danny and me, and Dave gave them both a reassuring nod. I didn’t recognize any of the guys, and they didn’t seem to care about us. They were waiting for something else, and none of them looked patient.
A guy stood up from his armchair and ran his fingers along a seamless half-Windsor. “Gentlemen, in a moment.”
Dave was sitting on the arm of our couch. I leaned toward him. “Jeremy?” I whispered.
He shook his head. “That’s Kevin Joseph. Some philosophy freak who just dropped out of Princeton. He’s mad proper, but he’s good peoples.”
“Why’d he drop out?” Danny asked.
“Boy had trouble leaving the city.”
“So who are the rest of these guys?” I asked, wiping my palms on my jeans. I was ready to head for the door.
“They’re all crazy high up in one crew or another. That’s Zach Delsner of 3IC, that’s Andrew Blank. Boyz don’t look like hoods, huh? They kinda run shit without getting their hands dirty.”
“Since when did hoods start wearing suits?” Danny asked.
“Oh, well, this shit’s mad special,” Dave declared.
The Princetonite was wearing a dark blue Armani suit that I’d seen in the Times magazine, and he was smoking a More menthol. He wiped his nose conspicuously. “Welcome to the fourth annual meeting,” he said, picking up a remote control and pointing it at the VCR. A handheld image of a teenage girl standing outside a restaurant jumped onto the TV screen. She was wearing a dark cardigan, and she looked nervously back and forth along the avenue. Someone was filming her from the building across the street, and she obviously had no idea she was being taped. Kevin paused the video.
“I’d call the roll, but we all know each other.” He reached down to the coffee table, pushed away a rolled-up hundred-dollar bill, and grabbed another cigarette.
“Again, I’m glad all of you could make it,” Kevin began. He smiled and pointed at the television. “Gentlemen, we are all professionals in one of the rarest recreational sports out there. What we do isn’t pretty.”
Kevin gestured and enunciated like he was giving a carefully studied lecture to this small gathering. Two of his friends laughed and encouraged his building rhythm. I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. Part of me didn’t even want to know. When the hell was Greg going to get here?
“It isn’t pretty, and yet, it’s beautiful. I know you’ve all invested a lot of time in this project, and we all have a good deal of money riding on it. Needless to say,” Kevin said, pausing, “this is important.”
Kevin hit “play.” The girl was still standing on the sidewalk, looking completely lost. He pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and read: “Jill Browning. Sophomore, five-foot-six, one hundred and nine pounds. Grew up on East 86th, then moved to 92nd and Fifth. Father, Richard, works at NYU Medical and mother, Judith, is a CPA turned homemaker. Jill did K through eighth at Spaulding, then enrolled at Groves in the fall. Her interests are pottery, E. M. Forster novels, world hunger, and Romance languages. Boyfriend status: none.”
Danny looked over at Dave. “What is this?”
“Just enjoy it,” D
ave said, grinning. “Greg’ll be here in a couple.”
The video played on, and by now Jill was standing at a pay phone booth. I could tell by the frame on the shot that they were using a digital camera, and I could hear the lens banging against the windowsill.
“She’s speed-dialing, yo,” one of the guys shouted.
“She waited seven and a half minutes. Then she made two phone calls,” Kevin said. “The second call was to Teddy’s house.”
“Who answered?”
“We had Jason there to answer the phone.”
“Was she heated Teddy’s ass was late?” the guy on the far couch asked. “Bitch looks crazy upset.”
On the television, Jill walked back across the street to the restaurant. She had this anxious look on her face that made me feel even worse for her.
“She was nervous, but I wouldn’t say Jill was upset,” Kevin said. “Jason told her that Teddy’s mother was yelling at him and that he was running late. It was all done with a good deal of tact.”
An older-looking guy with slicked blond hair threw his arms in the air. “When we gonna start winning bills?”
I turned and saw Greg walk into the room. He was wearing a long black ski jacket and a Dodgers hat, and he laughed softly at the television. We made eye contact and Greg sat down between Danny and me.
