Call the Shots (26 page)

I’m so lost in this fantasy that I almost don’t hear my phone ping with a text message.

I slip my cell from Coop’s jacket and look down, fully expecting to see another update from Matt.

But what I read on the screen is like a wrecking ball to the gut. It’s a text from Coop:

n trbl w/ mall cops. srry dawg. cnt get 2 u :(

M
Y HEART NEARLY BURSTS
from my chest like an
Alien
fetus. Mall cops? Holy
crap
! He must have tried to jack some clothes, the idiot. Jesus Christ! What the hell am I supposed to do now?

I cup a hand over my nose and start whiffing like mad. Think, Sean, think. I can’t go anywhere like this — half-nude, wearing clover boxers and a crap hat. I’ll be the laughingstock of Lower Rockville. Forget Leyna. Forget Evelyn. This would be the end of
everything
!

Goddamn it, why do I always listen to Coop? Why do I let him talk me into these things? I should have just canceled with Leyna like I wanted to. Gone to the mall by myself with Evelyn. Maybe even worked up the courage to end things once and for all. Forget what Valerie and Helen said about doing it somewhere private. This totally needs to happen somewhere public, where there are too many witnesses for Evelyn to go all
Exorcist
on me. Somewhere like the Rockville freakin’ Mall.

But
noooo.
This was “too much of an opportunity.” This was “too good to pass up.” This was “every guy’s dream.” I “owed it to my brethren” to take advantage of the situation.

God
damn
it! Every time. Every single
freakin’
time it’s the same with Coop and his lamebrain plans. They
always
end in disaster. And yet he convinces me. Over and over again.

Oh, Christ, what am I going to do? What are my choices here?

And what in God’s name is that stink?

I look down at my turd-slicked palms.

Aw, man! Seriously? Did I just run my hands through my crappy hair? Son of a blaster, it’s on my face too. I feel it on my face. I wiped the bird shit on my face. How the
hell
did I not notice I was doing that?

“Fuuuuck!” I scream, wiping my hands all over Coop’s jacket. I yank the bomber off my body and use it to swab all the guano from my face and hair. “There! How do you like your leatherette now,
buddy
?” I cock my arm back and hurl the soiled jacket into the dumpster. “Screw you, Coop! Screw you and your dumbass plans straight to Hoth!”

A gust of frigid wind snaps me back to sanity. Super. I just threw away the one thing keeping me semiwarm. Now I’m down to sneakers, socks, and my stupid unlucky boxers. Brilliant. Just brilliant.

I take a deep breath, the chilly air numbing my lungs.

All right. It’s okay. I’m fine. I don’t need Coop. Or his stupid jacket. I’ll just call Matt. Explain the situation. Have him duck away from Evelyn for a few minutes, get me some clothes, and meet me back here. No problem.

I reach for my cell phone. And that’s when I realize: My cell phone was in the pocket of Coop’s jacket. Right along with my wallet.

Shittidy shit shitting shitter! I can’t believe it! Why don’t I just take off my boxers and run around the mall with my dingus flopping around and be done with it?

Come on, Sean. Gain control here. I can work this out. I’ll just climb into the dumpster and get all the crappy clothes back. Because crappy clothes are better than no clothes. Then I’ll call Matt and he’ll —

All of sudden I hear the roaring
whoosh
of a big truck pulling around near the loading docks. I quickly duck behind the dumpster. Looks like I’ll have to wait it out before I can go on my recovery mission. That’s okay. I can hold on for a few more minutes as they dump off whatever cargo they’re hauling. I crouch into a little ball, hugging my knees to try and keep warm.

The truck engine gets louder.

And louder.

And louder still, until finally I hear the clunk of metal on metal and see the dumpster rocking a bit, just before it starts to rise in the air.

Oh, no.

Oh, no, no, no!

The dumpster swings high in the sky and is tipped over, sending the contents — including Coop’s jacket, my clothes, my cell phone, and my wallet — rattling and clanking down into the big garbage truck.

And here’s me. Completely exposed. Squatting on the ground in my lucky clover boxers, frozen like Han Solo in carbonite.

The only ray of sunshine in this entire shit storm is that the dude operating the truck is too busy rocking out to his iPod to notice me. The hydraulics puff and wheeze as the now-empty dumpster is lowered, hitting the ground beside me with a loud hollow mocking
thunk.

Now what, Sean? Now what?

I
AM IN TOTAL PANIC MODE
, desperately searching for something that could substitute for clothing. A cardboard box? A rolled-up carpet? A paper bag I can put over my head? Anything I could use to get me home.

But there’s nothing.

And just when I think things couldn’t possibly get any worse . . .

There are voices in the distance. Muffled, echoing,
girls’
voices.

I have to hide. Anyone who walks by will see me crouched here behind this dumpster. Where? Where can I hide? I’ll never make it to the fence in time. Even if I did, I wouldn’t be able to scale it. I could dash out into the parking lot, pray that I get lucky, and hide between parked cars before anyone spots me.

