Lights Out (10 page)

Trey dropped his cap gun and started crying.

‘Don’t hit him like that,’ Saiquan said.

‘Now you tellin’ me how to mother my kids? Gone all day, ain’t makin’ no money, can’t even get no diapers or milk like you suppose to.’

‘I forgot.’

‘Why you forgot? Ain’t got nothin’ else on yo’ damn unemployed mind to think about.’

Turning away, going into the kitchen, Saiquan said, ‘I ain’t in the mood for yo’ bullshit tonight, girl. Walk in the door, bitchin’ at me, don’t even ask me how D’s doin’ and shit.’

‘How is he?’

‘Paralyzed. Can’t move nothin’, neck down. Nigga can’t even talk.’

‘That’s too bad.’

‘Yeah, it is too bad. Shit’s fucked-up, what it is.’

Looking down, feeding the baby, Desiree said under her breath, ‘He only gettin’ what he deserve.’

‘What you just say?’

‘I said he’s gettin’ what he deserve.’

‘You crazy?’

‘That’s what he get, dealin’ drugs for them gangs. You think Desmond never paralyzed nobody else?’

‘The man can’t move. Probably gonna put his ass in a home. You still gotta talk that shit?’

‘I’m just sayin’ I ain’t gonna feel sorry for no gangsta thug goes shootin’ other people, then winds up gettin’ shot himself and put in a chair, that’s all.’

Saiquan picked up the lid on the frying pan and saw nothing there except the burned bottom. He said, ‘Damn, bitch, can’t you save me one piece of fish to eat?’

‘Wasn’t even enough to feed the kids.’ Then she said to the baby, ‘Eat it, come on, eat it.’ Then back to Saiquan, ‘So just ‘cause you at the hospital you can’t stop at the store and pick up no milk and diapers?’

‘Car broke down,’ Saiquan said, ‘had to take the motherfuckin’ bus home, a’ight?’

The baby started crying as Desiree forced the food into her mouth.

‘What you mean, the car broke down?’ Desiree said.

‘Shit broke,’ Saiquan said. ‘Stopped workin’ right on Linden Boulevard. Coulda got my ass killed, didn’t pull over in time.’

‘We can’t afford to get no car fixed.’

‘I know that - that’s why I left the shit there in the street.’

‘What you mean, left it?’

‘Ain’t you listenin’? Shit broke.’

‘But you coulda got it fixed - sold it for two, three hundred bucks. Coulda paid some bills with it or part the rent. Now we don’t pay the rent they gonna put our asses in a shelter.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Saiquan said.

‘I got a plan.’ ‘Oh, you got a plan? Hear that, kids? Daddy’s got a plan. So now we don’t gotta worry no more that the building man was here again today, sayin’ we got two more days to get up the rent for the last three months, or he’s evictin’ our asses onto the street. We don’t gotta worry ‘bout none of that shit ‘cause yo’ hardworkin’ daddy say he got a plan.’ Then she said to the baby, ‘Swallow it -swallow the damn food,’ and then back to Saiquan, ‘So tell me -what’s yo’ big plan? What you gonna do, join back up with the Crips, start sellin’ to them junkies and crack hos again, carryin’ guns ‘round the house, shootin’ people—’

‘I’m gonna find a job,’ Saiquan said.

‘A job? Where you gonna find a job? In the refrigerator? Under the stove? You think the job’s just gonna come flyin’ in the damn window? How you gonna find a job, all you do sit home all day, watchin’ Maury Povich?’

‘I don’t watch no Maury Povich.’

‘Then how come I see Maury Povich on that damn TV every day?’

‘I ain’t watchin’ it.’

‘It go on by itself?’

‘I don’t know how it get on but I don’t watch no fuckin’ Maury Povich. I watch Jerry and Montel, but I don’t watch no Maury.’

‘What kinda man are you?’ Desiree said. ‘Loungin’ ‘round all day on your lazy ass with three kids dependin’ on you. Might as well stayed in jail.’

‘Better off in jail. Least I don’t gotta take yo’ bullshit every damn day.’

‘Hear that, kids? Yo’ daddy’s plannin’ to go back to jail.’

‘Don’t tell ‘em that.’

‘Why not? It’s the truth. They should know their daddy’s just a good-for-nothin’, drug-dealin’, crack-pimpin’, money-stealin’ gangsta, gonna wind up dead, in jail, or a motherfiickin’ vegetable like his boy Desmond.’

