Betting Blind (Betting Blind #1)

by Stephanie Guerra

  Matt looked up, frowning.

  “Yeah, what kind?” Kyle said absentmindedly, still typing on his computer.

  “Just some e,” I said. That wasn’t true. There were also Oxies, the good old kind with no time release, and some designer dope.

  “Can you hook up Oxies, too?” Forrest asked.

  I shook my head.

  Forrest narrowed his eyes. “Dude, you could if you wanted to. You got those bottles for Kyle. Those were high quality.”

  “I thought those were for your Overlake friends,” I said to Kyle.

  Kyle looked confused. “Yeah, mostly. But Forrest likes them, too, so I gave him some. What? Why you looking at me like that?”

  Damn. I was pissed at them and myself.

  “What’s wrong, man?” Kyle brushed his hair out of his eyes. He hated people to be mad at him.

  I turned to Forrest. He knew what was wrong. People with the sickness know it’s inside them, like a curled-up tiger. And Forrest was feeding it. Somehow he knew—and he knew I knew—that I didn’t think he needed to be playing with Oxies.

  I didn’t answer Kyle, just kept staring at Forrest. “How much are you using, anyway? Oxies aren’t e. They’re pretty fucking addictive.”

  He immediately got defensive, which was a bad sign. “I don’t know! Not a lot! What are you, my dad?”

  “I’m not your dad, and I think it’s a good question,” Matt said quietly. “How much are you using?”

  “Back off, Matt!” snapped Forrest.

  Kyle looked from Matt to me to Forrest, and I saw his gears clicking. He said, “Chill, Forrest. They’re just looking out. Remember when Chad Dougherty got hooked on pain pills or something stupid? Didn’t they make him do one of those wilderness programs?”

  That broke the tension, and Forrest gave a half smile. “Oh man, yeah, they did. He had to climb ropes up a mountain or something. And he had to eat protein bars and water for a month. Remember how skinny he was when he got back?”

  The awkward moment was over, and I went back to looking for my English paper. I’d found a good one, but I couldn’t concentrate on it; my brain was stuck on Forrest. I was having one of those horrible moments when you realize you’ve been doing something bad and you have to change.

  All the reasons I shouldn’t stop hooking up people jumped into my mind. Forget taking Irina anywhere nice like I’d been imagining. No more clothes. No more going out to lunch. No more fun. People would be pissed. It’s not cool when your connection steps out of the game. I would lose the status I’d built up.

  But mostly, I would be poor.

  The past month was the first time in my life I’d felt okay about cash. Mom was always blowing her paychecks buying her friends drinks or getting tickets to see some moldy old band. We’d start the month eating takeout, and by the last week we were down to ramen. It used to scare me when I was little. Then as I got older, I realized everything always turned out okay. But it’s hard to shake that anxious feeling that you might not have enough food.

  Why not sell dope and make bank? Alcohol and cigarettes were legal, and so were pain meds, and people got hooked on those all the time. Why let the government make all the money? Drugs messed people up; I knew that. But I always thought, just like with booze, if people kept their use under control, it was okay.

  The problem was, fiends were the best customers. And there was no telling who they were. No telling who was a potential fiend, even. People had mad head trips going on, or maybe bad genes, that made them ripe for getting hooked on something. So dealing was like shooting into a crowd. I’d never know who I’d hit.

  Maybe I’d hit someone like Forrest.

  I glanced at him. His shaggy head was hunched over the computer, his nose almost touching the screen. He was very cool, but he had a weird emptiness to him, like he was half-bored, half-pissed. The exact type to get addicted.

  Yeah, I had to get out of the game.

  I made myself scan the Hamlet paper. It was solid, but not too good, so they might believe I wrote it. I punched my card numbers into the PayPal account, hit “Buy.” When my transaction went through, I logged out and stood up. Forget waiting for the weekend. I needed to see Irina now.

  “I have to bolt. See you guys later.” I grabbed my bag and started for the door.

  Kyle looked up. “I thought we were going to watch the game.”

  “I got something to handle.”

  He cocked his head. “Irina?”

