Still Waters (6 page)

I
n the morning, I checked the cell phone and tucked it back under the bed. Put on the new clothes. It felt weird wearing them. They looked good—dark jeans, a navy T-shirt, and a black-and-red hoodie—but they felt weird. Not mine.

The jeans were so new, the ink so rich and dark, I expected it to rub off on my skin. Cyndra had cut the price tags off, or the salesperson had. I couldn’t decide if it was a nice gesture or if it pissed me off.

“Wow,” Janie said when I came downstairs.

I glared at her.

“What? They look nice. You look sharp.”

“I feel like a jerk.” My hands tightened. I didn’t know why wearing new clothes should make me feel ashamed.

“Don’t. They’re not dorky—they’ve still got your”—she waved her hand—“look.”

Like I had a look.

Janie twirled her fingers. “Take the hoodie off and turn around.”

I felt stupid, but it made her happy.

When I was done I held out my hands like
Enough?

“They really fit, too,” she said.

I rolled my shoulders forward and felt the fabric tighten. “Nah, they’re small.”

Janie shook her head and smiled. “That’s called fitting, Jason. You look . . . great.” She sounded surprised. Like I was a whole other person.

“They’re just clothes, Janie.”

She handed me my bag. We headed to her bus stop.

After she was on her bus, I walked to Clay’s house. Clay’s mom opened the door.

“Good morning, Jason.”

She turned slowly, ruffling her son’s hair as he slouched to the door. “Have a good day, honey.”

“You, too,” Clay said. His eyes flitted over my new clothes.

As we closed the door behind us, Clay’s mom was shuffling up the short hall. Slow, like all the tired had pooled into her ankles.

There was a slight bite to the morning air. I zipped up the hoodie.

“Cyndra’s Ken doll.” Clay smirked.

We walked up the street. Our breaths puffed on the air.

“Not sure why I hate this so much.”

“Because you know it’s not real. And you can’t explain any of it.”

“Yeah, and people look at me different.”

Even him.

“You
are
different. It makes you different.” His hand waved in the direction of the high school. “People may not know why. But it’s there, wearing you. Not the other way around.”

Vintage Clay. Pinpointing the problem with laser accuracy. Like Michael had said, users and the used.

Clay was watching me as we walked. Gauging it. And that made me feel better than anything else. Knowing he had my back, to keep me honest. Keep me true.

“There’s a party tomorrow night,” I said. “Do you think you could get your mom’s car?”

“God. Me at a high school party. Perish the thought.”

“I just need another set of eyes there. I’ll be working.” Thinking of how observant he was, and the fact that there was something deeper going on.

Clay glanced up, brushing hair out of his eyes. “Okay. Sure.”

And that made me feel confident, like a weight had shifted. “Thanks. I’ll text you when I find out where.”

“Ooh, a cell phone, too! Oh, text me. We can send texts. Like BFFs.”

“Fuck off.”

Clay laughed and jumped up, throwing an arm around my neck. Trying to pull me into a headlock.

I let him.

Until I grabbed his backpack and yanked down. He fell back, but I caught him, blocking his stumble with my foot as I looped the backpack off his shoulder.

“Hey!” Clay yelled as I took off. On my back, Clay’s pack and my duffle clobbered each other as I ran to the corner.

I waited at the lights for Clay to catch up. He lightly popped a hand across the back of my head.

“Hey!” I rubbed my head like it had hurt. “I thought violence never solved anything.” I handed him his bag.

“That wasn’t violence. That was justice.”

The lights changed, and Clay stepped out without looking. I slipped ahead of him, glaring at the driver of a beat-up green truck that was still zooming up to the crosswalk. On the other side of the street, Clay slowed down and stuck out a hand. I slid a shake.

“Go do this,” Clay said. “Take that bastard’s money and don’t let it get to you.”

“Thanks, coach. I won’t let you down.”

I crossed through the senior parking lot, but Michael’s cherry Mustang wasn’t there yet. I headed into the cafeteria for breakfast and told myself it wasn’t cowardly to feel relieved.

Hunched over my biscuit and OJ, I nodded off so quick it was like sinking into something more than real. More than true. Darkness and fangs, fists and ripping. Threats and something clawing you.

“Jason.” A hand gripped my arm.

