Sway (21 page)

“Yeah,” he said with a noncommittal shrug, stringing me along. “It's okay.”

“Looks better than okay,” I said as he kept his gaze fixed on his computer screen, tried to make out like he was unconcerned about the whole conversation. “Every Friday and Saturday night the parking lot is full. Word around town is this is where the cool kids hang out on the weekends.” I kept my tone light but was ready for the inevitable pushback he was going to give me. If Don wasn't such a cheap bastard, he might have considered a few upgrades to his bowling alley to attract new business instead of relying on me to build his clientele.

“What I meant is,” he said, his tone world-weary, “sure I got a bunch of kids hanging out here on the weekends, but there are hidden expenses in that. You know, a lot more maintenance costs to keep the place up and running.”

Here we go
.

“I guess their money is as green as anybody else's,” I said, starting in easy. “You didn't specify what type of crowd you wanted when we entered into this arrangement.”

“Yeah, well, I'm just saying,” he said as he held his hands out in supplication, finally spinning his chair to face me, “there are a lot more expenses when you have a crowd of kids coming in every weekend. The bathroom looks like a damn bomb went off in it at the end of the night.”

“That sounds like a personal problem to me, Don,” I said. It came off as a joke, though I was tiring quickly of our dance. “Are you trying to shine me on?” I asked, letting my impatience seep in at the edges.

His face composed itself into a look of innocence. “Shine you on? What are you talking about, Jesse?”

“Don't fuck with me, Don,” I said.

He shrugged, but I could see beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. “I don't see what you're getting so upset about, Jesse. All I'm saying is maybe I don't have as much extra money as you think I do.”

I leaned forward, tipping the chair onto two legs as I rested my elbows on my knees. “The way I see it, you've got two options open to you. You can pay me what you owe me and I'll go bowl a couple of rounds with my friends, or you can keep dicking me around and every kid with an allowance and a mode of transportation within ten square miles will take up a sudden interest in Putt 'n' Play.”

“Jeez o' Petes, Jesse,” he said, looking suddenly like a cornered rodent, his mustache drooping more than usual. “I didn't mean anything by it. I've got your money. Right here I've got it,” he said as he reached into his top drawer and tossed an envelope on the desk.

I didn't thank him. Thanking someone for money you've earned is a show of weakness.

“I'll see you next week, Don,” I said as I rose to go. “Spend a little of that extra money on getting the carpets shampooed, huh? The stink is enough to knock someone out.”

“Yeah, sure, Jesse. Hey,” he called me back as I was reaching for the door. “What did you do? To get everyone to start hanging out here, I mean?”

“Don,” I said with a pained look, “if I told you that, I wouldn't have a job, now, would I?”

“Yeah, no, I get that. Thanks, Jesse. And, hey, if you want to bowl a round, you tell Jason at the desk, your shoe rental is on the house. The least I can do.”

“Thanks, Don,” I said, though the irony in my tone was lost on him.

*   *   *

As I wandered through the bowling alley, greeting people and taking the time to stop and talk to a few of them, I ran into Heather Black. She was sitting back near the low wall that separated the bowling lanes from the arcade and snack bar, scrolling through her phone. Her friends were all either huddled around the scoring table or taking turns up on the lanes, but Heather's attention was obviously elsewhere.

“Hey, Jesse,” Heather said as she tossed her hair in a practiced way, her gold hoop earrings swinging against her cheeks.

“Heather, how've you been?” I asked as I leaned my elbows onto the ledge behind where she sat and watched the kids enjoying America's favorite pastime.

“Okay, I guess,” she said without much enthusiasm.

“Where's your boy David?” I asked as I glanced around for a sign of him and moved to sit in the molded plastic chair beside hers.

“His parents have permanently grounded him since his last report card,” she said as she lifted one foot onto the seat and hugged her shin. “So lame. He's saying they might not even let him go to homecoming.”

“Sucks,” I said.

“Has David said anything to you?” she asked. “About me, I mean.”

“I haven't really talked to him much lately. Why?”