Saiquan came at Desiree with his fist cocked.

‘Go ‘head - hit me front of the kids,’ Desiree said. ‘Show ‘em what a great man they daddy is.’

Saiquan looked away and saw Trey and Felicia staring at him, and even the baby’s eyes were wide open. He lowered his fist and went to the sink and drank lukewarm water straight from the faucet, trying to calm down.

When he finished drinking Desiree said, ‘What you gonna do to go away this time? You gonna sell more crack to ten-year-old boys? You gonna kill somebody?’ Then Saiquan picked up the first thing he saw, a glass quarter-filled with Hawaiian Punch, and flung it against the wall, glass and red liquid going everywhere. The kids ran into Saiquan and Desiree’s room and the baby starting screaming. Desiree was yelling too, but Saiquan didn’t give a shit.

Saiquan picked up the phone on the kitchen wall, but didn’t hear a dial tone. He pressed TALK a couple of times, still hearing

nothing, and then he said to Desiree, ‘How come the damn phone don’t work?’

Desiree had the screaming baby out of the high chair, holding her in one arm like a running back holding a football.

‘Why you think?’ she said.

Saiquan put the phone down hard on the countertop.

‘Go ‘head,’ Desiree said, ‘break more shit, scare the kids, make ‘em think their daddy’s a monster. And they’ll be thinkin’ right, ‘cause that shit’s the truth - you a monster! A motherfiickin’ monster!’

Saiquan went past Desiree, toward the front door, and grabbed his jacket.

‘Where the fuck you think you goin’ now?’ Desiree said. ‘You gotta take care of the damn baby!’

Saiquan left the apartment, slamming the door, hearing Desiree still screaming at him. He took the stairs up to the ninth floor and rang the bell to Nadera’s apartment. It opened, with the chain on, and Willie, Nadera’s ten-year-old son, looked through at Saiquan. Willie was a quiet kid, read books all the time, stayed out of trouble.

‘Yo, what up?’ Saiquan said. ‘Yo’ ma’s stuck in the elevator. I gotta use your phone.’

‘I ain’t s’posed to let strangers in.’

Saiquan had known Willie since Willie was a baby.

‘I ain’t no stranger, man,’ Saiquan said.

‘How I know you ain’t gonna rob us?’

‘Yo’ mama’s stuck in the elevator. Come on outside, you can hear her screaming. You wanna make her stay stuck in there all night?’

Willie thought about it for a few more seconds, then let Saiquan inside.

‘Where the phone at?’ Saiquan asked.

‘Bedroom,’ Willie said. Then, as Saiquan headed down the hallway, Willie called after him, ‘Better not steal nothin’!’

Saiquan glared back at him and went into the bedroom. Lisa, Nadera’s daughter, kindergarten age, was on the floor doing a puzzle. When she saw Saiquan come in she got up and ran out of the room.

Saiquan sat on the bed and looked around. Shit was nice - clean blanket and sheets, pictures hung up. Whole apartment was nicer than Saiquan’s - all cleaned up, a new TV, rugs - and Nadera didn’t even have a man. She worked in downtown Brooklyn somewhere, doing something with computers.

After calling 911, Saiquan closed the bedroom door and made another call. The phone rang five times, then Marcus picked up and said, ‘Yeah.’

‘Saw D,’ Saiquan said, looking back to make sure the bedroom door was still closed and the kids weren’t listening in. Then he whispered, ‘He said it was Jermaine.’

‘What?’ Marcus said, like he couldn’t hear. There was noise in the background - a TV or stereo.

‘It was J,’ Saiquan said louder. ‘He fuckin’ paralyzed D, man. Motherfucker got screws in his head.’

‘Got what in his head?’

‘Screws.’

‘Shoes?’

‘Why don’t you turn down that fuckin’ noise so you can hear what my ass is sayin’?’

‘Why don’t you just talk louder?’

“Cause I can’t. I’m at my neighbor’s crib.’

‘You eatin’ ribs?’ ‘Just shut the damn noise!’

A few seconds went by, then the noise went away. Marcus came back on and said, ‘The fuck you sayin’, man?’

‘Jermaine capped D,’ Saiquan said.

‘Jermaine?’ Marcus said.
‘My
Jermaine?’

‘D was bonin’ his bitch or some shit, and J found out and capped his ass. D’s got screws in his head. Can’t even talk.’

