Dead Ends (5 page)

“I am offering you a chance. Principal Davis thinks you're smart—so smart that keeping you in school keeps him off my ass.”

I heard Mrs. Pruitt clear her throat.

“So prove it. Prove you are smart enough to take a deal you don't deserve.”

“Okay,” I said, shifting uncomfortably under his towering stance. “How does this deal work?”

The warden backed off a step and looked over his shoulder at Billy, whose eyes were bulging now at the scene. “Billy D., you said Dane helped you out with some kids who were picking on you?”

“No,” I said. “I never even met—”

“I'm asking Billy,” the warden interrupted me.

“He walked me to school, and no one bothered me,” Billy answered honestly.

The warden pulled the detention slip from between my fingers, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it expertly into a trash can by the door. “That's a good start,” he said.

I gaped at him. “No detention?”

“It's still on your record.” He pointed at the crushed paper in the trash can. “Still number six. But you don't have to serve it here at school. You walk Billy home tonight instead.”

I'd rather be in detention
.

“Like getting out of prison for good behavior,” I said.

“More like parole.” The warden smiled. “Step out of line, and you go right back in.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What else do I have to do?”

“Anything Billy needs.”

“Like wha—?”

“
Anything
he needs. But you can start by showing him a little more respect. In fact, show some respect for
all
of our special education students.”

So he
is
in special ed.

Billy twisted his lips and looked like he might protest, but the Warden pushed on.

“Billy may have Down syndrome, but he's extremely high-functioning.” He paused and made his next words sharp. “He certainly doesn't need your help to
go to the bathroom
.”

He backed into his office, pointing at me as he went. “Just show me you give a shit for once, okay?” Then he slammed the door.

Mrs. Pruitt cleared her throat again and waved her hands as if to shoo away the whole nasty business.

“Well!” she said, pulling a file from one of her desk drawers. “I'll just mark that detention served, then.” She winked at me and patted Billy on the shoulder. “Looks like you owe your friend Billy here a favor.”

I frowned. “I don't do favors.”

But between the crumpled-up detention slip in the trash can and the big grin on Billy's face, all the evidence seemed to suggest this was one favor I couldn't avoid.

It wasn't even a day before Billy came to collect.

I was leaning against Nina Sinclair's car after school, blocking her door just enough to keep her from getting in but not enough to be obvious, and pretending to chat her up about algebra, while I was really calculating which was hotter—her long hair or her long legs.

I'd just gotten a laugh out of her when Billy came stomping up.

“I thought of my favor,” he announced.

My eyes threw fireballs in his direction, but the watery look in Nina's eyes doused the flames.

“Oh, sweetie, what was that?” She spoke in a sickening baby voice and bent over with her hands on her thighs, as if Billy D. were a small boy and not, in fact, her exact same height.

“I was talking to him.” He poked a finger at me.

“Oh, sorry.” Nina looked taken aback for a second, but she was mushy-eyed again when she tilted her head up to me. “You look after him?”

“Well, it's not really
looking after
—”

“Does he have Down syndrome?”

“He can hear you, y'know—”

“That's really sweet.” She leaned in close and fluttered her eyes down toward the ground. “And really hot.”

I felt a warmth spread from my face all the way down below my belt.

“Yeah, you know.” I slung an arm around Billy's neck and pulled him toward the baseball fields. “Gotta look out for the little guys.”

Nina smiled, and I kept Billy in the headlock until she was in her car and pulling away.

When I finally loosened my grip, he pushed away hard. “I'm not little.”

“You're a little bit stupid, though.”

“I'm not stu—”

“I don't mean it like that. I mean it's stupid to interrupt a guy when he's trying to hit on a chick.”

Billy frowned. “You were trying to hit her?”

“No, hit
on
her. It's just an expression, like—” I shook my head. “Forget it.”

We reached the street and walked in silence until we hit the slope that led up to the gardens. We paused, deciding which way to go, then without a word, we both passed the hill and continued down the sidewalk.

“You said you thought of your favor,” I said.

“Oh, yeah. I need you to help—”

“No.”

“What?”

“Whatever it is,
no
. I'm walking you home. That's my detention.”

“But Mr. Bell said you're the amb—the umb—”

“Ambassador,” I said. “And don't call me that. And don't expect me to hold your hand or wipe your butt, either. I'll show you around school, but I'm not doing any bullshit favor you can come up with like … like helping you clean your room or something.”

“I don't need you to help clean my room. I need you to help find my dad.”

I stumbled on the sidewalk and had to search Billy's face to see if he was joking. He wasn't. I backed up a step with my hands in the air. “Whoa. That is … that's just … way heavy.”

And way too close to home.

Billy didn't look surprised. With his eyes narrowed and his jaw set, he looked—
what was it?
—calculating.

“Mr. Bell likes me,” he said.

“So?”

“So he won't give you detentions if you help me.”

I didn't like where this conversation was going.

“No deal,” I said, and kept walking.

Billy scurried to keep up. “If you help me find my dad, I'll help you find yours.”

Again, I was stopped in my tracks. “Dude, who said I wanted to find my dad? That's … that's … none of your business, that's
what that is.” I paced the sidewalk, feeling my palms begin to itch. “And who says I don't know where my dad is?”

“Mark.”

“What?”

“Mark says you don't know
who
your dad is.”

Mark had really given Billy an earful in his first week in town. I pounded a fist into one of my itchy palms. “Okay, this time I
am
going to kick his ass.”

“Do you?” Billy asked.

“Do I what?”

“Do you know who your dad is?”

“I told you it's none of your business!” I pointed a finger in his face. “And you shouldn't listen to mental defects like Mark.”

“And you shouldn't say ‘mental defects.'”