“I'm just curious.” She paused and bit her lower lip, then said, “I was just wondering if maybe he wasn't interested in me anymore or something. Was just using his parents as an excuse not to see me.”

“Why would you think that?” I asked with a confused frown.

“I don't know,” she said casually, but she couldn't hide her blush. “Maybe he's just not that into me.”

“Are you joking?” I asked with a chuckle but stopped suddenly as I realized she wasn't. “Wait. You really think David isn't into you?”

“I don't know what to think,” she said with a shake of her head, and she wouldn't look at me, feigned complete interest in the bowling action to avoid my eye.

“You're a beautiful girl, Heather. David would be crazy to not be into you.”

“Yeah?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said as I leaned back and put my arms along the back of the seats, my legs stretched out in front of me and crossed at the ankle.

“But just because I'm pretty,” she said, sounding disappointed. “You don't think he would be into me because of my personality.”

“I didn't say that,” I said, which, I suppose, didn't mean I wasn't thinking it.

“Yeah, well, David's different, you know? He's not like other guys,” she said as she slid an accusatory glance in my direction. “He treats me like I'm a princess.”

“Of course he does. David Cohen is thanking whatever god he believes in every day that he gets to go out with a girl like you,” I said.

She smiled thinly but her eyes remained dim with knowing. “I know you never really cared all that much about me when we were seeing each other,” she said, pausing to give me a chance to deny it.

“I don't really care about anyone. You know that. And I never deserved you anyway,” I said as I put an arm around her shoulder and dropped a friendly kiss on her cheek.

“I know,” she said, and we shared a smile.

*   *   *

I found Pete hanging near the refreshment stand, a Coke in one hand, the other in his jacket pocket as he watched the people bowling. He was leaning against the wall, his eyes hooded with fatigue.

Bridget was down in the lanes with a group of her friends and Ken with his posse. I had hoped to be gone before Bridget spotted us but she waved happily from the lanes and came to say hi.

“Hey, guys,” Bridget said as she threw an arm around Pete's shoulder and gave him a brief hug. “When did you get here?”

“Just a little while ago. We were at Plant Nine for a bit,” Pete said, disclosing a lot more than I would have.

“Really?” she asked, looking to me as if to ask if I thought that it was a good idea for her kid brother to be out at a place known for its raves. I averted my gaze so I didn't have to meet her eye and pretended to have a sudden interest in something over my shoulder.

“We were just there to dance and watch the spectacle,” Pete said. “We're not doing anything stupid.”

“Still, I don't know, Pete.…” She trailed off and looked to me again for help but I refused to give her any.

“What about you?” Pete asked, gesturing to her. “You're out past curfew. I can't believe Saint Bridget would break the house rules,” he said, putting a hand to his cheek in mock astonishment.

Her cheeks flushed as he said this and her lips drew into a grim line. “I'm not a saint,” she said quietly.

Pete leaned in as he pointed an admonishing finger at Bridget. “I'll bet Mom and Dad didn't say shit about you staying out late with your friends but they tried to ground my ass.”

“They're just looking out for you, Pete,” Bridget said, which was exactly the wrong thing to say. For someone who was so sensitive to other people's feelings, Bridget wasn't very perceptive when it came to her own brother. He was like a volcano, just waiting for something to set him off. “They're just—” She glanced nervously in my direction then finished lamely, “worried.” She didn't want to say the truth, that Pete's parents were concerned any time he left the house with me. She was protecting my feelings, which was sweet. And unnecessary.

“Let's get out of here,” I said, slapping Pete's elbow. I was trying to divert the coming storm, but he dug in his heels and refused to let it go.

“Why?” he asked Bridget, completely ignoring me. “Why are they so worried about me and not about you? Because you hang out with Mr. Homecoming King Superstar Football Player and I hang out with Jesse? Because you're so perfect and I'm such a freak?”

“I didn't say that,” Bridget said quietly. He was hurting her feelings intentionally now, trying to make her feel as bad as he did.