I lunged away, yanking my arm up and back.

Cyndra’s perfect mouth fell open into an
O
of surprise.

“Michael send you to get me?” I pretended my reaction had been normal. “Where to?”

“It’s—uh—different from yesterday.” She hugged her books to her chest. Her eyes flicked to the coaches: Protectors of the Cafeteria.

“Sorry,” I said, trying to relax my gritted teeth. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s not that.” She shook her head, swift and tight. “I was jumpy already.”

She
was jumpy?

“We have to ditch. Come on.” She didn’t wait for me to ask what was happening and didn’t offer an explanation.

Leaving my tray on the table, I followed her.

“Hey!” called one of the coaches, a former juice-head now running to fat. He pointed at my tray.

I met his eyes. Felt my blood pressure drop as my breathing and heart rate slowed.

He broke the gaze first. Slid his eyes to the tray behind me. “You!” He shouted to someone else. “Pick that tray up.”

“But it’s not mine!”

“Shut up and do it.” The coach put his hands on his wide hips and watched the other guy take it. Acted like he’d never even been talking to me.

Cyndra huffed a soft laugh, puffing a lock of red-gold hair with her breath. I didn’t mind everyone watching as she led me out.

We walked out to her silver Mercedes and got in. She threw the car into gear and sped out of the lot.

“Where are we going?”

“Michael’s waiting for us just a few minutes from here.” She drove away from the school, weaving through modest residential streets.

Eventually, we pulled into a pharmacy parking lot. Michael’s Mustang was parked by the door.

“He called me,” Cyndra said. “Told me to get you and bring you here. Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

“Don’t have it. We’re not supposed to have them at school, remember? Michael called me?”

“Yeah.” She parked next to his car. “No one pays attention to that rule.” Cyndra opened her door. “Just make sure the ringer’s off.”

I got out and followed her around to the passenger side of the Mustang. I couldn’t see Michael through the tinted glass.

Cyndra tapped on the window before cracking the door open. “We’re here. I’ll go inside and get the stuff.” She turned to me and gestured to the car seat. “I’ll be right back.”

I climbed into the car as Cyndra walked into the pharmacy.

“Should’ve answered your damn phone.” Michael’s voice was muffled. He was pressing a gym shirt to his mouth.

His bruised eye was swollen almost shut. Ugly purple streaks spread over his cheekbone and up to his eye socket. Closest to his eye, the bruising turned a vivid red. Just above his cheekbone, near the temple, was a cut that had already clotted.

“Nice look, Face,” I said.

Michael coughed a laugh, groaned, and clutched his stomach. He eased forward and spat a glob of blood into a McDonald’s cup.

“What happened?”

“You were right. Yesterday.” He gasped as he fell back in the seat. “I’ll tell you. I don’t know what else to do.”

“Who did this?”

His good eye went wide. Even in the safety of his car, he glanced around before answering.

“Lonzo Cesare,” he breathed in fear, like he was naming Satan.

I watched him, waiting for more.

“Wait. You don’t know him?” He rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head slowly, like he couldn’t decide if he should laugh or sob.

“He’s a drug dealer. And a bookie. More than that, I don’t want to know.” His fingers continued to knead the muscles in his neck. “I lost some bets.”

Like they were inconsequential things.

“So pay him. Instead of me.”

“It’s more than I have right now. Way more. I need time.” He let go of his neck to wave the hand at his face. “This is what he did when I told him that.”

“How much time did it buy you?” I asked.

“A week.” Michael closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “I’ll fix it. I can get ahead of this.”

Something about the tone of his voice and what he said. The bets laid before school and the power-lust glint in his eyes clicked with images of my mom before she overdosed. The way she would come into our room, shake us awake, and promise that she was going to change. Just so she could hear the lie spoken aloud.

Everything was going to get better.

“I’ll take care of it. But I need you to help show him I’m not helpless. And to come when I call, damnit. So I
won’t be
helpless. He’s got kids that deal for him at Mercer. Don’t think for one second he doesn’t. With you hanging around, he’ll think twice about coming after me again.”

“I’m not
that
scary.”

“Your dad is.” His eyes shone on my face like a policeman’s light. “Everyone knows your dad’s a badass.” Then he muttered, “I bet
he
knows who Lonzo Cesare is.”

