Sway (25 page)

I actually respected the fact that he had taken the initiative to kick my ass in order to protect her. It meant that he would keep lowlifes like me away from her at all costs, even at the risk of insulting the feelings of her little brother. Maybe I hadn't been able to handpick the guy for Bridget to make her avoid the likes of me, but I could have done worse.

That Ken touched her in such a familiar way made me wonder if they were sleeping together. In my mind I had convinced myself Bridget was a virgin, but there was no reason to assume that was true. Often we believe what we want to think is true, and in this I was no different. Ideally, Bridget would join a convent immediately after high school.

And even though I would never be with her, ever since I had held her in my arms after our fight, I knew that I would never love any other girl the way I loved Bridget. Lately I had started a playlist devoted to my favorite love songs—songs I would play for Bridget on my guitar if I could still play—and had burned it out on my iPod playing it so many times. The list may have included a song or two by Bruno Mars, but I would never admit it, even under professional torture. The soundtrack included Al Green, Otis Redding, Bonnie Raitt, Johnny Mathis, Billie Holiday, Marvin Gaye, Patty Griffin, Aaron Neville, Ray Charles, and it wouldn't be a list of love songs without Tony Bennett and Burt Bacharach.

Twice I caught Bridget's eye across the table and savored the way her mind lingered on me before Ken drew her attention away with a cloddish remark. When Bridget excused herself to the bathroom, Ken stood and held her chair, which almost sent Bridget's mother into a swoon. His chivalry grated on my nerves, and I finished two sodas only because I was often caught with nothing better to do than pick up my glass and draw from the brightly colored straw.

Sitting across from me as she was, I found it hard to keep my eyes off Bridget, but I didn't really try. Ken kept his gorilla mitts on Bridget at all times—his arm rested on her shoulder or his hand on her arm—like a kid protecting a toy he didn't want to share. Ken's displays of affection, his obvious obsession with their golden daughter, seemed to make the Smalleys happy rather than uncomfortable.

Pete's parents were grudgingly polite toward me, his mother making the effort by asking some questions about how I was doing in school. When she asked about my parents, Bridget cut her off quickly.

“Mom,” Bridget said, the abrupt interruption delivered with a meaningful stare.

“Oh, uh … well,” Mrs. Smalley said as she took a large gulp from her water glass to cover her awkwardness. “Sorry.”

“Don't be,” I said affably.

Silence followed and everyone watched the tabletop—everyone but Bridget, who bravely met my gaze and held it. I dropped her a wink and she looked away, her cheeks flushing.

“How are your grades?” Pete's mother asked me, the question weighted with her serious doubt that I would amount to much.

“I make honor roll usually,” I said humbly, since Kwang was really the straight-A student.

“Which college are you hoping to attend?” she asked.

“I haven't really made up my mind that I'm going to go,” I answered honestly.

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Smalley asked with a frown.

“I mean I'm not sure I want to go to college,” I said.

She exchanged a knowing look with her husband and said, “Are you just trying to be funny?”

“No, ma'am. School doesn't interest me much. I'm not sure I want to commit to another four years of it.”

A derisive snort emanated from Mr. Smalley and he said, “You'd better not get any ideas about not going to college when the time comes,” directing his comment to Pete.

Pete's expression, already sour, twisted into a frown as he bit down on a sharp retort.

“Bridget's already applied to Dartmouth,” Mrs. Smalley said, obvious pride in her voice. “They haven't given early decision yet but the admissions person we spoke to said she has a really great chance.”

“Mom, please,” Bridget said nervously. “Stop making such a big deal about it.”

“It is a big deal, honey,” she said with a smile, forgetting about her disapproval of me in light of her daughter's accomplishments. “Bridget was thinking about applying to Stanford too, but we're hoping she'll try to stay closer to home.”

“Mom.” Bridget's tone conveyed a warning.

“Where are you applying to college, Ken?” I asked curiously. Surely he didn't expect he could get into Dartmouth and follow Bridget after high school.

He glowered suspiciously. “A few of the state colleges—my dad wants me to apply to University of Vermont,” he said, his tone uncertain, like he wasn't sure if he should be proud or ashamed in front of the Smalleys.