“Wazzup, Thet?” Greg said. “Diggs to the rescue.” We had a long handshake, both of us waiting for the other one to let go. Greg probably dreamed about this. “You Mr. Clean?” he asked, looking over at Danny.
Danny reached to shake Greg’s hand. “She dragged me into the bathroom.”
“Ten and a half minutes,” the blond-haired guy shouted. “One of you herbs is out. Come on,” he cried, scanning his friends. “I know somebody’s out.”
A guy who hadn’t opened his mouth yet threw a roll of twenty-dollar bills onto the coffee table. It looked like about three or four hundred dollars, but the rubber band was wrapped so tightly I couldn’t really tell. “Shit was a long shot,” he muttered. “You fucked me, Kevin, with this Groves bittie. I wouldn’t have taken these odds on some boarding-school piece. Bitch’ll wait there all fucking night.”
Danny leaned toward me. “They’re betting on how long they can keep her on that corner. Right?”
Greg nodded. “We’ve got it down to this crazy science. Boyz bet using a yearbook photo and a bunch of other stats, but only the emcee knows her name in advance.”
“How do you bet?” I asked.
“Like The Price Is Right, ’cept with minutes.”
“Kevin doesn’t remind me of Bob Barker,” Danny said.
“Any other rules?” I asked.
“Nah. You can’t call her celly if she got one. Shit’s too easy that way. But she can call the guy.”
“And the winner gets the pool?” Danny asked.
“For starters.”
“What else?” Danny said, squinting at the television.
Greg smiled. “I wish I could tell you boyz, but it’s club rules.” I’d never even heard of anything like this before. The toughest prep-school hoods didn’t feel guilt—they felt like gods.
Jill shook her head angrily and walked to the curb. She stared anxiously down the street, like she was about to hail a cab. The room exploded with laughter.
“She’s out.”
“Not a chance,” Zach Delsner said under his breath.
“Bitch, get in the cab,” Andrew groaned.
“Not a chance in hell,” Zach repeated.
I needed to get out of there—I couldn’t watch this. “What’s the plan?” I said, trying to get Greg’s attention.
“We’re meeting them tomorrow at four. Everybody’s gonna be there who needs to be.”
“It’s all cool?” I asked.
“Trust me,” Greg said. “Four o’clock at Trinity Church on Morningside.”
“A church?” Danny asked.
“Yeah, who’s gonna throw down in a church?” Greg said, turning back to the television. “We’ll round up at three-thirty, outside Max’s Hot Dogs.”
Zach pointed at the television. “My womans,” he cried as Jill stepped off the curb and back underneath the awning. “That doe-eyed Betty will cook dinner streetside before walking out on Teddy.”
“Twelve and a half minutes,” the blond-haired guy shouted.
Andrew tossed his money onto the pile. He placed three small vials of coke on the coffee table and then searched for more. “Teddy’s crazy good-looking,” he exclaimed. “He needs to be a little busted. She’s probably been sweating him for years.”
Danny tapped Greg on the shoulder. “Why aren’t you playing?”
“I was barred from this round,” he said. “I recognized her from my Sunday school, and they consider that inside info. My boyz take it mad seriously.” Greg stood up and fixed his jacket. “I’m gonna go catch the end of the Clips game. Feel free to crash here. Everything’s gonna chill out once this shit’s over.”
“You’re not gonna stay to see the end?” I asked, disgusted.
“It’s crazy boring unless you got bills riding on it,” Greg said, winking at me.
I used to think I understood Greg. I mean, underneath it all. Two weeks before eighth-grade midterms, I caught him crying in the fire staircase over some physics test he’d goose-egged. He never admitted it to me, but Greg had a million different learning disabilities, and I knew he was terrified of reading aloud in class or being called to the blackboard. All the stret cred used to mean that nobody would talk shit to Greg, but that was gone. Tonight, he was running on rage. I think I actually missed my old friend.