‘Yo, that ain’t what I heard,’ Marcus said. ‘They sayin’ one of ‘em Bloods niggas popped him.’

‘That’s just what they spreadin’ ‘round so it don’t look like Crips be poppin’ they own and shit, but it was Jermaine, man. D told me it was J, and I wanna give that motherfucka some payback
tonight.’

‘Hold up, yo -
Jermaine?
That’s Crips-on-Crips shit, yo.’

‘So? I ain’t in the Crips no more.’

‘But I am.’

‘So you don’t gotta come. Just gimme the piece, that’s it.’

‘But what about you? What you think they gonna do, go “Saiquan capped J. That’s cool, what we havin’ for dinner”?’

‘I don’t give a shit they come after me. D’s my boy and I gotta get his back like he always got mine.’

Saiquan heard Marcus breathing. Then Marcus said, ‘How you know this shit’s true?’

‘Why’d D lie, man?’

‘Dunno. Maybe when they put those screws in his head they hit his brain, man ain’t thinkin’ straight.’

‘J popped D, man,’ Saiquan said. ‘I don’t give a shit what crew he in - I’m gonna give his punk ass some payback.’

‘But shit don’t make sense,’ Marcus said. ‘Why’d J smoke D over some ho?’

‘ ‘Cause fuckin’ nigga’s crazy, that’s why. How the fuck should I know why? But listen up, yo - you don’t want nothin’ to do with it, that’s cool. I just need a piece - somethin’ clean, man, know what I’m sayin’? I ain’t gonna fuck up my parole with this shit, that’s for damn sure. I just wanna get this one thing done, then I be on my way.’

‘I’ll hook you up,’ Marcus said, ‘but I’m goin’ too.’

Saiquan didn’t want Marcus to come along. Marcus had a rep around the hood for being a sick-ass, especially when he was high on rock. Saiquan just wanted the piece and that was it.

‘Naw, you don’t gotta come,’ Saiquan said.

‘Yo, D’s my boy too,’ Marcus said. ‘If J capped him I wanna be there to see him feel some pain, know what I’m sayin’?’

Saiquan didn’t know how to keep Marcus out of it. Desmond and Marcus were tight too, and besides, Marcus had the guns.

‘Whatever,’ Saiquan said. ‘You wanna come, that’s cool.’ Saiquan told Marcus he’d meet him at his crib in fifteen minutes, then he left the bedroom and went back through the apartment. Willie and Lisa were standing near the front door, Lisa hiding behind her brother’s back.

‘Is our mama gonna get rescued or not?’ Willie asked.

‘Fireman’s comin’,’ Saiquan said. ‘But that shit might not happen too fast, know what I’m sayin’? Y’all be a’ight here alone?’

‘Yeah,’ Willie said. ‘Cool,’ Saiquan said.

‘But if you wanna go hang out at my place, that’s okay too - my girl’s home right now with the kids, and you can just knock on the door and chill there. I gotta go take care of some shit right now, but I’ll come back later and look in on y’all if yo’ mama ain’t out by then, a’ight?’ He was about to leave when he turned back to Willie and said, ‘I never see you outside, hangin’ with them niggas on the corner. That’s cool, man, that’s cool. You stay in school, do all that readin’ and writin’ shit - get yo’ degree, know what I’m sayin’? Most important thing is you get yo’ degree so you can get the fuck outta here.’

Willie looked confused, like he didn’t understand why Saiquan was telling him all of this.

‘Whatever, man,’ Saiquan said, and left the apartment.

Heading downstairs, Saiquan heard Nadera screaming in the elevator.

On the fourth floor Saiquan yelled to her, ‘Nadera, baby, don’t worry, yo - I called nine-one-one. They gonna get you out!’

‘You check on my kids?’

‘Yeah, don’t worry ‘bout nothin’. Kids’re cool - everybody cool.’

‘Thank you, Saiquan. You a good man, baby. God bless you!’

Standing in front of his bathroom mirror, Ryan went into a set position, checked the runner at first, then lifted his right leg and started his delivery. As he cocked his left arm back to fire toward the plate he caught himself, cursed under his breath, and continued washing his face.

