Sway (16 page)

Since it was the major employer in town, most of the kids who grew up here had at least one parent who worked at the college, but Buford High, for the most part, hosted those students whose parents served food to, or collected the garbage of, the literati. That its student body consistently outshone Wakefield in almost every measurable academic marker had confounded the school system patriarchs for decades.

David had been one of Wakefield's few shining lights, eclipsed only by the football and hockey programs, which were known for graduating its players to acceptance at schools like University of Michigan, Ohio State, and Nebraska—schools where, if news reports were at all reliable, middle-class girls with impossibly blond hair were frequently roofied at frat parties.

For a while Principal Burke had been flying high after Travis Marsh was expelled. Burke tried promoting a new vision of a Wakefield High School where school spirit could be expressed through the jelly bracelets that went out of fashion in 2006. The school spent close to a thousand dollars on the plastic bracelets in the Wakefield colors of green and white, the words
WARRIOR PRIDE
inscribed on them. The students refused to wear them, as did most of the faculty, and all but a few ended up in the local landfill. Pep rallies became a regular venue where Burke talked about Wakefield Warrior pride and other ridiculous concepts. I used the assembly periods to catch up on my e-mail and texts.

Now Principal Burke was at a low point and anarchy threatened his reign. Burke's moment of glory after Travis Marsh's demise had been an illusion, his control of the student body only superficial. Battle of the Brains was a disappointment, a minor letdown, but when the football team started a downward spiral, a losing streak of six games, you could see Burke was starting to feel the strain.

*   *   *

When I shut my locker door I found a skinny kid standing there, just watching me, a hopeful look on his face. I cocked my head in question and waited for him to speak. He didn't for a minute, just shifted his backpack, which seemed to weigh more than he did, to his other shoulder and cleared his throat. I took the time to notice him, figuring most people didn't. He was the kind of kid who faded into the wallpaper, lost amid the beautiful and athletically capable, with oily brown hair and a smattering of freckles on his nose, unremarkable in every way.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“You're the guy they call Sway,” he said. Not a question.

“Some do,” I agreed.

“You've been hanging around that special needs kid. Pete Smalley.”

“I didn't know about the special needs part,” I said. “He never mentioned them.”

“You friends with him?” he asked, squinting one eye with judgment.

“I've got a class to get to,” I said. “Is there going to be an eventual point to this conversation?”

“I heard Pete got laid,” he said.

“Not by me.”

“Suddenly he's one of the chosen,” the kid said, sounding like he was on the offensive though I still couldn't figure what his angle was. “You start hanging out with him, he gets laid, he goes to all the parties—I even saw a cheerleader say hi to him in the hallway.”

“And?” I asked, trying to keep the weariness from my voice.

“My parents went out of town last month,” he said, “and I had a party at my house. I got two kegs and made a hundred Jell-O shots with vodka. You know who showed up?”

“I don't,” I said thoughtfully, “but I have a bad feeling you're going to tell me.”

“The guys from my LARPer club. That's it. The six of them and one fat chick who's a sorceress.”

“A sorceress? Like she can do magic?” I asked. I pride myself on the fact that virtually no one can take me by surprise, but this was a new one on me.

“Yeah, magic, spells and potions.”

“If she can do magic, why is she fat?” I asked.

He searched my face to gauge whether I was putting him on. “She can't really do magic. She plays a sorceress when she does role-playing. Anyway, she put out, but not for me. The whole thing was a freaking bust.”

“Huh,” I grunted noncommittally. “Well…”

“Andrew.”

“Well, Andrew. I'm late for class now so I'd better hit it. It's been … interesting talking to you.” I started to walk away but he fell in step with me like a puppy tripping at my heels.

“Wait,” he said. “Everyone says that you can get things, do things for people. I want to hire you.”

“I don't know where you're getting your information, but anyway, I'm busy. Senior year, college applications, all that stuff,” I said.

“I heard you got early acceptance to Harvard,” he said, “that you know someone and got early acceptance because the person in charge of admissions owed you a favor.”