  I couldn’t help it; I turned red. The guys were always giving me a hard time for texting with her so much. They said she had me on a short chain.

  Kyle raised a hand. “Go on, little dog. Your owner’s calling.”

  I flipped him off as I opened the door. “If you could get a woman that fine to talk to you, you’d be putting on your own leash.”

  He chuckled. “I probably would. I probably would.”

  I had just gotten down the driveway when I heard the house door open behind me. “Gabe!” Matt called. He didn’t have his shoes on, but he came down the steps and picked his way across the gravel.

  I opened my car and tossed my backpack in the backseat. “What’s up?”

  Matt was looking uneasy. “Listen …” He stared off past my shoulder and shifted his weight. I breathed out a cloud of cold air and waited for him to say whatever it was he needed to say. “I’ve known Forrest since kindergarten. He’s been through some stuff. He doesn’t need what you’re selling, okay?”

  “I know, dude. I’m trying not to sell to him. Didn’t you hear me in there?”

  Matt finally looked right at me, and his eyes, usually so mellow, were bright with anger. “Why do you have to sell to anyone?”

  I didn’t answer. But I thought, Because I need money.

  “Never mind. Just don’t sell to Forrest, okay? No matter what he says.” Matt turned away and walked back toward the house.

  I stared after him. Normally I’d be pissed that somebody was up in my business. But I almost wanted to call Matt back and explain myself. I cared what he thought. He was a good dude, and I knew he was just looking out for his friend. But the door closed behind him, and I got in my car.

  I peeled out and drove down Forrest’s driveway, which was practically a road by itself. I turned onto Remington and flew through the backstreets to Irina’s place, the hours of stress—Matt, Forrest, Irina—boiling together until I was turbocharged, ready to kick down the door. I parked a few houses away.

  Then my brain started working again. What was I going to do, storm her house? There was a car in the driveway—probably her mom’s. The charged feeling began to drain out of me.

  But I wasn’t waiting anymore. I looked around, didn’t see anybody, and ran around the house into the back. Her yard was buzz-cut, edged with bushes that looked like they wouldn’t dare put a leaf out of line. The bricks were dark red and perfectly clean; no moss or ivy. I wondered what it had been like for her, growing up in this place.

  I eased along the side of the house until I was about where I thought Irina’s room should be. There was only one window with lace curtains. I stared up at it for a while.

  Now what? I’d heard of people throwing rocks, but that seemed like a great way to get caught or break the glass. I looked at the drainpipe—it was thick and solid—and then at the balcony on the room next to Irina’s. I’d always been good at ropes in gym class.

  Was I really thinking this? The worst that could happen would be that her parents called the cops, but more likely Mr. Petrova would try to kick my ass himself—if he was home. And I didn’t think he was. Plus I was a good runner.

  I pushed up my sleeves and hit the drainpipe. It screeched and dumped some nasty leaves on me, but I was fast. In a minute I was on the balcony. I put my face against the glass and tried to peer through the curtains. I could see the outlines of furniture, but no movement. I tried the handle. It was locked. I bet I could jimmy it. It was a crappy second-story porch door, anyway. I broke out my card and opened
it in a second.

  My heart was slamming as I stepped inside. It smelled a little musty, and all the furniture was heavy and dark and expensive-looking. I walked through the room, feeling insanely awake, every creak of the floor like a gunshot. There’s something about being in somebody’s house when you’re not supposed to that’s exciting and terrifying at the same time.

  I opened the door and slid into the hall. I heard a clank downstairs and froze. Someone fooling with pots in the kitchen.

  A couple more steps and I was at Irina’s door. If she was there, and I walked in, she might scream. But I couldn’t exactly knock. I pushed in the handle to make it quieter, turned it slowly, and cracked the door. She was lying on her bed, asleep.

  I slid in and locked the door. There was this feeling in my throat, almost choked up. I could have stared at her for a while, her hair spread out, her skin so pale I could see blue lines around her forehead. She was wearing sweats and a T-shirt, and she looked so beautiful, I wanted to just sit by her bed and let her keep sleeping. But who knew how much time we had?