I wanted to tell her not to take the bait, to just let it go. But it was too late. As she launched into an argument I grimaced and pinched the bridge of my nose.

“God, you know, I'm so tired of always being caught in the middle between you and Mom and Dad,” Bridget said, her voice trembling with suppressed emotion. “They just want what's best for you.”

Mental sigh of defeat.

“Why? Because I'm
special
?” Pete asked, his tone dripping with poison. “I'm not special and I'm not differently abled!” Pete was shouting now, spittle flying out of his mouth as he swung his arms crazily, like an excited chimpanzee. “I'm just fucked up! Okay? Do you get it?”

Bridget was keeping it together like a champion, her eyes open wide as she tried to hold back the tears. Her expression didn't waver but finally her lower lip trembled and a single, fat tear slid down her cheek.

“Why don't you stop trying to make me—? Agghh! Son of a bitch!” Pete cried out as he sat back hard on his ass, his face exploded in crimson as his nose started to bleed profusely. I shook the pain out of my hand; the knuckles had all popped when they connected with his face.

“You ever speak to your sister that way again, and I'll put you in a fucking wheelchair,” I said as I took a menacing step in his direction.

“Jesse!” Bridget pushed me away from Pete, then sank to one knee as she reached out to touch his face. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Bridget asked me as she dug through her purse, then offered Pete a wrinkled napkin.

“Stay out of it,” Pete said, taking the napkin from Bridget but pushing aside her hand as she tried to help him.

Bridget stood and took a step back, plucking nervously at the hem of her shirt with her slender fingers.

“You don't understand what it's like,” Pete whined, “they all treat me like I'm some kind of charity case.”

“You are a charity case,” I said as I put my hands in my pockets to keep from hitting him again. “And an asshole if that's the way you treat the one person who's always looking out for you.”

“Stop it,”
Bridget said with a warning look in my direction. “I didn't ask you to stick up for me, Jesse.”

“Stop letting him talk to you any damn way he pleases,” I said, raising my voice to her.

Bridget opened her mouth to make a retort but was interrupted by Ken as he injected himself into the situation. I hadn't even noticed his approach but suddenly Ken was there, an arm out like a Heisman Trophy to hold me back. “Alderman, what the hell?” he asked, his face red with anger.

Pete lifted the front of his shirt to wipe his nose, sniffled, then coughed.

“Pete, you okay?” Ken asked.

“You fucking hit me, man,” Pete said, ignoring Ken's question.

“No shit,” I said. “You've been asking for it all night with your smart fucking mouth.”

“Back off,” Ken said, loud enough to make heads turn. “I swear to God, Alderman, I will rearrange your face.”

“Ken,” Bridget said, almost gently, as she gripped his arm. “Everyone just calm down, okay?” She wouldn't even look at me and her voice still trembled.

The guy behind the shoe counter was hurrying over to intervene, craning his neck around to look for Stan, the police officer, for some help. Stan, thankfully, was still hanging around outside to dissuade the dopers and drinkers and kids who just wanted to make out in their cars.

“Alderman, you need to get out of here,” Ken said. I could see him struggling with his desire to pound me, all the while knowing that I held his secret, could turn Bridget against him with just a word. He was afraid to step over the line with me but, all the same, would go to the mat for Bridget if he had to and protect her little brother. I had my own internal struggle, wanted to fall to my knees and beg Bridget's forgiveness, explain myself to her until my words fell like verbal diarrhea. But I took a step away as the crowd waited breathlessly to see how our little drama would play out. Even the bowling-shoe guy seemed to be holding his breath.

“Fuck you, Ken,” I said. “What's between me and the kid is none of your business.”

If I had to be honest and tell you why I backed down then, I couldn't claim that it was because of Bridget's feelings or fear of a beat-down from Ken. I backed down because it all felt so futile at that moment. Who was I kidding? I was a monster. The kind of monster who punched a kid with cerebral palsy, who sold a sweet girl like Bridget to the highest bidder, who didn't have to care about how other people felt, because I didn't have any feelings of my own. The kind of monster who doesn't survive to see the end of the fairy tale.