Then a couple days after my mom’s almost-bender, I was in English, the class I hated most, with Mueller, the teacher I hated most. She was straight Nazi, but wrapped in sugar, all blond hair and designer dresses. She was one of those teachers who can hear the smallest whisper and see through notes.
Mueller had just passed out copies of some play called The Robbers. It was written like two hundred years ago, so I knew it was bad. She was looking around the class, everybody trying not to meet her eyes so she wouldn’t pick them.
She landed on me. “Gabe? You may take the role of Franz.”
“No, thanks,” I said.
A bunch of people laughed.
Mueller said, “Excuse me?”
I stared past her at the shiny Smart Board, where her writing was in perfect rows. “No, thanks.”
Ms. Mueller rested her hand on her desk. “Would you care to explain yourself?”
I shook my head. Last time I read out loud was in fifth grade, and Mackenzie Carter started laughing and said I was stupid, so I had to kick her brother’s ass. Most teachers, you tell them no a few times, they get the message and stop asking.
“And if I told you that you’ll lose all your participation points for the day?”
I shrugged. People weren’t giggling anymore; there was just this heavy, tense quiet. Forrest, in the seat next to me, gave me a weird look. My face was on fire. At my old school, this would have been no big deal, but here it was like, Call the cops, a guy won’t read out loud.
“Gabriel, I’ll give you one more chance to explain your failure to cooperate.” Ms. Mueller’s voice was very cold and she had a glint in her eyes. I realized she liked doing this.
Forrest suddenly cut in, kind of loud and obnoxious. “Schiller was more of a political revolutionary than an artist. Why do we even have to read him?”
Ms. Mueller’s eyes jumped to him. “I’ll answer that in a minute.” She looked back at me.
“My dad says the teachers at this school are trying to politically indoctrinate us,” Forrest said.
Ms. Mueller made a disgusted sound. “That’s ridiculous.”
He leaned forward in his seat. “Look, what was Schiller’s agenda? His real political agenda? And what’s so great about The Robbers, anyway? I mean, we don’t have that much time in class. We could be reading Milton or Chaucer. Or if you really want Sturm und Drang, why aren’t we reading Goethe?”
“You’re wrong, Forrest!” snapped Ms. Mueller. “Schiller was nearly as influential as Goethe, and in my opinion, the better artist. And I don’t know where you’re getting your ideas about his politics. Read his biography. His work is a reaction against a personal experience in Karl Eugen’s academy.”
Forrest let air through his nose, as good as saying bullshit. “It was a lot more than that. I don’t think we should be reading this. But I’ll be Franz if you want.”
Ms. Mueller looked from Forrest to me and back again. Forrest’s dad had two buildings named after him—the new gym and the theater complex. But she couldn’t let me off the hook completely. “Zero participation points today, Gabe. Forrest, you may be Franz. Eric, you may play Karl. The narrator I’ve divided into eight parts …”
I gave Forrest a look to let him know I appreciated it.
He grinned. He liked to mess with teachers. He knew more than most of them did, anyway. He didn’t have to jump in like that, using his dad, though. I owed him.
After school that day, Matt asked me and Forrest and Kyle if we wanted to come over and watch the Broncos-Chargers game. Kyle was a Denver fan, and Matt was from San Diego, so it would be a nice tight match with some good yelling and trash talk.
We headed there straight from school. Matt had an awesome media room with a sick flat screen and recliners for everybody, although we all sat on the floor to be closer to the TV. His dad was obviously a sports freak, because there were signed jerseys on the wall and a glass case full of scorecards and a beat-up football signed by Walter Payton.
Matt’s mom, this tiny Japanese lady, brought us a ton of food: sandwiches and cookies and bowls of rice crackers. The Broncos were destroying the Chargers, and it was funny to watch Matt, because whenever the Chargers took a hit, he had a personality change. His mouth did this thing, showing his teeth like he was going to bite someone, and he cussed and slapped the floor.
Of course we egged him on.
“Sorry about your team,” Kyle said. “They’re getting taken behind the woodshed.”