  I shook her gently. “Irina.”

  Her eyes flew open, and she gasped.

  “Shhh.” I put my finger on her lips. “I came up the drainpipe and in from the balcony.”

  She pulled me into her arms and kissed me hard. She said something in Russian, and it was so sexy, I would have done a bid for breaking and entering just to hear it again. I lay on top of her and we kissed for a while, and it was hot and sweet and everything in between.

  Then she put both hands on my cheeks and looked me in the eyes and whispered, “You’re crazy.”

  “I know,” I whispered back.

  “You can’t stay. My mom is home.”

  “How come you didn’t text me or something?”

  “I couldn’t! My dad was so mad, he threw my phone in the toilet! They won’t let me online.”

  “He read all our texts?”

  “Yes. I told them we didn’t do anything, but they don’t believe me. They think we’re sleeping together,” she said bitterly.

  “That’s pretty crazy, because you’re the straightest girl I ever met,” I said. She looked upset, so I brushed her hair off her face and changed the subject. “How long do they have you on lockdown?”

  “Until I’m done applying to conservatories in December. They think it’s your fault I haven’t been playing well lately. They said you’re distracting me. Even when I’m done applying, I’m not supposed to talk to you again.”

  I stared at the wall, trying to stay cool. Irina had enough on her plate without me losing my temper. “That’s messed up. They don’t even know me,” I said finally.

  “I know. I hate them.” She said it so coldly, it was almost scary. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m going crazy.” She glanced at me. “Let me stay at your house for a while.”

  “Really?” I said. “I mean, yeah, we could do that. My mom wouldn’t care or anything. But would your parents, like, call the cops?”

  “Maybe.” Irina sounded so sad, I wished I hadn’t said anything, just taken our chances.

  I tried to backtrack. “Who cares? Let’s do it. You’re almost eighteen anyway.”

  “No, it’s not worth it. I don’t want to get your mom involved.” Irina squeezed my hand. “Can you come back this weekend? Friday? With a ladder?”

  “With a—are you for real?”

  She nodded, looking fierce. It was an expression I was getting to know. “Yeah, put it against my window at midnight. I’ll climb out.”

  “Couldn’t you sneak out the door or go down the drainpipe or something?” I wasn’t trying to be weak, but a ladder seemed a little risky.

  “We have an alarm system and all the doors are rigged. Second-floor windows aren’t, though.”

  “Um, are you sure it won’t set off the alarm?”

  “Are you scared?”

  “No. I’ll be there.” I kissed her, taking my time. The way we were moving, we could have been making love.

  Finally she forced me back and sat up, looking red in the face. “You should go before my dad gets home.”

  I grinned at her. “Your husband’s going to be one lucky dude.”

  She went to her door, opened it, and peeked in the hall. “Come on.” Her sweats hung low on her hips. I would have given anything to stay a while longer.

  We walked fast through the guest room and she stood on the balcony and kissed me again. “Romeo, Romeo,” she said, and broke up giggling. “I can’t believe you climbed a drainpipe.”

  I kissed her neck. “I’d do more than that to get to you.”

  She held my hands and looked at me with happy eyes. “See you Friday.”

  “Friday,” I said, and climbed down that nasty pipe. As I ran through her backyard, I thought that in a weird way, her dad had done me a favor. Irina seemed even more passionate now.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Sessions with Mr. Newport were killing me. He was prepping me for the final, which was coming next week, and I was worried I was going to blow it to hell. I didn’t know how Bs in science at Jefferson translated to “don’t know jack about science” at Claremont. But I hadn’t given up yet.

  Wednesday, the day after seeing Irina, I pushed open the door, and Newport looked up from his computer. His desk was messier than most people’s lockers. It was buried under about fifty pounds of paper, dirty mugs, and Post-its. He smiled. “Hi, Gabe!”

  “Hey, Mr. Newport.” I dropped my bag and sat across from him.

  He put his laptop on the floor and swept his arm across his desk like a plow, clearing a space between us. Then he fished through the stacks on his desk and pulled out some brochures. “Take a look at these.”

