Sway (19 page)

Bridget sat quietly beside her grandmother with her hands tucked between her thighs, shoulders slumped and head down, her mouth set in a grim line. My feet carried me to her without any direction from the sense center of my brain. She looked up at me as I stood before her and that was when I saw the tear that quivered on the brink of her lower lid.

“What's the matter?” I asked, jumping immediately to the conclusion that Ken had done something unforgivable, something that demanded application of Icy Hot in his jockstrap, or maybe even a malfunction of the braking system in his car. “Did something happen between you and Ken?”

Bridget shook her head and wiped at her eyes. “No, nothing like that. It was me. I did something really stupid and now—” A shudder seemed to pass through her before she continued. “—and now I have to disappoint the kids at the Siegel Center.”

“What could you have done that was so terrible?” I asked, fighting the instinctive urge to take on the tone of voice usually reserved for injured kittens.

“You know, we've been planning that Special Olympics event for the kids but there's really no space big enough at the Siegel Center, no gym where we can set up and people can come watch. So, I told the kids that I would arrange for us to host the event at Wakefield. I thought it would be no big deal. It's a public building, you know? But Mr. Burke said that we can't use the building on the weekend. Something about budget cuts or liability for the school, I don't know. Now I have to go to the Siegel Center and tell the kids—” She paused as she swallowed back a small sob. “They've been so excited about it, practicing and telling their families. God, I'm such an idiot. I never should have told them we could do it until after I got permission.”

“It's not your fault,” I said. “Burke is a douche.”

The corner of her mouth twitched with the hint of a smile. “Pete's new favorite word,” she said as she cut me an admonishing look. “Being a bad influence seems to be your specialty.”

“I had nothing to do with the new haircut,” I said defensively. “I told him it makes him look like Ellen DeGeneres but he thinks the girls will be crazy about it.”

My comment elicited a small laugh and Bridget shook her head. “Can't you be serious for one minute? This is really, really bad. Stop making jokes.”

“Why do you always think I'm joking?” I asked. “That haircut is nothing to joke about. It's seriously awful. You know who has a haircut like that? Justin Bieber.”

Now she laughed for real and I was inwardly pleased with myself for making her forget her worries, if only for a minute. She seemed to suddenly remember that she had nothing to be happy about and her face fell again. Dorothy was mumbling to herself in the wheelchair next to her and Bridget idly rubbed the old woman's hand.

“Mr. Dunkelman keeps an eye on her,” I said.

“You call your grandfather Mr. Dunkelman?” Bridget asked with a small frown and I stiffened as I realized I had forgotten about the ruse that had brought us together.

“Yeah, well, we weren't close when I was growing up. In fact,” I said, warming up to the lie, “we didn't even really know each other until recently.”

“He wasn't close with your mom?” she asked, her voice quiet and apologetic.

“No,” I said curtly as we treaded into muddy waters.

“Still,” she said, “it must have been hard for him.” She sighed and rubbed her forehead with her fingertips, the nail beds perfect, pink half moons. “I don't even want to face those kids on Tuesday. What am I supposed to say to them?”

“When's the event supposed to be?” I asked.

“The first weekend of December.”

“I wouldn't say anything,” I said. “Burke might still change his mind. Give it a week and if he still won't let you do it, then you can tell them. Until then, I'd keep it to yourself.”

“You're crazy,” she said. “He's not going to change his mind.”

“Just wait a week before you tell the kids,” I said, and gave her my best reassuring smile. “No reason to break their hearts right away.”

*   *   *

The next day I didn't find Burke in his office until after the second lunch period and by then I had thought through how I would handle him. “I need to see Mr. Burke,” I said to the pudgy receptionist with the foot-high beehive hairdon't.