My face broke into a smile but I didn't look at him as I said, “I hadn't heard that rumor before. It's a good one.”

“So, it's not true?” he asked, sounding a little disappointed.

“It's not a bad idea—Harvard,” I mused aloud. “Lots of kids with money there. Person with the right kind of connections could make a fortune. Course, then you're stuck going to school for another four years with a bunch of douche bags.”

I stopped outside the science and math wing and pulled open the door just as the final bell was ringing. It was quiet now, Andrew and me the only ones still in the hallway.

“Wait,” he said again, his voice a strangled cry. “I want your help. I can pay you.” He held up a roll of cash the size of my fist. “It's seven hundred fifty dollars. Everything I saved from working over the summer.”

I let the door drop shut and looked back over my shoulder to see if there were any witnesses. “You stupid or something?” I asked. “Put that away.”

Chastened, he shoved the money back into his pocket, his gaze dropping to the tops of his shoes. I suppressed a weary sigh when I saw his chin quiver. He sniffled loudly and wiped a sleeve across his nose in a childish gesture.

“What do you think I can do for you?” I asked.

He was silent, searching for an answer, but none seemed to come.

“I can't help you if you don't know what you want,” I said.

“I want … I want to be popular,” he said.

“I don't work miracles, Andrew,” I said. “My abilities have human limitations.”

“I just want people to like me,” he said in that same whiny way Pete would get. “What makes everyone like you, but not me?”

I had the hall door open again and was halfway through the doorway when I stopped to ask, “You think people like me? Is that what you think?”

“Everyone knows you, invites you to all the parties,” he said lamely. “All the girls want to date you.”

“That's not what I asked you,” I said, wondering why I was even making the effort with this kid.

“Who cares if they like you? They want to be you,” he said, now talking to me like I might be simple.

“Don't be an ass,” I snapped. “You've made me late for class.”

“Are you going to help me?” he asked.

“I'll think about it,” I said, and let the door fall shut between us.

 

TWENTY-FOUR

It was a Friday night and I had made my usual rounds, hit the frat parties where I had regular customers. I ended up at the diner for a late-night meal with Carter and Darnell, who were shooting the shit after a round of burgers and fries.

The guys were causing a bit of a ruckus, people around us starting to look our way, including the owner of the diner, who shot us warning looks whenever he looked up from the cash register.

Darnell, who was always the loudest in any group, caught the ugly stares of the owner and shook his head. “Man, Asian people are always hatin' on black people. We just spent thirty dollars in his restaurant and that dude's been giving us dirty looks since we sat down.”

“What are you talking about? Not all Asian folks hate black people. Look at Jackie Chan. He's down with the brown.”

“Wu-Tang Clan's tight with the Asian folks,” Darnell said with a stoner's nod, his eyelids sleepy from the kind bud. “All those West Coast rappers've got an in with the kung fu dudes.”

“Wu-Tang Clan is East Coast,” Carter said with a chin thrust to make his point.

“I think I know my rappers, Goldie,” Darnell shot back. “Isn't that right, Sway?”

“Carter's right,” I said as I sipped at my coffee. “Wu-Tang was East Coast.”

“Man, what d'you know about it, white boy?” Darnell said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“He knows enough to know Ghostface Killah wasn't hanging around no Tupac,” Carter said before I could respond to Darnell's accusation of being white.

“Whatever, man.” Darnell sucked sharply at his teeth. “Forget you, forget this place. There's a billion other Asians who hate black folks.”

“Man, what'd I tell you?” Carter said with a lazy gesture toward Darnell. “This boy talks too damn much.”

“Some white girl is looking over here,” Darnell said with a frown. “White people are haters too.”

“Man, I'm right here,” I said, and Carter laughed.

“It's a compliment,” Carter said. “You and Jackie Chan are both down with the brown.”

