He wouldn’t.
I can’t believe he fell for this shit. I looked at the door and was all Mom, what are you doing back so early? He was like wha—? and turned to look at the door, which of course was still closed. When he did that I pushed his gut with both hands and my book and his arms started spinning. He fell back against the lamp and was all whoomph when he hit. I got out of there and around back to my bike. Of course it was locked and at first I thought I left the key inside and I’d have to go back in to get it but I had it in my pocket. It took a few seconds to undo it because my hands were shaking. He came to the front door just as I was leaving, yelling come back, you little shlut.
I had to stop I was shaking so bad. I still am. I’m behind the L’il Bee.
I didn’t even think of Don and the bike.
* * *
At school today everyone kinda stopped talking when they saw me, then they’d start up again when I went by. I could feel their eyes.
I thought it was about work. Somehow someone found out about me showing my tits to Gary.
I looked around for Mary. But I saw Dalton first.
He said are you okay?
I was like what are you talking about?
He said you don’t know?
I was like know what?
He said it’s about your brother.
I was like my brother? And he said yeah. The football team got drug tested.
I said why? and he said random. Their number came up. I was like oh, no and he said yeah, your brother and four other players failed. I asked what was gonna happen. He said he didn’t know. Maybe Ross would be suspended. He probably won’t be in the playoffs.
Dalton said I have to go to class. He asked if he’d see me at work and I said yeah even though I couldn’t remember my schedule.
I went to history and could hear everyone’s conversations about the team like I wasn’t even there.
The recruiters will hear about this. It’ll be in the papers and on the Internet. Then they won’t touch him.
Don is gonna be PISSED.
At lunch I went to the football table and asked if any of them had seen my brother. I said his name and they all looked at me like they didn’t hear me. Then one guy said he left when he heard.
I couldn’t do school. Not with everyone looking at me like that. And Don was gonna be wasted on the couch. So I got my bike off the rack and went over to the L’il Bee and went up the path as far as I could. I didn’t even make it to the hearse.
I locked the back tire to the frame and stashed it behind some trees. Then I walked the rest of the way. No one was at the quarry. I half-expected to see Steve, or Earl.
Then I smelled weed.
I followed the path like I was going out to the Pines. The smell was coming from somewhere to the left. All the little branches and trees were bent.
I tried to get in and someone yelled who’s there? I was like it’s your sister, dumb-ass. I walked all the way in and there he was, sitting on the ground crossed-legged, smoking a big one.
He said what are you doing here? as he put it out on his palm.
I said everyone at school was looking at me.
He said you’re telling me.
I was like when did you take the test?
He said months ago. They gave us a day’s notice. I drank as much water as I could the day before and took some pills to help flush my system. But it didn’t work. I thought maybe it did because they never said anything. Guess not.
I was like whoa.
He said yeah. Then he said all the recruiters are gonna hear about this. I probably won’t get into Nebraska. Or anywhere else.
I was like someone will take you. He said I don’t know. I never heard of schools taking guys who’ve failed a weed test.
I said I wasn’t sure you wanted to go.
He said I guess I thought I didn’t want to, but now that maybe I can’t I want to. Does that make sense?
I said yeah.
He said even though I wasn’t sure if I liked football, now that I might not be able to go I know I like Armbrister even less.
I was like no shit.
He said hopefully some school will take me so I can get out of here. No matter how shitty it is. Even if it’s like the Tech in Concord or something, I won’t have to be in this stupid town anymore. Everyone always looking at me like they know me.
I said Concord’s okay. Manchester.
He was like Manch Vegas? No way.
I said it must be nice to have a choice.
He was like you always do. But I might have fucked mine up.
Then he was like what’s yours?
What?
Your choice.
I said I don’t know.
Then I told him I wanna save money and move.
He took out a lighter and asked if I wanted to hit it. I said sure. He relit the joint and passed it to me. I took a big haul. Look, I said, I’m gonna go.
He said don’t tell Mom you saw me. Or Don.
I told him I wouldn’t.
* * *
I biked around for a while. Then I went home.
There was some guy by the front door. He was skinny and bald, with big glasses. I could beat him up one-handed. He was a reporter, asked me if I had any comment on the suspension of Ross Dove for the rest of the football season. I said no and went around the back.
No Mom. I guess she’s at work. And no Don. Thank God. I thought he’d have his fat ass on the couch. But where else was I supposed to go?
I wish I could see Mary.
I guess I’m still a little high. There’s still that guy outside. Maybe he’s waiting for Ross. Or Mom. Or Don. Anyone.
27.
WELCOME BACK TO LOVE BALLOON, ZACK Fox says.
The cameras cut to the contestants—nine, now—standing on risers on the dark soundstage. Behind them Jenna’s face is on the big screen.
“What’s my favorite type of cake?”
“Chocolate,” the contestants say in unison. They grin at each other.
