Risen

by Lauren Barnholdt

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “Actually, WE’RE going to do it. Unless you want to start in on being a boy scout, in which case you can just forget this conversation and I’ll see you around.”

  “You want me to be in on it?”

  “Jesus.” Jay takes a moment to compose himself. “I don’t care, Richardson. It’s up to you. Besides, you’re kind of bringing me down. I want people to be excited or it’s not worth it.”

  “I guess I just don’t understand. What would I do?”

  Jay smiles. “You get to do the fun part.”

  My stomach drops. Whatever this little scheme is, it can’t be good for me to have anything to do with it. And yet, something in me still wants to keep going further.

  Something inside of me that I never knew existed before. It makes me nervous to realize I can’t seem to say no to Jay Stevens.

  ***

  On Friday night, I show up to the football game alone.

  It’s a pretty cold night and I’m wearing my North Face jacket and a skullcap.

  Checking myself out in the mirror before leaving my house, I thought I looked kind of like a badass. Or at least slightly less “MIT techie nerd” than usual.

  I told mom I was going to the game and she approved, since in her mind only good things happen at school football games. I’ve been staying home on Friday and Saturday night for years, and mom never tires of asking me why I’m not out with my friends. Of course she knows I don’t have any real friends, just school acquaintances.

  But it got to where I occasionally would lie and tell her I had plans to meet someone at the movies and then I’d just go sit in the theater alone or grab some food at Burger King by myself.

  I feel a momentary pang of guilt knowing that I’ve once again lied to my mom and that she thinks I’m just doing the whole school spirit thing. But at least this time I’ve actually got a social activity going on.

  So it’s not a complete lie.

  And then I’m entering the field and the echoes of the announcements and the cheers of the hundreds of fans overwhelm whatever thoughts I was having.

  This feels real, I think. I’m here for a reason.

  At first, I stand beside the field on the opposing team’s side, trying to remain anonymous. On the bleachers across the way I can see so many people from our school cheering and talking and running around.

  Jay told me that the kids I need to see will be on the lookout for me, and they’ll be especially nervous because Nate Diaz has actually shown up to the game with some of his dirt bag friends. And as it turns out, I almost immediately spot Nate and three other guys stalking the grounds over by the concessions stands.

  But they’re really only here to act tough and scare people, not to actually do anything. Jay assured me of it when he explained everything to me earlier.

  After taking a few minutes to psych myself up, I walk across to the home bleachers. I act casual, sit down on one of the topmost rows, close enough to everyone that people can see I’m here, but far enough away that I’m out of earshot of most of the crowd.

  I pretend to watch the game, which is closely contested despite the fact that Hudson is known to suck balls. Maybe the rivalry is too strong and Hudson doesn’t want to throw in the towel this early.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone pointing in my direction and then a small contingent of boys clomps up the metal bleachers and over to where I’m sitting.

  They’re sophomores. I think they all play on the JV basketball squad.

  The clear leader of the group is Robbie Wilson, sporting a shaved head and large fake diamond in one ear. “Jay told us to come see you with the chedda,” he says in his fake thug accent. He’s one of those kids who listens to 50 Cent and DMX and acts like he lives in the projects instead of a fancy gated community in Meadows Circle.

  I keep looking out at the game. “You’re seeing me.” I pretend to be one of those fat mafia bosses from the movies. They always act casual in these situations. Can’t let any of these guys know that I’m nervous as hell. Let them be nervous.

  “Is it cool if we sit down?”

  I shrug. Shrugging seems right.

  The little group of basketball players exchange looks and then slowly they all take seats around me.

  Robbie is sitting on my right. He turns to me. “Nate Diaz is going to give someone a beat down tonight, or this coming week. But Jay said if I pay you—“

  “Shut up.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I give him my best impression of an ice grille. A stone-cold stare, which surprisingly has the opposite effect of making me want to laugh. Suddenly I’m trying not to giggle.

  Mafia dons don’t giggle, I tell myself. Not even a little. I shake my head and grin as if exasperated by his conversation. “Don’t talk business to me. I’m just here to say hi.”

  He seems to get it. “My bad son.”

  “Just…take whatever you’ve got and wrap it in something. Paper, a t-shirt, whatever. Then leave it on the bleachers and go.”

  Robbie sits there for a moment. “But don’t you want to know how much—“ he says, confusion making his voice subtly switch back to that of a normal suburban kid.

  I shake my head and fold my arms. Stare straight ahead. I know enough to realize that if someone rats me out, I won’t be caught on some cell phone recording, discussing this deal.

  Robbie and his friends consult for a few minutes and someone gives him a Panthers banner to wrap the cash. He leaves the folded banner about a foot from me and then they all stand up as one.

  “Okay, so, tell Jay we’re all good, right?” Robbie says.

  “Right as rain.” I reach up and we shake hands briefly.

  They all clomp back down the steps.

  I let out a deep sigh. My first transaction has gone smoothly. Jay will be proud.

  As I’m grabbing the banner with the cash inside and trying to look less conspicuous than I feel, someone else comes up the bleacher steps to my left.

  “Dickie, what are you doing here?”

