Collateral Damage (15 page)

"It was just this stupid thing. I was curious. I mean, I saw you in English and at lunch, but that was it. I didn't know anything about you, so yes. I looked in your student file."

Jaden McEntyre is
curious
about me.

And like that photograph—that date—on the wall, I'm not sure what to do with this information now that I have it. "You know that's illegal, right?"

She pulls back, tucks her hair behind her ears. "You're not going to report me, are you?"

"I'll have to think about it. So, we're in the same classes?"

"AP Chemistry, Biology, Spanish III. You know, you could be Harvard Med."

"What, you saw my grades, too?" I ask.

"What makes you think I saw your grades?"

"It's just that you must think I'm doing pretty well if I could hack it at Harvard."

Another sigh.
"Yes. I saw your grades. And yes, believe it or not, I'm not the only one in this room who could be headed to an Ivy League school."

Ivy League? Like polo-playing, cardigan-wearing, future Congressman Ivy League? What the hell? The only reason I'm taking advanced classes is because I've already passed the basic ones. I mean, if you have to repeat senior year, why not expand the repertoire? And it's not like I did all that great the first time around.

Ivy League.

Further proof this girl is not my kind—on
multiple
levels.

"Nah." I grab my notebook, ready to work.

"Why not?" she pushes. "Your grades are stellar. You're in AP classes. You could probably get into any college you want."

"College is
not
on my agenda." College was
never
on my agenda. Even when I was a real senior—even when my friends were comparing campuses, when Callie was applying for her associates.... College wasn't for me.

"Really?" she asks. "Why not?"

"That's kind of a personal question, isn't it?"

"Maybe, but why wouldn't you want to? Going to college is the fastest way to get out of this town."

"Maybe I like it here," I suggest, leafing through pages, searching for my
Ethan Frome
notes.

She watches me carefully, skeptical. She's not buying it. "No offense, but you don't really seem like the type of guy who'd want to stick around after graduation."

My eyes travel to hers, our gazes locking. "None taken. And you're right. I'm gone the moment my diploma is in my hand."

"The very moment? Like, you're headed out in your cap and gown?" she says, teasing.

"The very moment."

Sooner, if the timing is right—when I have a solid enough case built to take the dealer down. I could disappear tomorrow. But then, if I did that, where would that leave us? Jaden and me. Our project, I mean.

She clears her throat. "Where are you going?"

When I'm done in Bedford? Back to Hamilton. To working the street. Hell, by fall I'll probably be in some other school in some other town, doing the same thing I'm doing here. But Jaden can't know this.

I have a
problem with authority
.

I am
unfocused
and
undisciplined
.

"Don't know. Somewhere...anywhere but here."

She sits quietly, desperately wanting me to go on. I'm a new level of mystifying. Impenetrable. Every question I answer raises three new questions. And it kills her—not knowing, not understanding.

"Does this have anything to do with your dad?" she finally asks.

I could've predicted this was coming. I force a laugh. "I guess my
student file
mentioned there's trouble at home."

"Vaguely."

I reach inside my jacket pocket and remove a pen. "Well, believe me, I'm not the problem," I say, playing along.

It's easy, lying to strangers—to people who don't matter.

This—lying to Jaden—it doesn't feel right. Not at all.

"You should at least apply to Northwestern State," she says. "It's not too far away, and they've got awesome programs."

I shrug. "Yeah. Whatever."

Jaden drops the subject and we throw ourselves back into Ethan and Mattie and Starkfield—that miserable town full of miserable people. I think of the two of them, home alone while Zeena is away. How happy Ethan is having Mattie to himself. How, for a moment, she almost seems to ease into the role of loving wife.

For a moment, she's his.

And, for that moment, he experiences a new kind of forever. He sees how life
could
be.

The next day, when I arrive to English, there's a bag of Sun Chips and a soda on my desk, waiting for me.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

The bass thumps, pounding, my entire body thudding with the beat.

I know this place. I dropped in not too long ago—just passing through. I figure it deserves a second look.
 

It's too hot in here, too smoky, the rooms too packed with people. In another lifetime I lived for places like this. Weekend parties. Erik, Callie, the whole game. We'd sneak into our bedrooms late at night—buzzed out of our minds—wake up hung over the next morning.

