“Have you been?” he said.
“To Paris? No.”
“How come?”
She thought of all the reasons, but answered only: “No time. No money.”
He seemed to appreciate that. “Maybe one day,” he said.
“Maybe…”
At the end of the hall, Miles turned one direction and Vance headed in the other.
#
For the rest of the day, Debra Vance found herself reliving that brief encounter with Miles, even after she arrived at home. Wondering what else she could have said and what she’d say the next time. Not the way she critiqued herself after testifying in court, but because she wanted Miles to like her—which made her smile. It was almost like by being back in high school she was back in high school, when she’d been one of those smaller kids like Juan Arroyo, and had also played on the soccer team. Only her team hadn’t been very good and she’d grown up in an area where soccer wasn’t that popular. So unless boys had girlfriends on the team, they only came to watch the girls’ breasts, having once heard a guy call out, “Here comes Bouncing Debby,” as she’d sprinted down the field. Which had made young Debra Vance feel like shit for three days and never want to do anything athletic again.
9.
Friday after school Jennifer asked Miles if he had any MJ. They were at Miles’ house, which was Jennifer’s idea after having learned that he didn’t have siblings, that his mother remained in Florida, and his father usually didn’t get home until dinner time. So they’d have the house to themselves for awhile.
Miles said he didn’t have any weed.
“Just not now?” Jennifer wondered. “Or don’t you do it?”
“Not in a while,” Miles answered.
“Me neither, really,” Jennifer said. “I’m no airhead. I mean, I like the occasional amp, but—yeah, it’s been a while for me too.” She was looking around the finished basement, a place she found dark and outdated with its mock-wood paneling, grey-green remnant rug over linoleum floors, and a cheesy-looking bar with empty glass shelves and a mirrored wall flecked with gold triangles. “These yours?” she asked, peeking into unpacked moving boxes on the built-in shelves. Inside were over a dozen martial arts trophies, most featuring a man doing a front- or side-thrust kick. “You must be pretty good.”
“Some are team trophies for kids I used to teach.”
“You taught karate?”
“Yeah.” Miles sat on the rounded arm of the plaid sofa that had been another yard-sale buy during the week they moved into the house, a purchase that sparked one of those conversations between his mom and dad that felt like an argument even though they’d remained polite to one another and didn’t raise their voices.
Miles’ dad suggested it would be nice to have a pull-out sofa in case they had any guests. To which Miles’ mother responded she didn’t know who would want to visit them in Maryland, and even if someone did she couldn’t imagine having them sleep in the basement.
Miles’ mother, having grown up in South Florida, had never lived in a house with a basement and believed them to be full of spiders and mildew. She’d only done a half dozen loads of laundry in the mismatched washer/dryer tucked beneath the steps before abruptly returning to Florida to live with her sister for what was now three weeks and counting.
Miles’ mother may have had a point about the basement though. Miles wasn’t that crazy about it himself, but hadn’t been sure where else they should hang out. He didn’t want to stay upstairs in the living room—even though it was nicer and actually looked like people lived there and weren’t still unpacking—because he remained wary of reporters showing up at the door and peaking through front curtains that didn’t quite close all the way.
“So what do you want to do?” Jennifer asked.
“I don’t know,” Miles replied. “Whatever.”
“Mm…” Leaning against the built-in shelf, Jennifer idly gathered her long blonde hair in her hand, drawing it behind her shoulders. She wore a pale-orange hoodie over a yoga top, and skinny jeans with a threadbare spot on the thigh that exposed the pants’ plaid pocket lining and glimpses of her skin. Taking the largest of the trophies from the box, she said, “Tell me about this,” and read the engraved plaque aloud, citing a date from three years ago. “Grand Champions. Ten slash twelve-year-olds. Mister K’s Doji.” She smirked. “No wonder you won if you were fighting ten-year-olds. What were you, fifteen?”
Miles liked when she teased him. “I was a coach.”
“Are you Mister K?”
“No—he was the owner of the school.”
Jennifer examined a small framed photo of a slender Asian man standing alongside eight kids outfitted in belted gis. “Is this him?” she asked
“Yeah.”
“And this is you,” she said, finding Miles at the other end of the row of sweaty kids, head and shoulders taller than everyone else, including Mr. K. “Your hair was longer. Cute.”
That picture had been taken months before Miles was arrested, when none of what happened seemed possible, up to and including this moment. Sometimes none of it seemed real. As if that night had created an alternate reality Miles waited to escape so he could return to how life had been before. He missed that life.
“How’d you end up as a coach?”
“Mr. K asked me to help out. He was my teacher.”
“Isn’t there some cooler word for that? What do they say in the movies?”
“You mean sensei?”
“Yeah.”
“Mr. K didn’t say that. He used to work in a laundry where the owner yelled at all the employees, ‘Speak English, speak English,’ because he said Americans wouldn’t trust them if they didn’t speak this country’s language. So he called himself a teacher because it sounded more American.”
Jennifer laughed. “Not around here. My mother grew up in Charleston and says she always wanted to live in a foreign country—and now she does.” She carefully returned the photo and trophy to the box because she could tell they were important to Miles. “There’s martial arts places around here, you know.”