A couple of minutes later he went down the hallway into his bedroom. He turned on his stereo, blasting Jay-Z’s ‘99 Problems’ so loud that his eardrums ached, and then sat on the single bed with the springy mattress he’d had since he was a kid and looked at the clock on his night table. It was 9:36, eight minutes since the last time he’d checked, and now it was three hours and twenty minutes since Christina had left the party with Jake. Ryan had thought they’d just gone into the backyard to talk, but then he looked back there, through the kitchen window, a few minutes after they left and they were gone. Since there was no way out of the backyard to Eighty-first Street, Ryan figured that Jake must have taken the old secret passageway out to Avenue J. Jake was such an asshole, making Christina climb fences, and Ryan couldn’t understand why Christina even went with him. Why didn’t she just break up with him in the backyard and come back inside?

After Jake and Christina had been gone for half an hour or so the crowd outside started to get impatient and chanted, ‘Jake, Jake, Jake. . . .’ Mrs Thomas asked Ryan if he knew where Jake and Christina went and Ryan said he had no idea.

‘Oh, they probably just went somewhere to be alone,’ she said. ‘I guess you can’t really blame them, can you?’

After it became clear that Jake wasn’t returning anytime soon, Mrs Thomas made an announcement to the crowd that Jake wasn’t feeling well and that he wouldn’t be able to sign any more autographs. The crowd groaned and some people booed, which made Ryan feel a little better, but he couldn’t stop making up stories to himself. He imagined that Jake had sweet-talked Christina into staying with him and they’d checked into a hotel somewhere. He pictured Jake kissing Christina and them in bed together, fucking.

Ryan turned off Jay-Z and started listening to Nelly. Nelly wasn’t Ryan’s favorite rapper - that honor went to Nas - but nothing beat ‘Oh Nelly’ when he was pissed off. Sitting on his bed, slapping his fist hard against his knee in synch with the throbbing beat, Ryan couldn’t stop thinking about Christina with Jake. He took out his cell phone and called Christina’s cell for what must’ve been the twentieth time. Like the other times, her voice mail picked up before the first ring, meaning that, for some reason, she’d turned her phone off. This time, instead of hanging up, Ryan decided to leave a message.

‘Chrissy, Ry. Call me.’

He listened to the rest of the CD, then went downstairs to get something to eat. He hadn’t heard his father come home, but Rocco Rossetti was sitting at the kitchen table, eating leftover lasagna, a copy of the
Canarsie Courier
spread out next to the dish. Rocco was dark, overweight, with streaks of gray in his messy hair. He worked for a plumbing contractor, and, as usual, he was sweaty and dirty, in a white wife-beater and jeans after a long day’s work.

‘What’s up?’ Ryan asked.

Rocco grunted but didn’t answer.

Ryan opened the fridge, stared for a while, still thinking about Jake and Christina, then snapped out of it and realized he was looking for something to eat. He took out a package of bologna and then stood at the counter near the sink, making a sandwich with rye bread.

‘What’d the Knicks do?’ Rocco asked.

‘Dunno,’ Ryan said.

‘Were up four in the third but probably fuckin’ blew it.’ Rocco shook his head miserably.

Ryan finished making the sandwich, then started eating, standing up.

About a minute went by, then Rocco said, ‘Jesus, you read this? A sixteen-year-old nigger breaks into a house, shoots a woman in the face, steals sixty dollars. Happened right up on Hundred and Third near Farragut. I used to play stickball on that block with my friend Joey Mantello and his brother Tommy. Fuckin’ spook bastards fuckin’ up the neighborhood. Now you need fuckin’ assault weapons to go up there.’

Rocco was slurring, and Ryan realized that he’d been drinking. Although Rocco had been in AA for years, he still drank beer, claiming that beer didn’t count - it was only the hard stuff he had to avoid.

Rocco took a big bite of lasagna, shaking his head. Ryan checked his cell phone to see if he had any messages, then put the phone back in his pocket.

‘Every week you read the same shit in the paper,’ Rocco went on. ‘Rapes, murders, all that fucking crack. When I was growing up you could stay out on the street all night, you could leave your door open. I remember when the Thomases moved on the block. Your mother said’ - Rocco’s voice got whiny, imitating RoseMarie - ‘ “Don’t worry, Rocco, it’s one black guy - what’s the difference?” Now look what happened. It’s like when you see the first cockroach in your house. You don’t do anything about it, then boom - you’re infested.’

Rocco took hard, angry bites of his lasagna, as if he were trying to gnaw into a tough steak.

‘So you go to the party?’ Rocco asked.

‘Yeah,’ Ryan mumbled.

‘What?’ Rocco said, although Ryan knew he’d heard him.