“Well, I'm sorry,” she said, not sounding the slightest bit sorry as she took a pencil and scratched absently at her scalp with the point of it. I imagined that her scalp was covered with little lumps of powdered skin under the hair helmet and contemplated the wedding band on her chubby ring finger. Disgust rolled in my gut as I thought about the kind of man who slept beside her every night. “Mr. Burke is very busy right now,” she said with a crack of her gum. “You can talk to someone in guidance or make an appointment to see Mr. Burke another day.”

“You tell him Jesse Alderman is here,” I said. “He'll make time.”

She glared at me, and the rolling chair groaned in protest as she pushed herself back from the desk. She didn't argue, just waddled into Burke's office to confer with him. Only a few seconds passed before she returned and gestured to Burke's door with a sneer. “He'll see you now.”

“Alderman,” Burke said by way of greeting as I entered his office and shut the door behind me. He held an unlit pipe, which he was cleaning with a pocketknife, and I could see Candy Crush on his computer monitor reflected in the framed diploma behind him. “I guess today is payday since you have chosen to grace me with your presence.”

His head was swollen with ego now that no one overtly challenged his authority on campus. Travis Marsh, by all appearances worthless in the high school ecosystem, had served a vital function—had been Burke's daily reminder that his authority was insignificant compared to the will of one thousand students.

“You guessed right,” I said, keeping my tone level, because anger isn't appropriate. You can't let emotion interfere with business. I had to remind myself that this was business, not a personal vendetta, not an issue that should interest me personally at all.

“And what is it I can do for you?” he asked, condescending now. Truly powerful people know better than to treat others the way Burke did.

“You're going to open the school gym on a Saturday for the kids from the Siegel Center to have their very own Special Olympics event,” I said. “Whatever Saturday they want. That's your payment for Travis.”

Burke sighed impatiently and rolled his eyes. “Look, I told that Smalley girl who's been moping around my office that my hands are tied. We've had budget cuts, I'm short-staffed, not to mention the liability if someone gets hurt. Jesus, she wants to let a bunch of cripples try pole-vaulting and shit. I'm probably saving them from serious injury.”

“Cry me a river, Burke. I don't care about your problems,” I said, placing my hands flat on the surface of his desk and leaning in so he had nowhere to look but into my face. “You signed a contract and I'm cashing in. You make it happen. I don't care how. If you don't, I'll make you very sorry.”

“By doing what?” he scoffed. “Don't you threaten me, Alderman. Your fingerprints are all over that stunt you pulled to frame Travis Marsh. If I go down, you're going with me. You think if you go to the authorities, anyone will believe your word over mine?”

I turned and went for the door while he was still blustering behind me. “I'll tell you one thing,” I said, my hand on the doorknob, the door still shut, “if you go down this road with me, you'll lose. I'll make what happened to Travis look like a cakewalk. The public can forgive just about anything, but they'll never forgive a pedophile. You think about that, but don't think too long. You've got until the end of the school day.” I opened the door and was two steps out when I turned back to add, “And make sure you deliver the news to Bridget with a smile. No sulking. I want her to enjoy the moment.”

I gave the receptionist a friendly nod on my way out of the office. Burke would probably waste the next ninety minutes stewing in his office before his inner spineless coward bowed to my demands and he went in search of Bridget to deliver the news.

*   *   *

When I was on my way to seventh period that day I was stopped by Bridget, who called out to me in the crowded hallway.

“I can't believe it!” she cried as she ran up to me. “Mr. Burke called me out of class, said he had changed his mind and we could use the campus for our event. Can you believe it?”

“That's great,” I said, basking in the warmth of her smile.

“I don't know why he changed his mind but he did and I can't wait to tell the kids at the Siegel Center,” she babbled happily. “They're going to be so excited.” She said this with a clap of her hands and a bounce in her step and I felt my face spreading into a smile.

What she did next shouldn't have been any real surprise. Bridget was the most loving and effusive person God had ever made. It shouldn't have been a surprise, but when it happened I wasn't prepared. When she threw her arms around my neck, my bowels felt loose, my heart hammered in my throat, and Jimi Hendrix counted in “Little Wing” in my head.