  I looked. Colleges spent a lot of money on those things. Big pictures of shiny weight equipment and giant pools and classrooms that look like doctors’ offices. Kids smiling way too hard. At least one black, Asian, and Latino kid in every picture. I opened up one and pretended to look through.

  Mr. Newport lowered his curly head, trying to meet my eyes. “I don’t want to be nosy, but Ms. Tacquard told me that you still haven’t taken the SAT. That’s something you should have done last year. But there’s still time. We can get you signed up for a test this month, and you can get some applications in.” He patted the brochures. “I’ll help you through the process.”

  I stared at the Olympic rings on his desk from too many hot coffee mugs. I almost didn’t have the guts to tell him, but I made myself push through it. “I’m not going to college. Didn’t Ms. T. tell you that?”

  Mr. Newport did the head thing again—dip, force me to look at him—and said, “Gabe.” His voice was strong, and his eyes were on fire. Damn, this was why he got that education degree. “Don’t talk that way. You’re a smart kid, I can tell. I think you’ve had a bad hand in terms of your prior education, but that doesn’t have to hold you back.” He tapped his head. “You’ve got the ability. The rest is just makeup work.”

  His eyes were blazing so hard they got my attention. What if he was right? I mean, sometimes I did feel smart. Or at least, not dumb. I had good ideas, I got jokes quickly, I remembered stuff easy if I could say it out loud. But the reading and writing thing … Why couldn’t I get it right? I almost wanted to ask him, but I didn’t want him to change his mind about me being smart.

  Mr. Newport put his elbows on the desk. “Did you know that over the course of a lifetime, college graduates make more than twice as much as high school graduates?”

  “Really?” I said.

  He nodded. “And they’re way more likely to get jobs. But it’s not just the money. Education opens your mind. It gives you a chance to invent yourself.”

  Education does not open your mind; it channels your mind into the little path that all the adults have picked for you. But the part about inventing myself got to me. Because I’d thought before about how I’d like to just shake off my life and invent myself into somebody else. Maybe to do that, you had to play the game,
get the gold stars on your chart, let yourself be brainwashed a little, and then you could do what you wanted with your life.

  Maybe I just hadn’t tried hard enough.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said.

  Mr. Newport smiled. “Good! That’s great. And I’m going to support you all the way. First we need to get you signed up for the SAT.”

  “No, first we need to get me to pass your final.”

  He laughed. “You’re going to pass. You know a lot of this stuff cold. But you’re right, let’s buckle down.” He bent over my book.

  The thing he didn’t realize was that I was doing good because we were talking, and I didn’t have to read anything. But I knew those bubbles would screw me up like always. Still, when Mr. Newport got done with his cheerleading, I walked out feeling sort of charged up. Dude was like the Pied Piper of Education.

  The next day I had my meeting with Tim and his supplier. I’d kept thinking I should cancel, but I never sent the text, and now it was too late. Had I really gone straight-arrow about the Forrest thing? A few days later, and the logic was feeling fuzzy. Why was he my problem? He wasn’t a little kid; he could make his own decisions. Maybe I’d do just this one last batch, keep it far away from him, and then quit.

  Or maybe I wouldn’t. I wanted to take Irina somewhere really nice when she was off grounding, and I wanted that new car. I had enough cash for it, but it would almost clean me out. Better to build more of a cushion.

  I drove to White Center, parked in front of Missy’s house, and took the steps two at a time. A rusted rake was leaning against the door; Missy’s dad must have been making his annual stab at the lawn. I put my hand on the knob, then thought better of it and knocked. I didn’t want this Jay dude to think I was the law and do something rash.

  The curtain moved, Tim peered at me through the dirty glass, and a second later the door opened. “Hey.” Tim slapped my hand and stepped aside to let me through. He looked over his shoulder. “Jay, this is my man, Gabe.”

  Jay was sitting on the couch. He raised a hand. He was tanned with shaggy blond hair, sporting jeans and a hoodie. He had one of those open friendly faces, like Kyle’s, the kind of face you automatically trust. His feet were kicked up on the coffee table.