‘Yeah,’ Ryan said louder.

‘They still had the fucking street closed off when I came home,’ Rocco said. ‘Had to park around the corner, but those people don’t give a shit.’

Ryan knew that this was true, but he didn’t like hearing it, especially from his asshole father.

‘I remember back in Little League,’ Rocco went on, ‘you were the big star, not Jake. Yeah, he could hit, but you could pitch. That’s why people came to the games - to see you throw those curveballs. A twelve-year-old kid, lettin’ it fall off the table like that. Anybody who saw the two of you play back then would’ve thought you were gonna be the superstar someday, not that fuckin’ monkey.’

‘So what’s your point?’ Ryan asked.

‘Nothing. I’m just saying you had the talent, and talent like that doesn’t just go away. . . . Hey, I heard the Cyclones have tryouts out in Coney Island sometimes. Why don’t you go down there and show your stuff? They got big-league scouts can sign you up.’

‘Why would they sign me?’

‘What do you mean? T o pitch.’

‘I can’t pitch anymore.’

‘How do you know?’

Shaking his head, Ryan stuffed the rest of the sandwich into his mouth and wiped the crumbs off the counter into his hand.

‘What do they always say?’ Rocco said. ‘You gotta be in it to win it. How do you know you can’t pitch till you try? Those injuries heal. You can come back if you want to, if you put your head into it.’

‘Okay, let’s drop it.’

‘You’re better than that fucking Jake Thomas. The only thing he ever had on you is he’s half-spook. You got the black blood in you, you’re gonna make it in sports. Look at his father. The guy’s built like a gorilla. It’s in their fuckin’ blood, I’m telling ya. They lived in the jungles, running around, throwing fuckin’ spears; of course they can throw fuckin’ baseballs. But they can’t throw footballs. That’s how come you never seen a black quarterback win the Super Bowl.’

‘How many beers you have tonight?’ Ryan asked.

‘What?’

‘You think you’re hiding it? You think I can’t tell?’

‘I had one - with dinner.’ ‘Yeah, more like ten with no dinner.’

Ryan took out a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. He put one in his mouth and lit it with the burner on the stove.

‘So you gonna go to those fuckin’ Coney Island tryouts or what?’ Rocco said.

‘My baseball career’s over,’ Ryan said. ‘Just get that into your fuckin’ head, all right?’

‘You never used to be a quitter. You used to have fight.’

Ryan finished a long drag on the cigarette, looking away.

‘Look at you,’ Rocco went on. ‘Smoking like a fuckin’ chimney, listening to that goddamn rap music all the time. Can’t you just dress normal, tie the laces on your goddamn sneakers? Wh o woulda thought my own son would turn nigger?’

‘Watch it.’

‘Look in the mirror.You’re fuckin’ white!’

Rose-Marie entered the kitchen.

‘What’re you two fighting about now?’

‘Nothing,’ Ryan said.

‘Your son’s a quitter,’ Rocco said.

‘Shut up,’ Ryan said.

‘He could pitch for the Mets if he wanted to, but he just wants to paint houses and pretend he’s a nigger. The kid’s a fuckin’ loser.’

‘Look who’s calling me a loser,’ Ryan said, ‘a fucking fifty-seven-year-old plumber who gets drunk every night like a bum.’

‘Hey!’ Rocco stood up, like he was about to go after Ryan.

‘Were you drinking?’ Rose-Marie asked Rocco, sounding concerned.

Rocco pointed his index finger at Ryan. ‘You better fuckin’ watch it, you little piece of shit!’

‘Both of you, stop it,’ Rose-Marie said. ‘Just stop it!’

‘Kid’s got no fuckin’ respect,’ Rocco said.

‘You said you were gonna stop drinking,’ Rose-Marie said.

‘I wasn’t fuckin’ drinking,’ Rocco said. ‘You gonna listen to him?’

Ryan put his cigarette out in the sink and left the kitchen, hearing his father screaming, ‘Who you callin’ a liar, huh? Wh o you callin’ a fuckin’ liar?’

Ryan went to his room, locked the door, and cranked Mobb Deep’s ‘Bitch Ass Nigga,’ just to piss his father off.

Lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, Ryan took out his cell phone. He changed the ringer setting to vibrate and kept the phone in his hand so he wouldn’t miss Christina’s call.