Whump. Matt hit the floor. We all shook with laughter.
“Yeah, man,” Kyle went on. “Look how their running back just coughed up the ball. Weak.”
Whump.
Then Kyle showed his teeth and mumbled cusses and smacked the floor just like Matt, and we started cracking up. A commercial came on, which was probably a good thing, because Matt looked like he might kill someone. Kyle turned to me. “Did you already get the stuff for this weekend?” He was talking about when his parents went to Sonoma.
I shook my head. “I’m supposed to meet my guy on Wednesday.”
“I got these Overlake friends. They want to know if you can hook them up, too.”
Forrest glanced at him. “You talking about Jesse?”
“Yeah,” said Kyle, “he’s having a party at his lake house, and they want as much e as they can get.”
Without a word, Matt got up and left the room.
We watched him disappear, and then Forrest said in a lower voice, “You know Olivia Gemelli? She was rolling at Morton’s party, and she asked if she could get some more for her and those theater girls.”
“I don’t know.” I glanced at the open door to the stairs. “I don’t know any of those people.” The thing with dope is, when you start dealing with strangers, it’s only a matter of time before you get caught.
“They’re cool,” said Kyle. “I’ve known Jesse since we were four. If you want, I’ll handle it.”
“How much is he looking for?” I asked after a pause.
“He said as much as possible.”
I thought about that. Tim would be happy. He’d texted me a couple times in the past week, wanting to know if I needed more. “What about Olivia?” I asked Forrest. “How much does she need?”
“She didn’t say. You want me to ask her?”
I had a class with Olivia. She was cute and funny. “Yeah, that’s cool. But don’t say my name, okay?” I was doing math in my head. If this Jesse was for real, I could probably make a few grand, easy.
“That stuff was good. I’ve had a bunch of people ask about it.” Kyle started ticking off a list of names. “Pete, that lacrosse dude, Kelly Brian and his friends, Theresa Gaines, and that one skinny chick with the pink hair, what’s her name? She has art with you.”
“Huh,” I said. “Let me talk to my friend, and I’ll see.”
A car commercial came on, showing a sweet Lexus. I couldn’t afford a Lex unless I sold dope for like a year, but it did give me some ideas. I could get a decent used car for a lot less than a Lex. And it was time to lose the junk heap. It was getting embarrassing.
“I’m sure I can hook it up,” I said more firmly.
“Cool,” said Kyle. “I’ll let Jesse know.”
Then Matt was back with a six-pack of sodas under his arm, and the game came on again. Broncos were running the show.
My phone buzzed, and I checked the text. Irina.
?
We already had a text code. A question mark meant What are you doing?
I texted: Watching fbl
She came back: What teams?
Chargers v Broncos, I typed. I had a feeling I knew what was coming next.
Bet you lunch Chargers win.
I laughed out loud. Ever since I told her a contest was a bet, she’d been making bets about random things. She was a born competitor, and I had a plan for upping the stakes.
Kyle glanced at my phone. “Irina?”
I nodded and texted her: You’re on.
Don’t
try to cheat. I’m checking the score.
“You’re into that girl,” said Kyle, watching me.
“She’s good people.”
Forrest looked at me then. “And she’s a fine-ass meeeeeeep.”
I smiled. “Well, yeah.”
“I still can’t believe you had the balls to get her number,” said Kyle.
“Speaking of balls, you should have seen him in English.” Forrest’s eyes flicked back to the TV. “Ripping on Mueller.”
I was hoping he’d leave that alone. “I just didn’t feel like being Franz the Panzer Man,” I said. “Whoa, check that pass.”
But it didn’t work. Kyle turned to me. “You screwed with Mueller? What’d you do?”
Forrest said, “She wanted him to read some play, and he was like, ‘No, thanks.’ Sounded like a CEO saying no to coffee.”
Kyle cracked up. “Sweet!”
Matt was so busy watching the game, I’m not sure he even heard. But I could feel Forrest’s eyes on me from the side. He was a smart guy, maybe the smartest guy I knew. He’d figure it out. I wondered if he’d decide he couldn’t be friends with a loser.