  I look up and see Candice. She’s wearing tight jeans and a puffy white coat. Her hair is pulled back and her pale skin is even paler against her dark red lipstick and dark blue, glittering eye shadow.

  She’s got high cheekbones like one of those fashion models. Maybe she could even be in Vogue or Maxim if she wanted to, but she’s also got a sly smile that makes you think she might be a lot smarter than she lets on.

  I think she looks older than everyone else, and I don’t know if it’s because of the makeup or her clothes or maybe just something about the way she carries herself.

  But I do know that she’s come up here at the worst possible moment. Her eyes spot the mass of white cloth that I’m holding, and she comes closer. “Whatchya got there, Richie?”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  She sits down on my left, next to me in fact. Her elbow and shoulder are pressed against me. I can smell her sweet perfume. “What’s wrong with having a nickname?”

  She smiles at me and tilts her head.

  “I know what you’re doing.”

  “What am I doing?”

  “You’re messing with me.”

  I put the bundle of cash down on the other side of me, so she can’t see it.

  “What is that thing?” she says again.

  “Nothing. It’s some stupid banner.”

  “You’re going to lead us all in a cheer like The Mick?” She laughs. “The Mick”

  is Mick Nicholson, the town drunk, and he usually gets up in front of the stands a few times each game and leads a serious of ridiculous chants. “I think you’d make a great mascot, Dick. I mean, Richard.” She pats my shoulder like a teacher reassuring an insecure student.

  “Why are you busting my balls? You don’t even know me.”

  Just then the crowd erupts as Jay scrambles for a touchdown.

  Candice isn’t even watching t
he game.

  “Show me that banner. Did you make it yourself or did mommy help?”

  She reaches across my lap and grabs for it.

  “Hey.”

  As her small hands lunge across my waist, I hold out my arm and try to keep her away. I press against her. Hard. I’m suddenly aware that she’s pushing her chest against me as she unfolds the banner.

  “Knock it off.”

  “I just want to see it, what’s the big deal?”

  But if she keeps at it, the cash is going to fall out. I give an extra hard shove and she falls back a little. Her smile fades. “Asshole.” She stalks off before I can apologize.

  I grit my teeth. Some of the other kids are watching me and I try to pretend everything’s fine. The banner is safely wedged under my right leg again.

  I pick it up and shove it inside my coat, then head down the bleachers and to the football field exit.

  Back inside my car, I crank the heat and turn the radio on. Looking out the front windshield, I see that nobody’s around, take the banner from inside my jacket and unwrap it.

  My breath catches in my chest as I stare at the money. Suddenly what I’ve done feels much more real than it did a few minutes back when I was pretending to be a fat cat mob boss.

  There’s a whole wad of cash folded up with a rubber band around it. The bills are wrinkled and folded haphazardly. It looks like a collection was taken up from a group, like it’s for St. Jude’s or cleft palate kids. .

  Wouldn’t it feel better to take this and give it to someone who really needs it? I think. Donate it to hurricane relief or some poor kid’s college fund. Anything.

  A black feeling comes over me. After one or two scotches at dinner, my dad will sometimes go off on a tangent about “today’s generation” and how they have no conscience and no sense of honor.

  I used to get angry when he’d talk like that because even though he pretended he wasn’t talking about me, it always felt like really he was. Like deep down, my dad suspected I wasn’t one of the good kids. Not that he ever came out and said it.

  Maybe I am just another entitled, self-centered kid who thinks the world owes him. Another punk without honor.

  But then…

  I start counting the money. There are a lot of small denominations; one dollar bills, fives, a few tens, one twenty.

  Death Cab for Cutie is playing on my car stereo as I quickly sort.

  Jay didn’t tell me how much these guys were going to give me. He said that he’d left the amount open-ended, but he’d made it clear that the more cash they delivered, the harder he’d work to convince Nate not to kick their asses.

  And based on all the money they’ve given me, it seems these kids must really want Jay to do a good acting job.

  By the time I’m done, I’ve counted nearly two hundred dollars.

  “Holy crap,” I say aloud in the empty car.

  The pile of dough sits in my open hands as I stare ahead.

  I refold the bills again and place the rubber band around the stack, rewrap it in the banner and place the “package” on the front passenger seat.

  Extortion.

  That’s what this is. Making kids give you money so that you don’t beat them up.

  It’s bad news, a crime. Which would make me a criminal.

  My breath starts coming in gasps and I realize I’ve started having some kind of panic attack. The fog from my exhalations spreading across the windshield.

  I can’t seem to get enough air in my lungs.

  This isn’t a crime, I tell myself.

  It’s not a crime because Jay IS protecting people from Nate.

  It can’t be extortion if you’re really doing something and asking for money for it, I reason. Then it’s more like…a service. Like a mechanic or a cab driver or a body guard.

  Jay’s not the one threatening people—it’s Nate.

  My breathing slows down again and I relax. Crisis averted.

  Nothing to see here folks, move along.

  Half an hour later, the bleachers clear out and I watch and wait for Jay and company to emerge from the locker rooms after the game. It feels like they’re in there forever. The Hudson Hawks come out first and head to their bus, looking quite defeated.