Miles shrugged.
“Not into it anymore?”
Another shrug. He’d never talked to anyone who was his own age about what happened in Florida, not even when he was in jail, held with a handful of other juvenile offenders awaiting trial before his bail had been reduced. Because his lawyer told him, in no uncertain terms, not to talk to anyone about anything having anything remotely to do with the incident. That’s how the lawyer had referred to Miles having killed a man: the incident.
Miles told Jennifer a lot of Mr. K’s students quit after what happened.
“After what happened?”
“Me killing that guy.” And there it was for the first time: Miles talking with a peer about what he’d done. “Some people thought the only way I’d’ve been able to do that was from something Mr. K taught me.”
“Yeah…? So…? Isn’t that kind of the point?”
Miles shook his head. “It’s one thing to want your kid to be able to defend himself—but something else to have him kill someone.”
She sat alongside him on the sofa arm and asked what she’d been wondering since the first day of school. “Did you want to kill him?”
Miles shook his head. “No.”
“So that’s that then.”
“But I did.”
“Yeah. You did. Okay…” She gave him a gentle push so he slid off the sofa arm onto the end cushion, where she squeezed alongside him so she was mostly sitting on his lap, her legs across his, the exposed threads of that bare spot of her jeans stretched across her thigh. “So what was it like?” she asked quietly.
He knew what she meant: what it was like to have killed someone? A question he’d often asked himself. “It’s not like anything,” he answered—the same response he’d given that counselor/psychiatrist. “Not that it’s nothing. It’s just something it’s hard to get your head around.”
“Did it mess you u
p?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Miles leaned back just enough to look into her eyes. “Do I seem messed up?”
“No... And that’s the thing.”
“What’s the thing?”
She hesitated. “Promise you want get mad.”
He smiled. “How can I promise when I don’t know what you’re going to say?”
“Promise anyway or I won’t tell you.”
“Okay…” He shrugged. “I promise.”
Jennifer softly bit her lip, debating whether she should say what she’d been thinking, then came out with it. “I think you’re not messed up…because I think maybe it didn’t happen.”
“What?” Miles was confused.
“I think maybe you didn’t kill anyone.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
He thought she might be teasing him again. “So that guy’s still alive…”
“No, he’s dead…but I think maybe someone else killed him. And you’re covering for them.”
He realized she was serious. “Why would I do that?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe because you’re very cool. I heard about Rusty Bremmer giving you shit yesterday. I told you he’s an asshole.”
“You’re right about that. But what does that have to do with—?”
“Can you take him?” Jennifer interrupted, concerned.
“Take him?”
“Yeah. If Bremmer started a fight, could you take him? Because he’s that kind of asshole. Last year he broke Germantown’s quarterback’s leg. It was awful. You could hear bone crack in the stands. So—yeah, if he ever started something, could you take him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then you need to watch out. Because he’s one of those jerks who gets some beers in him, he could come looking for you.”
“Okay.”
“Miles, I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” She swung around to straddle his lap, her knees positioned outside his thighs, arms resting on his shoulders, leaning close so their faces were inches apart. Repeating: “Do you, Miles?” It was not really a question, just something to say before she kissed him, her mouth flush to his, her tongue going into his mouth.
Miles kissed her back. And like the other times they’d made out, there was something different about him. A gentleness. So unlike the other half dozen guys Jennifer had kissed before—including the few she’d done more with than that.
Miles didn’t paw at her like the guys who’d learned about sex from the same sort of pornos she’d been watching since she was 14, guys who when she didn’t tell them to stop moved faster, more sloppily to the next button or next inch of zipper, until she finally slowed them down—or with two guys, let it go all the way.
Miles was tender and smooth. It was almost hypnotizing how good he felt. She let his hands move under her hoodie, under her tight yoga top to unhook her bra, which he had no trouble with. Let him caress her breasts, ease her back onto the sofa and pull up both her tops, exposing her small breasts to kiss her nipples.
She ran her hands through his hair and heard herself making humming sounds even with something in her head reminding her she didn’t know him that well and this was probably far enough—at least for now. But she didn’t say anything, not having had any sense before they started about what she’d be willing to do, figuring it would be like when they’d made out on that side street in Georgetown. Only now they were alone—and here at her prompting, what was he supposed to think?
Then all of a sudden she tensed and Miles stopped.
“What’s wrong?” he asked softly.
Jennifer’s heart was racing. That Miles seemed so experienced and knowledgeable set off a warning in her head. She wasn’t sure what that might involve, what he might know that she didn’t, although she believed she knew pretty much everything even though she’d hadn’t done everything that many times. And it had mostly been kind of herky-jerky, like riding that mechanical bull at the county fair.
But with Miles… It was starting to feel like something else entirely. And she wondered if his being a year older was what made the difference. Or was it because he really had killed someone? That he was like one of those soldiers coming back from Afghanistan or Iraq—what used to be news but was now just everyday life reduced to a social media post. Guys who when their wives hugged them and cried always looked anxious to Jennifer, as if the women worried about what their guys had been through while they were gone. Had they killed someone? Watched people die?