I threw a rice cracker in the air and caught it with my mouth. Then Kyle had to do it, too, and pretty soon it turned into a contest. A cracker landed on the ground just as Matt’s hand was coming down, and it got smashed, and we all lost it laughing. In the end, the Broncos won, and Forrest made up a song about the Chargers getting trampled like little girls in a bullfight. It was so twisted that even Matt had to laugh.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Just like I knew he would be, Tim was thrilled about the new customers. He met me at Red Robin himself instead of sending Missy. When I showed up, he was already in a booth, sucking on a Coke. He was a small dude with a scraggly goatee and eyes the light green of beach glass, and he was wearing the same ratty “Coors” T-shirt he always did.
He stood to give me a guy-hug, and I noticed he was moving kind of jerky. His arms were thinner than I remembered, and seriously cut. “Ordered you a shake.” He nodded at a drink on the table. “You always used to get those, huh?”
I smiled. Back when they were first dating, his dad and my mom would give us kids twenty bucks to get out of the house and camp in Mickey D’s for a couple hours. “Yeah, and you got the McMuffins. Those were nasty.”
Tim nodded. “Oh yeah. I don’t like those anymore. So how you been, man? How you like it up there?”
“Can’t complain. I made some friends.” I was about to tell him about Kyle and Forrest and Matt, but I saw his eyes darting and I realized he wasn’t really interested.
“That’s good; that’s good.” Tim lowered his voice. “I’ve got what we talked about, and I put in some extra. We don’t want to have to be doing these runs all the time, so I just thought I’d pad you a little. Seems like you got good demand over there. We can settle accounts at the end of the month.”
I frowned. “Naw, I don’t want to be having a bunch extra. That’s how people get busted.”
“It’s not much. Come on. It’s a pain in the ass to drive all the way out here.”
“Yeah, but what if I don’t get rid of it?”
“You will. Look how fast you been moving product.”
I drew on my shake. He had a point. I knew I could get rid of it if I wanted to. And the cash was official. I’d already got some new threads and kicks.
“There’s a backpack under the table,” Tim said. “After I leave, stick around and finish your drink, then take it with you. Cool?”
“Cool.” I wished he would slow down, ask how I was really doing, act like we’d actually lived together for a few months instead of making this straight business. But Tim was older than me, and I guess he just thought of me as his sister’s friend.
That Friday in visual arts, one of the office runners brought me a slip calling me to the counselor’s office. I’d been half-asleep, thinking about Irina, but when Mrs. McVeigh dropped the thing on my desk, I jerked up. I’d unloaded a bunch of Tim’s backpack the day before, and I looked at the candy-pink paper and thought about running for the parking lot.
“You okay, Gabe?” Mrs. McVeigh gave me a strange look.
I nodded, stuffed my book in my backpack, and headed out. I was mentally scanning my locker, my pockets, my car. Clean, clean, and clean. I knew better than to bring anything to school. But what if somebody had narced?
I half turned toward the lot, then turned back around and kept going. I’d watched enough movies to know I had to play it cool. Still, as I opened the door to Ms. Tacquard’s office, my heart was hammering like it wanted out of my chest. She was one of those people who took her job too seriously. And she was a bulldog about dope; I’d heard there was a one-strike policy.
“Hi, Gabe,” Ms. T. said as I walked in. “Have a seat.” She was a tall, gray-haired lady, and she never wore any jewelry or makeup. She was in her big leather chair, which she’d pulled to the side of her scarily clean desk. That pull-to-the-side trick was supposed to make me feel like I could trust her. They all did it. I sat down and looked at her framed diplomas on the wall. There were about five of them.
“Gabe, I was wondering if we could chat about how you’re doing with the transition to Claremont.” Ms. Tacquard leaned back in her chair. She looked like a wooden toy trying to relax. “More specifically, how are you doing academically?”
Relief made me actually smile. “Fine. Doing good.”
“That’s not what your teachers are saying.” She glanced at a folder on the desk.