I cross the kitchen and head out the side door.

It's not much quieter on the porch, the party inside spilling over to the lawn despite the frigid midnight air. A single spotlight brightens the yard, a few groups scattered throughout—a guy and girl making out in a dark corner, others sitting on railings, convening on the grass. I exhale a breath, already blowing smoke.

Smoke.

I reach inside my coat pocket, remove a pack of cigarettes and my lighter.

One drag and I remember why I quit.

I cough into my fist, throat burning.

"Hey, man. Can I bum one?"

A guy steps out of the shadows—my age, maybe a year or two older. Medium build. Dark features. "Help yourself." I toss him the pack and the lighter. He can keep them if he wants.

He pulls out a cigarette, lights it, hands the rest back to me. "Thanks."

"No problem."

He inhales, visibly relaxing, runs fingers through his greasy hair. Could be a loner. Maybe a third wheel.

"You at the college?" I ask.

"Nah, man. That shit's not for me."

I force a laugh. "I hear you."

"Haven't seen you around here before. You live nearby?"

"Bedford by way of Michigan."

He nods, smiling, exhaling smoke. "That wasn't a shock."

"I know, right? My dad sucks. This party sucks. The whole fucking week sucks." Another draw of smoke.

"Hey, Vinny!" A guy pokes his head out the side door. "They're looking for you."

Vinny lifts the cigarette. "Two seconds." Then, turning back to me: "Get used to it, man. It doesn't get any better." He takes a final drag, then tosses what's left into the cold, wet grass.

"You need another?" I ask.

"I'm good. But thanks."

"No problem."

He crosses the porch, disappears inside the house. The screen door slams against the frame. And for a moment it's quiet—the party between songs—then the music kicks back on. Louder. Harder. I skip down the steps and head around back, cutting through a neighbor's yard and landing back in the street, weaving between cars until I reach my bike.

What a waste.

*
    
*
    
*

Or not.

"Parker?"

My spine stiffens; my locker door closes with a bang. "Yeah?"

"You know Vince?"

I study this face—this kid who's cornered me. Tall, but not as tall as I am. Scrawny. Lanky. Shaved head. "I'm sorry?" I ask, not understanding.

"Vince De Luca. The party the other night. You two were smoking on the deck."

I wrack my brain. Vince De Luca? The guy—Vinny? "Yeah. I know him," I lie.

"I mean, like, you know 'em know 'em?" He stares at me expectantly. I'm not sure how to answer this, but I've learned that if you keep your mouth shut long enough, people will tell you anything you need to know—whatever you want to hear. Nervous people talk too much. And this kid looks more than nervous. Sure enough: "It's just that I've heard some things...." he trails off. "It seemed like you guys were tight."

"I know him," I repeat. "Why are you so interested?"

He shrugs. "Do you think you could maybe put in a good word for me?" he asks, voice lower. When I refuse to answer, he continues: "I mean, you know how he is with his shit. The other guys got in, but I ain't got forever to wait, you know? If you could let him know I'm cool…that would be cool."

He wants me to let some guy named Vince De Luca know he's cool because he wants his shit?

Shit.

"Sure. I'll see what I can do."

Relief washes over his face, shoulders relaxing. "Thanks, man. That's awesome of you, you know? And hey. Anything I can do for you, anything my boys can do, let us know, all right?"

I nod.

The guy saunters away. I glance to my left where Tyler and Friend hover at their lockers, trying not to stare.

"Any chance you know him?" I ask.

"Brandon Garrels," Friend says.

"Who is he? He's not in any of my classes."

"He's a junior. He plays basketball and baseball."

Basketball and baseball.

An
athlete.

I thank them, then ease into the crowd, heading for the front office. I pass Jaden on my way. She's sitting at that table in the lobby, collecting money for the poor kids of Bangladesh.

Isn't her Harvard application padded enough?

Shut up. It's important to think about things bigger than yourself.
Her voice hums between my ears, chastising. I steal another quick glance at her, feeling the sides of my mouth lifting in a grin.

Principal Howell stands in the main office discussing papers with one of the administrative assistants when I enter. He nods when he sees me, finishes with the secretary, then motions for me to follow him back.

I shut the door behind us.

"What can I do for you, Parker?"