I dropped my hand. “I didn't mean it like … I didn't mean, y'know …”

Billy stared.

“Anyway.” I shook off his stare. “If you're such good friends with Mark, ask
him
to help you find your dad.”

“We're not friends. He just walked me to school once.”

I was sure Billy meant he
followed
Mark to school.

“I bet he wouldn't help me,” Billy said. “But you will.”

“Why is that?”

“Because if you don't, I'll tell Mr. Bell.”

“Tell him what? That I won't solve your family crisis? Yeah, go ahead. I'm sure he'll throw me right out of school.”

Billy shook his head. “No. I'll tell him you won't help me at school. That you're not a good ampassator.”

“Ambassador,” I said, and stared hard down at Billy. “You're joking, right? You wouldn't lie to the warden and get me a detention and maybe kicked out of school just because I won't do you some impossible favor.”

Billy didn't answer, but he met my gaze without blinking, and the look in his eyes said it.

Yes, yes he would.

“That's … You can't …” I chased him as he started moving down the street again, waving my arms and desperately trying to find the words. “That's
extortion
!” I finally cried.

Billy gave me a blank look.

“Blackmail,” I said.

Billy shrugged. “I don't know what that means. But I'm supposed to tell Mr. Bell if you don't help me. And if you don't help me, you get in trouble. So you have to help.”

I was beginning to wonder if there wasn't an evil genius brain under that innocent expression. I wanted to be pissed, but—
damn it
—I was secretly impressed.

“Okay, kid. I guess you got a deal.”

“I'm not a kid. My name is—”

“I know, I know. Your name is Billy D. Fine,
Billy D.
, I'll help you find your dad, all right?”

I had no idea what kind of a mess I might be getting myself into, but it didn't look like I had much choice. Something told me the warden just wouldn't buy it if I told him the friendly new kid with Down syndrome was blackmailing me.

“Awesome,” Billy said. “And I'll help you find yours.”

“That's okay, I don't want—”

But Billy was already pounding down the sidewalk, babbling on about when we should get started and how long it might take.

Two turns later, at the end of our street, he finally became aware of me again.

“I need another favor.”

The kid had nerve.

“You have to teach me to fight.” Billy pulled himself up straight and pounded a fist into a palm the way he'd seen me do earlier.

I started to laugh, but the intense look in his eyes cut me off. “Oh, you're serious.”

“
Dead
serious.”

I half smiled. That line sounded like something Billy had heard a tough guy say on TV. “Yeah, I'm pretty sure teaching you to fight is the
opposite
of what Mr. Bell wants,” I said.

“So you won't do it?” Billy narrowed his eyes at me.

My half smile opened all the way, imagining what the warden would think if he knew he'd just traded in my detentions for fighting lessons.

I gave Billy's shoulder a soft slug. “That's exactly why I
will
do it.”

Billy may have been a berserker—whatever that meant—but he'd obviously never thrown a real punch. Only a few days after promising the kid I'd teach him to fight, I already regretted it. It would have been easier to take my chances with the warden than hang my Twain High career on Billy's demands.

I thought we'd cleared the toughest hurdle just convincing Billy's mom to let him leave our street. I had waited on the sidewalk while Billy promised her we were just going to “hang out” and that we wouldn't go far. But Mrs. Drum hadn't appeared to be listening. She was a frazzled-looking woman with suspicious eyes, and she'd stood in the doorway, staring right past Billy down to me. It was obvious she thought “hang out” meant do drugs and that anywhere beyond our street was too far. But Billy had begged, and she'd finally relented, making him promise to be home by dark.

I pressed my fingers over my eyelids and leaned back against the splintering wooden post of a swing set. “I don't know what to tell you, dude. It's not that hard to hold a fist.”

“It is for me.”

I opened my eyes and saw Billy sitting on the end of a faded yellow plastic slide. The park with the beat-up, old playground covered in gang symbols and rust was the best place we'd found to get a little privacy. It was too much of a crap heap to draw any kids during the day, and the thugs who used it as a meeting place for drug deals or a canvas for spray paint never showed up until after dark.

Billy looked at his hands, splaying the fingers and forcing them to stay straight. When he rested his hands, those fingers curved in slightly. He could make a thick fist, but he had a hard time holding on to it. Every time he landed a punch, his fingers went slack, and so far he'd hurt his own hands more than he'd hurt me.

I pushed off the pole and stood up straight, shaking off my frustration.

“Okay, one more. This time hit me here.” I pointed at my stomach. “It's soft. It won't hurt.”

Billy shook his head. “You're not teaching me right.”

“I'm not—what?” I flinched. “Screw you, Billy D.! I'm doing you a favor. And I don't do—”

“I know,” Billy interrupted. “You don't do favors.”

I snapped my jaw closed.

“You should show me how to hit harder or—”

“It's not just about strength. It's about form.” I tried to
sound like I knew what I was talking about. No one ever taught me to fight. I always just followed the itch.

I sank down on the ground next to where he sat pouting on the slide. “This isn't going to work.”

His face fell. “But you said—”

“I know, but what can I say? I can't teach you.”

“Why not?”

I threw up my hands in frustration. “Because I'm no Mr. Miyagi, and you are
definitely
not the Karate Kid.”

“The what?”

“Don't tell me you haven't seen that movie.”

“What's it about?”

“It's this oldie from, like, the eighties. It's all about a shrimpy dude who becomes the greatest fighter who ever lived, basically.”

“Like me.” Billy grinned.

“No, man,
not
like you. That's the point.”

“It's only the first day,” Billy protested. “Don't worry. You'll get better at teaching me.”

I gaped at him, speechless. Yes, obviously, I was the one sucking it up here and not the kid who couldn't hit a target if his life depended on it.