The blond-haired guy jumped to his feet and gestured wildly at the television. Another girl was standing on the street corner talking to Jill. “Who the fuck is that?”
“Some friend of hers,” Kevin said. “It’s random.”
“That’s interference, yo,” Andrew shouted. “Shit’s a let.”
“Fuck you, let,” Zach said in a monotone. “It’s part of the playing field.”
“Who’s the bittie?”
Kevin shrugged. “I don’t know. I showed the tape to another guy from Groves, but he didn’t recognize her.”
“That bitch is a plant,” Andrew said, looking around the room anxiously. “This is mad fixed.”
“It’s grace.” Zach beamed. “That piece’s gonna buy me a new Rolex.”
“Fuck your plant,” Andrew said, sulking.
Zach laughed. “Hey, boyz, it’s hard being God’s favorite.”
The blond-haired guy sank back into the couch. “Bitches always be bumping into each other.”
I nudged Danny. “Let’s get out of here.”
Danny nodded and we both stood up.
The blond-haired guy tossed what had to be nearly a thousand dollars onto the coffee table. The wad of money made a solid thud when it landed, and everybody looked over at him. He shook his head. “I’m gonna cut that bittie.”
Downstairs, the Dignitary who’d been partying with the girls was now snoring underneath the coffee table and two cats were picking at the leftovers. The girls were gone. The girls are always gone.
I opened a blue wooden door off the living room, and Danny and I walked into the kitchen. The center table was completely covered. There was a half-eaten cheesecake, two empty cans of chili, piles of clementine rinds, a dozen little bottles of Pelle grino, and the remains of a roll of Pillsbury cookie dough. On the counter were three twenty bags of weed, a couple joints, and two pitchers of mixed drinks.
I pulled out a chair and sat down. I needed a break. It was exhausting dealing with Greg and the Diggs and whoever else was upstairs. Maybe I was just out of practice.
Danny walked over to the refrigerator, grabbed a Heineken, and tossed it to me. Opening the two cupboards above the refrigerator, he found a bottle of Stoli and tossed the cap into the sink. He threw the bottle back and punished it.
“Don’t you get tired of getting wasted?” I asked, looking down at the li
ght green label of my beer. “It’s not gonna fix anything.”
“What else feels better?” Danny stepped over to the counter and picked up two joints. “They leave the skunkweed out,” he said, flipping me one.
I tucked the joint behind my ear. “What about love?”
“Why?” Danny walked back over to the refrigerator. “So I can be like you?”
“Fuck you,” I muttered. I was risking my ass for him, and he knew it.
“I didn’t mean that personally. It’s just that I don’t buy it.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, but maybe he did.
“Hey, listen, I know I’m the bad guy in this movie.”
“Your life isn’t a movie,” I said, more to myself than to him. “You’re not that important.”
“I am to me, Nick.” He pulled out a container of fresh-squeezed orange juice and poured it into the bottle of Stoli. Danny placed his finger over the top of the bottle and gave it a couple good shakes.
I heard the kitchen door swing open, and I looked over my shoulder. Kris stood there with her long black hair tucked casually inside her collar. I felt like jumping up and running over to her, but I wasn’t going to let her make an ass out of me again.
“Stage direction.” Danny laughed. “Girl enters room.”
Kris walked over to Danny and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He sagged back into a chair.
“Kris, I’m so touched you came all the way out here for me,” he said, still grinning.
“What the hell is going on?”
“You want the short, medium, or long version?” Danny asked.
“The first two,” Kris said, looking over at me. I couldn’t tell if she was angry with me or angry with this whole damn mess. I hoped she realized what I was doing for her brother.
“There are about thirty kids with trust funds and coke habits trying to pound me for hooking up with this girl.”
“And the medium?”
“That was the medium.”
“And why the hell are we in Riverdale?”
Danny pointed at me. “Ask your friend, the gangsta.”
“What’s he talking about?” Kris asked.