After about fifteen minutes, Ryan lowered the music and called Christina, again getting her voice mail. He clicked off without leaving a message and decided enough was enough. Christina had left the party with Jake over four hours ago, and that was plenty of time to break up. Either they were fucking or something else had gone wrong. Maybe she walked home alone and got mugged or raped.

He dialed her home number, not realizing that he’d done it until her father answered.

‘What?’ Al Mercado said.

‘Hey, it’s Ryan. Is Christina there?

’ ‘She’s upstairs with Jake.’

A sharp pain ripped through Ryan’s stomach.

After a couple of seconds Al said, ‘Hello?

’ ‘Can I talk to her?’ Ryan asked.

‘Wait till tomorrow, will ya?

’ ‘D’you know what they’re doing up there?

’ ‘What?’

‘I really need to talk to her. It’s important.

’ ‘I’m sure it’s not that important. Call tomorrow.

’ ‘But—’

Al hung up.

‘Damn it,’ Ryan said, clicking off.

Ryan pressed TALK again, redialing, but when Al barked, ‘What?’ Ryan disconnected.

Ryan closed his eyes and took deep breaths, trying to control himself. He wanted to call again and keep calling, but he didn’t want to do anything stupid. She was probably in her room breaking up with Jake and nothing had gone wrong. At least she was safe - she hadn’t been attacked or anything.

Ryan turned the stereo back up and sat at the edge of his bed, his legs bopping up and down hyperactively, out of synch with the beat of Cam’ron’s ‘Lord You Know.’

Someone started banging on his door. ‘Hey!’ Rocco said. ‘Turn that shit down! Hey, you hear me?’ Ryan made the music even louder, drowning out his father’s voice and the banging.

For the next hour or so Ryan killed time listening to gangsta rap, smoking cigarettes, and surfing the Net. He went onto
rapboard.com
and skimmed a thread a poster caller ‘Flava4U’ had started, accusing Eminen of being a racist. Flava had been posting the same crap for months, and Ryan didn’t even bother responding. On the AOL rap and hip-hop board, there was a very long thread about the latest rumors about the 50 cent/Ja Rule rivalry. Ryan typed a long post about how the rivalry was a lot of commercial BS, that the two guys were probably best friends, and people should forget about it already and move on. He read part of another thread - somebody was dissing Usher and Beyonce for selling out to white suburbia - and then he checked out the BET message board where people were posting lists of the best lyricists of all time. The usuals - Tupac, Jay-Z, Eminem, Nas - were mentioned, but Ryan typed in, ‘What about Canibus? What about Murs?’ Then he skimmed another long thread discussing the latest rumor about who’d killed Jam Master Jay, including some nonsense about how the CIA had done it. Every few minutes, as Ryan mindlessly read more posts, he checked his cell phone for messages in case the ringer wasn’t working or something, but Christina wasn’t getting in touch.

At 11:41 Ryan got offline and took a shower. He scrubbed himself hard, trying to get all the paint off his body. As he massaged soap into his balls, he remembered how he’d come prematurely with Christina - again. Although she’d said she understood, maybe she thought the problem would go on forever, that they’d never be able to have good sex, and this drove her back to Jake.

Or maybe it was all about money.

Ryan remembered Christina in the car, suggesting that she sell her engagement ring so that Ryan could use the money to start his painting business. Christina always seemed concerned about Ryan’s future, and didn’t seem to believe in him. If she married Jake she’d have millions of dollars, fancy houses, cars, expensive clothes, jewelry, and everything else she wanted. But with Ryan, especially if his business didn’t work out, life would always be a struggle. They’d have to scrounge for money for rent and bills, and they might never be able to afford a house or take vacations or buy the things she wanted. Maybe she thought that a guy like Jake Thomas was too good a thing to give up.

With soap still covering most of his body, Ryan got out of the shower. He wrapped a towel around his waist, then went to his bedroom. To hell with it - he’d just go over to her place and see what was going on. Then, pulling on his jeans, he changed his mind. If he barged into her house like a psycho she’d never forgive him.

Ryan took off the jeans and put on sweats and a T-shirt and lay in bed with his eyes closed. He wasn’t tired at all, and his mind was still spinning. He went downstairs to the living room and watched TV. His parents had gone to bed, and the house was dark except for the TV light. He channel-surfed mindlessly for a while, then stopped on Jay Leno. He felt like somebody was playing a sick joke on him, because Jake was sitting there next to Jay in some expensive suit and shiny shoes. It must’ve been a repeat, but what were the odds of this show playing tonight?