But before I can take off, I hear the girls’ voices getting closer.
Much
closer. Like they’re just on the other side of the
WAL-MART EMPLOYEES ONLY
door.

Crap!

Desperately I leap up, grab the ledge of the empty dumpster, and clamber up the side, scraping the hell out of my knees as I go. I manage to drop inside just in time to hear the
snick
of the push bar on the door followed by girls’ laughter spilling out into the open air.

“So, what are you guys up to tonight?” One of the girls asks.

“Kyle’s parents are out of town,” another girl says. “He was supposed to have a party, but he totally pussied out.”

There’s the
skritch
of lighters being lit and soon the pungent smell of cigarettes mixes with the nasty wet-dog-farts-and-blue-cheese dumpster stink around me.

Who the hell’s going to take their cigarette break by a dumpster?
Oh, man, I could strangle Coop. It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ll just wait them out. A cigarette break is what, fifteen minutes? Surely I can make it that long.

“We’re going to try and scalp tickets for Angel’s Womb,” a third girl says. “They’re playing Nocturnal Submissions over in Dowling.”

That voice.

I
know
that voice. Know it as well as my own.

Cathy.

“They’re completely sold out,” I hear another familiar voice add. Nessa! “But there’s always someone on the corner selling tickets.”

Good Gandalf! How could I have forgotten that they both work at Wal-Mart? It didn’t even cross my mind. Not with everything else I’ve been dealing with.

All right. All right. No need to panic. They don’t know I’m in here. They’re going to smoke their cigarettes and then leave. There’s no reason for them to look in the dumpster.

“No matter what, though,” Cathy says, “I am
not
staying home tonight. My mom is driving me fucking nuts. I don’t know if it’s all the baby hormones or what, but suddenly she’s become a complete psycho bitch from hell.”

“Oh, my God.” One of the other girls laughs. “My mom was a major train wreck when she was pregnant with my little brother. One minute she was crying because she spilled something on the counter, and the next she was screaming at my dad for leaving his socks on the coffee table.”

“Yup.” I hear Cathy take a drag on a cigarette. “That about sums it up.”

“Do you guys know if it’s a boy or a girl yet?”

“Like I even care,” Cathy answers. “I don’t even want the stupid thing in the first place, right? I mean, I know that sounds totally bratty, but it’s true.” She takes another puff on her smoke. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll feel different when it’s finally here, but right now? It’s like everything is
‘the baby, the baby, the baby.’
It makes me want to puke. And don’t get me started on the freakin’ room situation. I’m still trying to pretend
that’s
not actually going to happen.”

It’s weird listening to my sister say all this. On one hand, it sounds so horrible and mean. On the other hand, I know
exactly
how she feels.

“Speaking of your brother.” One of them giggles. “Has he . . . you know . . . come out yet?”

Jesus Christ. She’s gone public with that? I grip my knees even tighter, feeling my entire body flush with heat.

“Not yet,” Cathy says. “But I’m working on it.” I hear the unmistakable sound of Cathy-Nessa laughter.

If I needed proof that they are conspiring against me, their evil cackling certainly seems like a smoking gun.

I clench my eyes shut. Just go away. Just go back inside so I can get out of this reeking dumpster and cling to my last shred of dignity.

“Goddamn it! What a freakin’ rip-off!” one of their coworkers grouses. “This latte’s not even hot.”

A millisecond later, I feel something lukewarm and liquid hit my stomach. My eyes spring open and a surprised squeal escapes my lips before I can stop it. I lose my balance and fall back, my shoulder hitting the side of the dumpster. I look down to see a brown puddle spreading across my stomach and soaking my boxers, making it look like I just squirshed my shorts.

I hold my breath. The girls are silent and there’s a brief hopeful moment where I think that maybe they didn’t hear me. Maybe my lucky boxer shorts are finally starting to kick in.

And then I hear Cathy: “What the hell was that?”

A
PAIR OF HANDS
grasps the side of the dumpster.

I cover my drenched junk with my hands and curl into a tight little ball in the corner of the empty bin, like if I make myself small enough, maybe I won’t be seen.

A mop of black hair starts to peek over the ledge in torturous slow motion.

Oh, God. I can
not
believe this is happening to me. I will
never
be able to live this down. Not ever. Not in a million years.

I watch as the hair becomes a forehead, becomes eyes, and then becomes an entire face.

It’s Nessa, and as soon as she catches sight of me, her eyes bug. “Holy shit!” she blurts.

“What?” I hear Cathy ask. “What is it?”

I lock eyes with Nessa and press my hands together.
“Please,”
I mouth.
“Don’t.”

Nessa hops down from the dumpster and I hold my breath, waiting for the worst. There’ll be laughter and finger pointing and shooting of cell-phone videos for sure.

I’ll have to go into hiding. Join an ashram or something.

But then I hear Nessa say, “It’s just a raccoon. It scared me at first, but he’s really just a pathetic little guy.”

I don’t even mind the slight dig. I’m far too grateful.

“Seriously?” one of the other girls says. “I want to see.”