Jennifer felt disoriented and a little afraid, wanting out of the dark basement, out of the house entirely. And because she didn’t want to reveal why, she told Miles she might be getting her period. But he wasn’t alarmed, there was no look of fear or yuck to his face like had happened with other guys.
Miles helped Jennifer pull down her yoga top and hoodie, asking if she needed anything, that he knew where his mother kept her Tampons.
She said she was okay, but should probably go home, hoping she didn’t seem as panicky as she felt. “I usually get really nauseas when it starts.”
Miles couldn’t have been sweeter, holding her hand as they went upstairs, opening doors for her, first outside then into his truck, asking again if Jennifer needed anything.
“I won’t mess up your seats,” she assured him.
“I’m not worried about that.”
She nodded, beginning to feel angry with herself, confused by how she was feeling. What the hell? Was she going psychotic? “Just take me to Autee’s.”
“Sure.”
She gave him directions and sat sideways, pulling her knees up as if she really was feeling ill. “I’m sorry, Miles.”
“It’s okay.”
Only she wasn’t sure it was. Because it hadn’t seemed real to her until now, hadn’t sunk in that he had killed someone, and done it with the same hands that had been inside her top.
10.
After dropping Jennifer at Autee’s house, walking her to the side door of the big colonial in an upscale neighborhood, Miles drove into Georgetown. He considered checking out some place new—maybe Dupont Circle, a place kids at school talked about—but traffic and parking were supposed to be even more of a hassle there. So he ended up back on Wisconsin Avenue; only instead of sitting at Starbucks, he wandered down the hill to the Potomac River.
What he missed most about Florida wasn’t the weather—although he imagined that might come soon enough. He missed the water.
At the metal stairs below Canal Road, Miles stood at the edge of Washington’s landmark waterway, which, to him, looked more like a span of brackish overflow than an actual river. Not to mention that the air lacked the salty vibrancy of the Atlantic Ocean, and smelled faintly of trash and car exhaust.
He watched a pair of rowing shells skim beneath the concrete arches of the Key Bridge, each sleek vessel manned by eight rowers—college students, Miles assumed—who pulled oars at the directions of a coxswain.
Behind him, dozens of colorful polyethylene kayaks—singles and tandems—were available for rent, as were fishing rods. Although Miles would never eat anything that came out of that brown water. Maybe it was just catch and release.
After a few disappointing minutes, he went back up the stairs to the crowded sidewalks and streets. The blend of ethnicities continued to interest him, as did the number of people who looked important and influential—men and women both—his impressions not just based on their clothes, electronics, or trendy watches, but how their postures projected intensity. How their eyes seemed sharp with critical appraisal, as if every other person was a potential enemy.
He wandered the aisles of Dean and Deluca, where brightly-lit cases of meats and seafood made him miss the cramped kitchen of the marina restaurant where he used to work and had learned enough about cooking to be a half decent fill-in during busy times or when Ramon happened to feel lazy.
Miles missed having a job. But he n
eeded to wait and see how much time he’d need to devote to studying before looking for something. So far school wasn’t as bad as he’d thought, having been warned the curriculum up north was more demanding than in Florida—not to mention how long it had been since he’d sat in an actual classroom.
Back on the sunny side of the street, he found the small boutique where Jennifer bought herself that colorful dress last week. Inside, the store was small, with polished wood floors and walls of exposed brick glazed with a white finish. Clothes hung on bamboo racks that resembled scaffolding.
There weren’t any customers, only the shop’s owner—the woman Jennifer found so exotic—who wore one of the bandeau maxi dresses that comprised most of her inventory. She asked Miles if he was looking for something special.
He said, “A gift for a friend.” Then saw a price tag of vellum paper cut to resemble a baggage tag like those tied to steamer trunks in the 1950’s. The dress of hibiscus flowers and palm leaves he thought Jennifer might like cost $325. “Oh…” He paused.
“They’re all handmade,” the owner said. “And fair trade. From Fiji.”
All that mattered to Miles was that he couldn’t afford it. The only money he had came from $50 a week his father gave him—an allowance although they didn’t call it that. His father said it was a loan to “tied him over” until things got back to normal. But if normal was the trigger term for repayment, Miles wondered if that would ever happen.
“I also have scarves,” the woman said, gesturing toward a rack between two dressing rooms designed to look like beach huts. “They’re seventy-five.” She mentioned the price without any hint that someone of Miles’ limited resources was wasting her time—not like the salespeople in those jewelry stores in Palm Beach Gardens.
“Seventy-five I think I can do,” Miles said.
“Then let’s find you something.”
#
An hour later, and a block before the turn to his house, Miles slid the gift-wrapped box containing the scarf for Jennifer behind the passenger seat of his truck. He wasn’t going to take it inside. If his father saw it there would be a discussion. Not that Miles had anything to hide, but those weren’t the most comfortable conversations with his dad. Miles was never sure what to say—actually, what his father wanted to hear—which made it best to stick to helping with leaking drain pipes.
The Pretty Woman Who Lived Next Door Page 6