  Have they even won a game yet this year? I wonder.

  Finally, our squad emerges from the tunnel and I see Jay and the others. I get out of the car and make my way over to them.

  Nobody even acknowledges me when I meet up with them. They might be tired, or maybe unhappy they didn’t play as well as they should have against a bad team.

  These three guys and Jay are almost always together, but especially during the football season. If I’m getting to hang out with them it’s only because Jay says that’s the way it is, but none of them really like me or accept me. They’ll just deal with me because Jay says so.

  Alec and Leo are talking about the left guard from Hudson who supposedly talked smack and then Leo threw a low block and they had to carry the kid off the field with some kind of sprain.

  “Good game,” I say, just to break the ice.

  Nick glares at me like I puked on his shoes.

  But then Jay sees me and grins. “Richardson. You almost look thuggish with that hat. Nice touch.”

  “More like an AIDS patient,” Nick says. “Skinny motherfucker.”

  The others laugh.

  Jay ignores them, walks me to the side. “So…did you…get that thing we were talking about?”

  I nod.

  “Where is it?”

  “In my car.”

  We walk to my car and one of the guys yells out, “Careful, don’t get stuck with one of Richardson’s needles man!”

  As I open the car door my face is burning.

  “Don’t listen to those idiots. They’re just pissed because coach reamed us out after the game,” Jay says.

  I get in the driver seat and grab the “package” as Jay opens the passenger door and gets in next to me. I hand it over to him.

  “Why did he yell at you?” I ask.

  “Didn’t you watch any of the game?”

  I shrug. “Not really.”

  Jay laughs and slaps his knee. “Classic Richardson. You really don’t give a shit, do you?”

  “I do. It’s just--”

  “Hey, I barely watched that game and I was playing in it.” Jay unfolds the banner and sees the money. “How much?”

  “About two hundred.”

  His smile grows wider. “Damn. It really worked.”

  “But you ARE protecting them from Nate, right? Like, you won’t just let Nate fuck up one of those kids who paid you. You’ll make sure he keeps to the plan.”

  “Right. Yeah, yeah, of course,” he says, but barely seems to be listening.

  “Otherwise you’re not really charging for a service. You’re just robbing people.”

  Jay glances at me. “I said I’m protecting them, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah.” I smile, trying to play it off. “You should have seen them come up to me at the bleachers. I gave them the old ice grille.” I make my face cold and hard.

  Jay nods, and it seems he’s not very impressed. “Thug life, yo,” he says with obvious sarcasm, mocking my phony expression. For a second I feel like one of those kids I always laugh at who try to act like they come from the projects instead of rich neighborhoods and families of doctors and lawyers and accountants.

  I chuckle, as if the joke is between us rather than at my expense, growing more nervous by the second.

  “They probably would have paid me twice as much if I’d asked.”

  But he’s barely listening to me, he’s recounting the money. When he’s finished, Jay pulls fifty bucks from the roll of bills and hands it to me.

  “What’s that for?”

  “You get your taste, too. I’m looking out for you, like always.”

  “I don’t need it.”

  “Richardson. Take the money, bro. I want you to know that I appreciate what you di
d. You’re a good fella.”

  I laugh. “Fine.” I have to admit it feels nice pocketing the cash. Like I’m in a movie or something. The image of The Boston Herald and its headline about kids stealing money from victims doesn’t feel real or even possible anymore. Just a momentary freak-out courtesy of my overactive imagination.

  The car gets silent. Outside, the others are waiting.

  Jay’s expression becomes serious. He’s looking at me, studying me.

  “I want you to come to my house tomorrow night,” he says, finally.

  “Okay. What’s going on?”

  “It’s a secret.”

  “A secret. Okay…”

  “You’re gonna need to bring both your balls for this one.”

  “Can I at least get a hint?”

  He shakes his head and opens the passenger door to get out. “Trust me, okay?

  You come, and be prepared for anything. Or don’t come at all.”

  He waits for me to say something, but I don’t know what to say. The idea of showing up at his house for a secret meeting puts me on edge.

  “So? Are you in?” he says.

  I cough. Maybe I should just tell him I have plans, make something up. But then he’s asking me again, and I know he won’t really take no for an answer.

  “Of course I’ll be there. “

  ***

  When I arrive at Jay’s house the next night, it’s entirely dark. Not a single light is on.

  I park my car on the street and then walk up the driveway. Jay’s car isn’t even here.

  I have to admit, even though it stings to be blown off, I’m mostly relieved.

  And then there’s movement near the garage and I jump back, startled.

  “Shit!”

  A laugh comes from the shadows. “Sorry.”

  I can’t really make out who it is yet, but from the height of the person coming out of the shadows, I think it’s Cody Landis, his short blond hair spiky, skin pale.

  “Where is everyone?”

  “Jay went to pick them up, he told me to wait here for you.”

  I’m glad it’s Cody, because Cody is the nicest of Jay’s inner circle of friends.

  He’s not even on the football team and so he’s only a few rungs up from me on the social ladder. But all the girls like him, they say he looks like Robert Pattinson from Twilight and maybe that’s why the guys hang out with him, since the cute girls are never too far behind.