So
that’s
what this was about? I was a stand-in for my dad? Like my dad is some underworld kingpin. Instead of a low-level thug.

“Whatever,” I said. Maybe
badass
and
kingpin
are relative propositions, especially to the ignorant.

Cyndra walked out, a bag in her hand. Michael put his window down and took the bag. “Go ahead to school. I’ll be fine now.”

Cyndra frowned, chewed on her lower lip, and shifted her weight. She stared at her boyfriend’s bruised face.

“Go, I said.”

He put the window back up.

She went to her car and got in. Slammed the door and laid tire marks as she pulled out of the parking lot.

“She doesn’t know all this,” Michael explained. “She knows I’m in trouble, not how much.”

“She knows now.”

Michael laughed, then groaned. He fumbled through the bag, fished out some painkillers, and took two.

“How’d you meet this guy?” I asked.

Michael pulled out a chemical cooling pack. Twisted and folded it until it got cold, leaned back, and put it over his swollen eye.

“I went to a bar with my stepbrother. A dive. We’d just dropped off Cyndra and her mom for their trip to Paris last summer. Mark was on break from college. He said, ‘Let’s light this town up.’ This was a couple weeks before school started back.” He sighed, shifted in the bucket seat and hissed in pain. “Damnit. I’m not used to this.”

He shifted again. “Mark and I, we drove to this dive he’d heard about. And there were these trashy girls there. We picked them up. And the next thing, we’re drinking, and there’s drugs. And this girl says, ‘Two high rollers like you, you should meet Alonzo.’ Just like in a movie.”

A tiny blue car parked next to us. An old lady got out, glaring at the Mustang parked so close to the door.

“So we say, ‘Who’s that?’ And of course she gets him. He says call him Cesare. And he’s got more drugs. And he’s getting the girls to come over. Then we go to the back, this private party room, like. Gambling there. Card games. Track bets on a big screen. And we start playing. We won. We won everything. It was like we were unbeatable.”

His busted lip stretched into a smile at the memory. “And that was it. Mark went back to college, and I went back to the bar. Kept gambling. It seemed so easy. I was a dumbass.”

He didn’t have to finish the story. I already knew how it ended.

The house always wins—especially after they lure you in.

So that was it. What put Michael, and now me, in danger. A spike of adrenaline dumped in my veins as I cut my eyes around the parking lot.

“I thought I was smarter than him. I thought, you know, I could keep ahead of it. I could get it back. Instead I kept getting deeper and deeper in debt. More money. So much money.” Michael’s busted lip stretched in a tortured smile. He leaned forward and spit into the cup again. Shifted the cool pack from his eye to his lip.

“This morning he was waiting for me. Said he wanted to talk. I didn’t think he’d get violent, though.” He sighed and repositioned the pack. “But it’s gonna be okay. I’ve got a week. And I’ve got you. And a plan.”

“I won’t be able to protect you from him. Even if I wanted to. I’m not much of an insurance policy. And neither is my dad, especially when it’s not for him.”

“That’s why we’re going to get a gun.”

My eyes tightened and my mouth went flat. I reached for the door.

Michael grabbed my arm with clawed fingers. “Wait!”

“I won’t shoot anyone for you. And I don’t want to hear any more of your plan.” I wrenched my arm out of his desperate vise. Michael gasped at the jostling movement, hugged his arm across his stomach.

“I don’t want you to kill anyone! The gun is for protection. It’s like me hiring you. A message. He thinks I’m a punk-ass kid he can just bully. He won’t stop until I show him I’m not. The gun will buy me safety for just a little while longer. Not one week, two. That’s all I’ll need.”

“You shouldn’t even be paying me, then. You need every cent you can get, right?”

“You idiot.” His eyes cut with his tone. “You work for dimes. I owe him an entire bank. Let me worry about how I’m going to get his money.”

He sighed and leaned back. His curling lip shifted to a pressure-flat line. “Lonzo Cesare is a vicious, evil bastard. But he’s not more than that. I can beat him.”

Moments ago he sounded like the name was demonic. Now he stroked his own ego to fight back. The football player needing the pep squad.

“I’m smarter than him,” Michael said. “I can beat him.”