I’d played this game plenty of times. I tried to look sorry, although I was so glad it wasn’t about drugs that it probably came off like a smirk. “Sorry, Ms. Tacquard. I’ll try harder.”
Her eyelids lowered a notch, and I could see her going into “tough” mode. “I’m afraid we need to be more proactive than that.” She opened the folder and started flipping through papers. “This is the test you failed in biology last week. This is the English paper you turned in a week late, and which received a grade of D. This is your math practice final, which you failed.” She set the folder back on her desk. “Gabriel, I need to impress upon you the importance of these grades.”
Her strategy worked. F-D-F was a bad lineup, even for me. Not that I’d admit it to anybody, but I’d been trying. Those damn tests. Every time I got one back, I knew I’d had the right answer, but I’d filled in the wrong bubble for some reason. Bubble tests had screwed with me my whole life. But I wasn’t giving Tacquard the satisfaction of seeing that she rattled me.
“Okay, Ms. T. I know they’re important.”
She sighed. “You’re close to failing three of your classes. The quarter ends in three weeks. If you don’t pick up your grades, you’ll have to repeat them to graduate. And that’s not going to help your chances of getting into a good college.”
“I’m not going to college,” I said.
It was like I threw a rock through the window. She stared at me. She cleared her throat. “Gabe, that’s a pretty big statement. Do you want to talk about it?”
I looked away. “Nothing to talk about. I’m just not college material.” I couldn’t read for longer than ten minutes without getting dizzy. I couldn’t write worth crap. And I couldn’t stand the thought of another four years locked in a white-walled cage with adults pouring bullshit through a tube into my ears.
There was a long silence. Ms. Tacquard stared at me with narrowed eyes. “Well, I hope you’ll reconsider. A college degree can open a lot of doors. In the meantime, we have an after-school tutoring program that I think would benefit you. We offer sessions on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons. Would you like me to sign you up?”
“No, that’s okay.”
Ms. T. let out a quiet hmsh through her nose. “All right, Gabe. You understand that I’ll be speaking with your mother about this. It’s a school policy to keep parents informed.”
I didn’t answer. Mom wasn’t going to take the news easy. She’d been getting her hopes
up, asking where I was going to apply, and even throwing out “Florida State,” which she loved because she once dated a guy who played football there.
I stood up and slung my backpack over my shoulder.
Ms. T. said in a gentler voice, “Don’t give up on yourself, Gabe. Those analytical scores on your ninth-grade battery were good. With tutoring, I know you can pull up your grades.”
I looked at the door, waiting for her to let me go.
“And please, think a little more about college.”
I felt my neck getting hot. Why should I think about college? Everybody acted like it gave you a passport into the Real Person Club, instead of an expensive-ass brainwashing.
“Gabe?”
I walked out before she had a chance to say anything else.
When Kyle stopped to get books before study hall, I was waiting at his locker. “Hey, man,” he said, sounding surprised.
“Did your parents already leave for Sonoma?” I asked.
“Yeah, this morning.”
“Let’s bail and start the party early. I can’t handle math right now.”
He grinned and started dialing his lock. “Done.”
A few minutes later, I was tailing Kyle’s Jeep down the I-405. We hit Bartell’s first. He wasn’t messing around; he filled up a cart with candy, Vicks, a pack of binkies, orange juice, sherbet, glow sticks, a musical top with flashing lights, light-up Hacky Sacks, and Christmas lights.
After paying for everything, Kyle kicked me half a G for the e and Oxies. I felt a little bad about making such a big profit. But if I gave him a discount this time, he’d wonder why I hadn’t done it before, and it would be confusing. It was his parents’ money, anyway.
Then we headed to his place to set up. Kyle lived in a modern house that looked like somebody took a giant cement box, cut windows in it, and dropped it in the middle of the White House lawn. There were some ugly Lego-looking bushes and a jelly bean–shaped pool, but the inside was dope. The staircase looked like it was floating, and the carpet was made out of thick white stuff like grass from another planet.
Betting Blind (Betting Blind #1) Page 6