“Great business school,” Mr. Smalley said knowingly. A point that would definitely not be proved by Ken's acceptance to the school.

“That would be so nice if you and Bridget were close enough that you could visit each other on the weekends,” Mrs. Smalley said, beaming at Ken with a suggestive smile.

Ken's grin was sheepish, his “aw, shucks” routine that he usually employed to deflower virgins now on display for Mrs. Smalley. He cut his eyes to Bridget to gauge her reaction, but her expression was neutral.

Pete was quiet throughout all of this, the strain between him and his parents obvious. His folks liked to blame his rebellious behavior on me. It made them feel better, which was fine. Pete and Bridget were bothered by their parents' dislike of me, but I wasn't. The Smalleys needed me as an excuse, to make sense of Pete's behavior. If they could comfort themselves with the belief that I was a bad influence, then they didn't have to think of themselves as failures.

“It's time you started thinking about where you're going to apply,” Mr. Smalley said to Pete. “Your sister won't get accepted to Dartmouth by some kind of miracle. She's worked hard for it.”

“I gave up trying to compete with Bridget's perfection a while ago,” Pete said—an open invitation to his parents for a fight.

Bridget visibly tensed at their exchange and looked at her hands, twisted in a ball in her lap. Ken was oblivious, sucking the last bit of meat off a short rib.

“Why can't you accept that Bridget and I are different people?” Pete asked. “Not because I'm wrong, or bad, or special. But just because she's her and I'm me.”

Bridget's face clouded with anger and disappointment as Pete stubbornly clung to his childish resentments. Even though he deserved it, I knew Bridget wouldn't call him out for acting like a baby and ruining the birthday dinner.

“Hey, Pete,” I said, hitting his shoulder with the back of my hand. “Come on, man.”

“Stay out of it,” he said to me.

I wiped my mouth one last time with my napkin and tossed it on the table as I pushed back my chair. “Fine, stay here and make everybody sorry they bothered to do something nice for you. Come on into the arcade when you're finished, and I've got twenty bucks that says I kick your ass at foosball.”

Mrs. Smalley stiffened at my use of foul language at the table but my interruption was a relief. I pushed through the crowd to the bar and ordered two rum and Cokes in pint glasses. By the time I got to the arcade, Pete was there. I handed him his drink and knocked my glass roughly against his. “Cheers,” I said.

“Unfuckingbelievable,” he said. “They are so clueless.”

“They're parents,” I said. “They're supposed to be clueless. You got any quarters?”

“It's my birthday,” he said, incredulous. “You want me to pay?”

“I just figured since it was like a special occasion, I'd let you pay for once,” I said.

“You know what? Piss off. I'm going to the bathroom. Hold my drink.”

“I'm not your date,” I said. “Take it with you.”

“You suck.”

I smiled to myself after he had turned to walk away. Just like old times.

“Boy, you really know how to break up a party,” Bridget said at my back.

I spun on my heel to find her standing alone, though I knew Ken couldn't be far away. “Hey, don't try to make that about me,” I said, gesturing back toward the dining room. “I didn't create your family's dysfunction.”

“God, sometimes the way they act makes me want to scream.”

“So, scream at him,” I said. “Scream at them.”

She bit the inside of her cheek and shook her head as she dropped her gaze to the floor.

“You know,” I said, “it won't kill him to get his feelings hurt once in a while. Everyone gets their feelings hurt once in a while.”

“Except for you,” she said.

“Except for me,” I agreed.

Pete returned then, his usual scowl fixed in place, and stared hard at Bridget, as if daring her to say something about his outburst at the table.

I fed quarters into the foosball machine and retrieved the ball as it fell into the pocket at one end. Bridget stood beside me, apparently planning to watch the game, but I waved her away with a gesture of my hand. “No girls allowed,” I said. If she stayed and she and Pete got into another argument, I would probably end up punching him in the face again and I was trying really hard to be the kind of person who didn't punch kids with cerebral palsy in the face, the leopard changing his spots.

Bridget muttered something under her breath but walked away and left us alone.

“You know,” Pete said when she was out of earshot, “it's kind of pathetic how much you love her.”