“That’s right,” she says. “I’ve been having a stressful day at work. I’d like to celebrate the weekend by having some chocolate cake. And you’re going to make one for me. You will be given fifty dollars. You’ll go to the store and buy all the supplies you’ll need. I will judge the two best cakes. I bet you’re wondering how I’ll know which two cakes are the best.”
Everyone nods.
“One of my friends is going to help me out.”
Zack Fox smiles. He says, “I’d like to introduce you to celebrity chef Pierre Lefevre!”
Cut to a contestant: “Pierre Lefevre! He’s only one of the most famous chefs in the world. He’s got restaurants in Paris, Vegas, and New York. And his TV shows are great, too.”
Another contestant: “I watch CookRight with Pierre. Like, all the time.”
And another: “ChefWars is my favorite show. I can’t believe he’s here.”
“ ’Allo!” he says to the contestants. His catchphrase.
They shout back, “ ‘ALLO!”
“Today you are going to make a cake for Jenna. I will taste the cakes and decide the winner. The best cake will win three hundred points. And for both finalists, a prize.
On screen, Jenna’s face is replaced by a cooking set.
“Pierre Lefevre cookware for you,” he says. “The best in the world.”
“Now, are you ready?”
“YEAH!”
“To the store.”
They pile into SUVs and are driven to FreshMart.
One contestant, a striker, says to the camera, “Cook? I never cooked before. That’s why I need to win this thing. So I can get Jenna to cook me whatever I want.”
A normal guy says, “My mom and I used to cook all the time. She showed me some tricks.”
Another normal guy says, “She said chocolate was her favorite, and I looked it up just in case. I wanted to know how to make good chocolate desserts. And now we have to make one!”
The contestants run around the store. Most congregate in the cake aisle, where they look at boxes of mix. One normal contestant heads straight for the candy aisle.
“Fifty dollars is a lot of money for a cake,” he says. “I’d better make it good.”
He selects several expensive-looking triangular chocolate bars, then heads for the dairy aisle. Some contestants are already there looking at eggs. He finds heavy cream.
Several aisles away, a striker stands looking at a tub of frosting.
Pierre Lefevre waits by the cash registers. He yells, “FIVE MINUTES!”
Most everyone gets change back when they pay for their groceries.
The SUVs drive the contestants to a new location.
The group is brought inside a huge, plain building, each carrying a bag into an expanse of glistening steel ranges and ovens. Each of nine stations is stocked with cookware: bowls, cake pans, whisks, and spoons.
“You have one hour to make your cake,” Pierre Lefevre says. “Begin!”
Some contestants lay their cookware out first, some read cake mix boxes, others immediately dump ingredients into bowls.
“An hour’s a long time,” one contestant says. “I’ll take my time and make sure I do the best job I can.”
“I’ve made cake before,” another says. “It’s hard to get frosting to look good on a hot cake.”
Cut to Pierre Lefevre: “I enjoy watching groups of people cook in my kitchen. Some of them have cooking experience, others do not. It always interests me to see the different approaches people take. But I do not watch too hard because I know I will have to eat from all their cakes. It is hard not to correct them when they make mistakes.”
Mix prepared, one contestant pours batter into a rectangular pan. The next adds brown sugar. Another forgets to grease the sides of a round pan. Yet another adds an entire small bottle of vanilla extract. Still another puts a cake into the oven, then turns it on.
The first contestant to get his cake into the oven—who said his mom taught him tricks—removes his cake. He flips the pan upside down and taps gently on the underside. His cake falls onto a serving plate.
“When I saw the cake,” he says, “I wasn’t that worried. It looked fine. Not perfect, but fine. Plenty of time.”
“Ten minutes,” Pierre Lefevre says, pacing the kitchen. “Make them look pretty.”
“I never made a cake before,” one contestant says. “How was I supposed to know you have to grease the pan?”
The contestants are either frosting their cakes or staring into ovens. The first contestant heats a pan of cream on the stove. He pours the hot cream into his bowl of chocolate triangles.
“It looks really bad at first,” he says. “It always does. I remember my mom saying that you’ll think you made a big mistake. But whisk it, then taste it. You’ll be surprised.”
He sticks a finger into the mix, then takes a taste and smiles, nodding.
The camera cuts to a digital clock counting down to zero. “FIVE SECONDS,” Pierre Lefevre shouts. “THREE.”
The contestants put the finishing touches on their cakes.
“Time is up,” he says.
The kitchen is instantly clean of all cooking supplies as Pierre stands next to Zack Fox, looking at the line of contestants. On the counter in front of each is either a cake or a pile of scraps.
One says on camera: “I never baked a cake before. Or frosted one.”
Another, a striker: “I made layers. I divided the mix into three small pans and joined them with frosting.”
Pierre says, “Let’s see what we have here, eh?”
“This one,” Pierre says after expertly cutting a slice, “is very good, but your frosting is horrible.”
“This one is tasteless,” Pierre says of another. “Overdone.”
Then: “This one is very nice. A little plain in presentation, but nice.”
“A little plain,” the contestant says, “but nice. Just like me!”