The hug lasted a good ten seconds—and I mean a really good ten seconds. I pressed one hand into the small of her back and savored the feel of her body against mine, the clean smell of her hair. Then she was pulling away, but not before dropping a kiss on my cheek.

I had just wasted a Get Out of Jail Free card for a hug from Bridget and to give some dopey kids a track-and-field venue. Was it worth it?

Does the pope shit in the woods?

 

TWENTY-EIGHT

Friday night I left the house early because it was almost an hour drive to a club on the outskirts of Boston called Plant Nine. Pete wasn't waiting outside when I got to his house so I knocked at the door. It was a few minutes before Pete came, his face clouded with anger as he slammed the front door on his way out.

“Unfuckingbelieveable,” he spat viciously as he stormed past me and didn't wait to see if I followed him to the car.

Once we were in the car and pulling away from the curb he spoke again, his voice tight with anger. “My parents are giving me shit about how much time I've been spending out. Said they think you're a bad influence on me.”

“Yeah, well, your parents are right,” I said with a thoughtful nod. “I am a bad influence.”

He kept up his tirade without stopping to listen to me. “They don't say jack shit when Bridget goes on dates or out with her friends. She's such a fucking saint, they don't believe she would do anything bad anyway.”

“I don't know why you fight with them,” I said. “The way to handle parents is to tell them what they want to hear—stay on top of your schoolwork so you don't have to listen to any shit about it, keep your head down and your nose clean, let them believe they're doing a good job. You take the fight to them, you'll lose every time.”

“That's really great advice coming from the delinquent who hangs out with drug dealers and skinheads,” he said.

“You finished?” I asked as we sat through a red light.

“Yeah. You got any weed?”

“Yeah, I got some.”

“Well, can I have some?” he asked impatiently.

“I just gave you a dime bag last week.”

“Yeah, and it lasted all of about two days,” he said, talking tough now. “Let me have a hit of X.”

“Forget it,” I said. “You don't need to be messing with that stuff.”

“Why?” he asked, his tone insolent. “I just want to try it. You've done it, haven't you?”

“Once or twice.”

“So, let me try it.”

“Ain't gonna happen, so stop asking me,” I said.

“You suck,” he muttered as he sank even lower in his seat. “What happened? Did you suddenly get a morality chip?”

“A what?” I asked with a frown.

“A morality chip,” he said with some impatience. “You know, like a robot, programmed to learn emotions.”

“It's amazing,” I said with a shake of my head. “Somehow you always manage to outnerd yourself. What is that from? One of your stupid sci-fi books?”

He ignored my questions and continued his attack. I was used to it by now, the way he took out his bad moods on everyone around him. His cerebral palsy was more of a disability than he realized. No one had ever bothered to tell Pete what an asshole he could be, so he wasn't really aware of it. I figured any time I called him out for being an asshole it was helping him, molding him into a functioning member of society.

“So, what you're saying,” he asked with a smart-ass tone, “is that it's okay for you to sell pot and X to people, but not for me to use it? That makes a whole lot of sense.” He sounded like a little kid, trying to come off sarcastic and cool but really just sounding like a whiny twelve-year-old.

“I don't sample the merchandise unless the situation requires it, because I don't want to get stupid and work scooping ice cream for my entire adult life,” I said because he needed a lecture, though I'm not sure why I bothered since he never listened to me anymore. Was too caught up in feeling sorry for himself lately to pay attention to much else. “You look at a guy like Digger,” I continued. “He grazes on the grass all day long. That's why he's messed up in the head. Can't even see straight. You want to end up like him?”

“Whatever,” Pete said with a dismissive wave as he leaned his seat back and stared out the window. “You sound like my old man.”

“Oh, shit—” I choked on a laugh. “Did you really just say that to me? I'm telling you that stuff will bring you nothing but trouble. Your old man doesn't know shit about it, but I do.”

“Yeah, yeah. I hear you,” he said with a sigh.