*   *   *

After I dropped Carter and Darnell off at Carter's house I drove home, so tired I just wanted to climb into bed and fall immediately into unconsciousness. I was brushing my teeth when my phone rang. I recognized the number though I had never programmed the owner's name into my phone to prevent myself from ever drunk-dialing it.

“Hello,” I said in a voice that suggested I didn't know who was calling.

“Jesse, it's Bridget. Did I wake you?”

“It's eleven thirty,” I said in a tone that clearly implied eleven thirty was absurdly early.

“I know,” she said. “Sorry to call so late.”

I didn't ask her why she was calling. Girls don't like it when you ask them obvious questions like that. I had learned that well enough from hanging out with Joey. But when you didn't ask, they liked to get in a huff because you weren't being sensitive to them when they wanted to talk.

Still, if you were going to lose either way, it's better to lose without saying anything so it can't be held against you later.

“Aren't you going to ask why I'm calling you so late?” she asked after a brief silence and I smiled at her predictability.

“Okay,” I said. “Bridget, why are you calling me after your bedtime?”

“I just needed to talk to someone. Is that okay with you?” I had never heard Bridget sound so snide before and was curious what was wrong with her, though I didn't ask, because of the aforementioned rule for getting along with women.

“Have you been drinking?” I asked instead.

“So, what if I have?” she asked, uncharacteristically surly, and I knew then for sure she had been drinking.

I flipped off the bathroom light, leaving only the glow from the display on my iPod to light my way to my bed, and kicked my discarded clothes into the corner. As the sound of David Bowie's “Heroes” filled the room, I collapsed onto my bed and rested my head on the pillow, my eyes shut and my phone pressed to my ear.

“Are you listening to David Bowie?” Bridget asked. “I love David Bowie. This is even my favorite David Bowie song.”

“Well, then you have better taste in music than your brother.”

“
Uch,
don't get me started,” she said. “I had to take him to a Maroon Five concert over the summer.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I didn't know.”

“It's okay,” she said with a small laugh. “I'm over it, but that's three hours of my life I'll never get back.”

“Where are you?” I asked.

“I had a fight with my parents tonight,” she said. “We had a big argument and then I left without even telling them where I was going. I've never done that before. They've called me like fifty times but I don't want to talk to them. God, they make me crazy sometimes. Anyway, I'm staying at a friend's house tonight. Her parents are out of town so her boyfriend's staying over. I didn't feel like being the fifth wheel anymore so I came upstairs to go to bed, but I can't sleep.”

I wasn't going to ask why she was calling me instead of Ken. “So, what happened with your parents?” I asked as I folded one arm and tucked it behind my head. Lying in bed in the dark, with her voice in my ear, it was like having her there with me in bed. I could almost imagine the weight of her body on the mattress beside me.

“It seems stupid now,” she said with a sigh. “Sometimes I really hate my parents. Life has been such a god-damn disappointment for them, I just can't bring myself to disappoint them about anything. It's fucking exhausting.” She didn't usually swear this much but I let it pass without comment.

“Why a disappointment?” I asked.

“Oh, everything,” she said. “My dad would never say it, but sometimes when he looks at Pete I can see him thinking that he wished he had a son who could throw a football or hit a home run. And we're poor. My parents are always fighting about money. I think my dad makes a decent salary but Pete has had a lot of medical bills and the insurance hasn't always covered everything. They can't hate him for it so they hate each other instead. Sometimes they fight about it late at night when they think we aren't listening. But Pete hears it. I know he does.”

“There are worse things than not having enough money,” I said. “At least your parents care about you. Care about what happens to you.”

“I suppose so,” she said, not wanting to be convinced. “I thought you'd be on my side in this.”

“I am on your side,” I said. “I'm on whatever side you want me to be.”

“I mean,” she continued without really listening to me, “I want my parents to be happy. Pete too. It's just too much fucking work to be in charge of making sure everyone else is happy all the time. It's like they all
need
me to be perfect. Not just my parents. Everyone. Perfect student. Perfect sister. Perfect daughter. It's exhausting.”