Pierre eats from every cake. The contestant who made layers is singled out—not the most elegant, the chef says, but ambitious—as is the contestant who made his own chocolate sauce.
The plain cake and the chocolate sauce cake are the final two.
The contestant who made the layers says, “Today wasn’t my day. I thought the design would be enough. I should have spent more time putting the frosting on. Or let the cake cool a little. I bet that would have helped.”
“These two are the best,” Pierre Lefevre says. “Congratulations. Both of you win a set of my cookware, plus my new cookbook, Pierre’s Way Every Day.”
The contestants smile and nod.
“If I win Love Balloon,” one contestant says, “I can cook for Jenna with my new pots and pans.”
“I bet you’re wondering how I will determine which cake is the victor today,” he says.
They both nod.
“The answer is I will not. Jenna will do that for me.”
She walks in and stands next to Pierre. The contestants have only ever seen her on-screen.
One contestant, a striker says, “Dude, she’s hot. I knew she was a looker because of the TV and all, but man!”
Another: “Whoa!”
Another: “She isn’t as tall as I thought.”
“Hello, everyone,” she says.
Cut to a contestant: “Her voice sounds nicer in person.”
“I’m going to sample these two cakes. The best one wins three hundred points. Plus, I’ll take the rest home and finish it later.”
Everyone laughs.
Cut to a striker: “She can take me home and finish me later.”
“Let me try this one first,” she says, cutting into the plain cake.
“Wow! This is really good. I didn’t think it was going to be anything special—is that a horrible thing to say? It looks so normal. But it’s great.”
Cut to the contestant who made the cake: “Yeah. Just like me!”
She tries the second cake. “Oh, wow,” she says. This cake is good, but the frosting, especially. This isn’t store-bought. Someone made this. And it’s really good!”
A shot of the second contestant. “Thanks, Mom,” he says, “for teaching me how to make chocolate sauce.”
“Wow. This is a hard decision.”
“Take your time,” Zack Fox says.
“It is hard,” Pierre Lefevre says. “Both cakes are very good.”
“They are,” she says. “But you know, after thinking about it, I know which one is the best. It’s going to be . . .”
Cut to commercial.
When the show starts again:
“But you know, after thinking about it, I know which one is the best. It’s going to be . . . this one.”
She points to the plain cake.
“Even though it’s not very exciting, and the other one has frosting, I like this one better.”
The contestant whoops for joy.
“Excellent choice,” Pierre Lefevre says.
Zack Fox, smiling, awards three hundred points.
* * *
Zachariah read back what he wrote.
This is dumb, he thought. It wouldn’t happen like this.
For one thing, the plain cake wouldn’t even get to the final round. Maybe it tastes good, but the guy who made layers would get further along. Presentation.
Even if he was a striker.
And another thing: she wouldn’t pick a cake that tasted worse than the one made with real chocolate. Zachariah couldn’t wait for the day when he could afford to make chocolate sauce himself. Whenever it was a birthday—his or his dad’s—frosting was always premade, from the store. He couldn’t get his dad to buy chocolate bars and cream. Especially now. His dad had been so mad at him, first about the barbecue sauce, then about the cost of his broken arm.
He couldn’t keep writing the game show, trying to let losers like himself win. It was broken and he knew it.
He had to do something. He couldn’t just wish, or pretend he had
powers. Not any more. Not since Dixon Dove.
Instead of writing his game show, he had to work on his plan. Getting everything together. He knew how to impress her.
28.
SHIVERING IN THE APARTMENT. LIBRARY CLOSED. Too early for pool.
Needed money. Bad. Didn’t think the check would come from Ahmed. Worked four days. Training wages. Minimum. But they’d keep it. At least. Might take more. Sue. Hoped not. No way to pay.
Everything going so good. Stupid. Thinking he and Mark were friends. And Artie. Going to see the Sox together. Playing pool. Bars. Hanging out. Now he could never call. Not after Ahmed. Yelled. Maybe cost Mark his promotion. How could you let a trainee do this? A man on the fourth day of the job putting a car on a lift unattended.
Hummer pulled in. Mark said hey, man, check it out. Ever drive one of these over there? Meant Humvee. Knew what he was talking about. Said no, he never drove a Hummer.
When they went out to find one they were going to ride Jeeps. But didn’t want anyone to see. Took a transport instead. Peck. We’ll throw him in the back. If anyone asks, we’ll say we’re moving supplies. But no one did. Went out. Got one. A prisoner. Brought him back.
Mark said hey, man. You want to?
What?
Drive it.
It was awesome. Black. Looked brand new. They got discontinued. Heard that. Couldn’t remember where. Maybe the radio. Or someone told him. Wasn’t sure how it looked so new. Someone famous? Probably not. From Boston probably. Mass plates.
Whose is it?
No idea. Never saw it here before.
No man. You take it.
I’ve driven one. You should.
So he did.
It was okay.
Around the building. Could’ve gone straight into a bay. Didn’t think anyone would mind. Wouldn’t show on the odometer.
Swing State Page 15