“I know,” I said, most of my mind on the game now that Bridget was gone.

“I'd rather see her dating you than Ken, even though you're a prick.”

“Mm-hm.”

“You suck!” he shouted as I slammed a goal home.

“You gonna cry?” I asked.

“I'll tell you what I'm gonna do,” he said as he spun the center stick in a patently illegal move, “is beat your ass.”

“That's what your mother said to me last night,” I said, and Pete howled with laughter.

“Uncool,” he said. “You can't use ‘your mama' jokes, because I can't say them back to you. That's like a rule. People whose moms are dead are not allowed to ‘your mama' other people.”

“I think you just made that up,” I said. He executed another hard spin and I cussed at him. “Just because you're a cripple doesn't mean you get to cheat,” I said.

“Cheap shot,” Pete said as he retrieved the ball and rolled it absently between his fingers.

“You want to talk or do you want to play?” I asked.

“I want to get out of here,” he said, as if all of a sudden making up his mind.

“Fine. I'm going to hit the head. You go break the news to your folks and I'll meet you up front.”

On my way to the bathroom I ran into Ken. He stepped into my path so suddenly, I bounced off his chest and took a stumbling step back. “What now?” I asked.

“You were supposed to stay away tonight,” Ken said.

“This isn't about you, Ken,” I said in my most reasonable tone.

“What the fuck are you up to?” Ken asked as he bumped his shoulder against me and circled me like a dog inviting a fight. “I thought I told you to stay away.”

“Ease up,” I said, not willing to back down, but wanting to defuse the scene before it got out of hand. “I'm just here for the kid. If Bridget breaks up with you, it'll be because of your own miserable personality. Nothing else.”

“What's your game?” he asked. “You expect me to believe you're suddenly biffers with Pete? That you're not trying to win Bridget's heart by being besties with her kid brother?”

“Look,” I said, trying to reason with him, even though I know better than anyone if you're trying to reason with an idiot, you've already lost, “I was following her to get information for you when I met the kid. You paid me to get her to go out with you, remember? How else was I supposed to get to know her? Pete's a pain in my ass and he insists on tagging along wherever I go. What am I supposed to do? Tell him to fuck off?”

“What?” he asked. “Suddenly you're a humanitarian? What do you care?”

“I don't,” I snapped. “What do you want me to say to convince you that I don't give a shit about Bridget or her dopey brother?” I asked.

Ken's lips curled into an evil smile, and a look of triumph spread onto his face. Without asking, I knew what had happened. I turned and found Pete staring at me, the hurt and anger clear in his eyes. His lips parted and his breath started to come in gasps. Ken just hung back and enjoyed the moment.

“Get out of here,” Pete said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I'm already gone,” I said.

 

THIRTY-FOUR

“The thing is,” I said as I leaned forward to reach for my drink, “he's proud, you know? Stubborn. Even if I could tell him the whole story about Ken and why I said what I did, he won't listen to me.”

“Is it okay if I smoke in here?” Emerald (the name as fake as the green of her eyes) asked as she dug in her bag.

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “You want another drink?”

“I'm good,” she said as she blew out a match and looked for a place to set it. “I've got to drive and I've still got one more stop tonight. Some bachelor party in Belmont,” she said, referring to the next town over, as I went to the sideboard to get a dish she could use as an ashtray.

“I don't know, hon,” Mr. Dunkelman was saying. “This … lifestyle. It doesn't seem safe for you. Don't you worry about guys coming on too strong?”

“I always carry Mace with me, Mr. D,” Emerald said with a reassuring pat on his hand, probably the most action he had seen from a woman since his wife died. “And most guys aren't so bad. Every once in a while it's a problem, but I can take care of myself.”

By the time Emerald had gotten to my house the night of Pete's birthday party, neither Mr. D nor I were much in the mood to watch a strip show. My blunder with Pete weighed heavily on my mind, and Mr. Dunkelman said that it would creep him out to watch a girl as young as Emerald dance. “I'm old enough to be your grandfather,” he said, as if she couldn't tell by the fact that the waistband of his pants was somewhere up near his armpits.