Tap Out (29 page)

I breathe through my mouth so I don't have to smell him. “Yeah. What's that? I'm pretty sure I know where I stand with you?”

“You've got this all wrong, son. We're on the same team now.”

I cock my head. Did he really just call me that?

“
The Fighter Front.
That's what they're callin' you. Your boy Rob and Dave and you.” He smiles.

I hate the image, and even more, the fact that he's right. We are united. “So what?”

“I just wanted to make sure you understood that this ain't no team you can walk out on. This shit's for life. Once you're in, you're
in
.”

I stare at him, unsure of what to say. Cam holds up the pamphlets Big O gave me. “Where'd you get those?” I grab for them, but he's too fast.

“You know where, so don't fuck around.” He takes one between his thumbs and rips. “Don't you go getting any ideas about trying to get out, cuz you ain't going nowhere.”

I want to scream, to choke him out, to do something, but
I'm stuck. I can't move a muscle. The pamphlet falls to the floor, and I watch it for a second then look at him. Our eyes lock, and in them I see a point I've never noticed before: desperation. Maybe it's the moment, being all amped after talking to Rob, and now realizing that Cam's been in my room, rooting around with his dirty hands in my belongings. So maybe I'm wrong and it's really just anger or fear or something more pathetic. But in these shadows, as much as I don't want to admit it, I see a trace of myself.

“We need to talk, get our shit figured out. Ya hear? The Agnostics have big plans.” He points to the couch with his beer. “Have a seat.”

I hesitate to move and in the hesitation see myself for who I am: Just some pussy kid who thought he could fight his way out. I was wrong. Standing here, exhausted and seeing myself in this monster, I know it's time for me to give up and stop pretending. To stop fighting.

I sit on the couch and he cracks his crooked smile and I feel like a child again, and may as well be for all the control I have.

A
my blows smoke at Hatchet-Face, as usual, but Hatchet doesn't give her any shit. I think she might sense what I do, that's Amy's either been drinking since breakfast, or never stopped last night.

Rob and I follow her on the bus and Hatchet gives us the stink eye but doesn't say a word. We sit and I want to tell Rob about last night, about Cam and what he said, but he's focused on Amy. She's peering down the aisle, sipping on a straw she's got stuck into a soda bottle. Her eyes are dull, so much like my mom's.

“Fuck, man, what's her deal?” I elbow Rob.

He shakes his head and rests his elbows on his knees. “Ain't like I've talked to her. After her appointment, she just cut me off. Says she can't stand to look at me.”

“Sorry, man.” I look out the window, watch the trees whip by, and see Cameron from last night. His words were the first thoughts that ran through my head when I woke up. I turn back to Rob. “Cam was at my house last night. There's another deal coming.”

Rob doesn't say shit.

I look up the aisle and Amy's sipping away, but her eyes pierce mine, as if she's been listening.

“So what's what?” Rob asks.

I lean close. “On the twenty-third we've got to help deliver a big shipment. Everyone has to be there because they don't want any problems.”

“You know, they got guns and shit.”

“After this, Tone, we're out. All right?” Rob looks at me the same way he did last night and it hurts to know that's just not a choice.

“Yeah. All right,” I say because we don't need to go into that now, not if Amy is listening. Cam's words still echo. Soon I'll tell Rob that he's fucked, even if Coach Dan does hook him up and he gets a job around here. Because they'll come calling.

For now I'm quiet. The truth set aside, until I can handle it.

I head to English, my head filled with last night and what's next, when someone grabs my arm. I pull back and spin, but the fuck doesn't let go.

“Easy, Tone, just come with me.” Dave's voice is cool, but there's an electric current beneath it that I'm not fucking with. He leads me to the bathroom and once in, checks the stalls and then finds the wooden wedge for the door. He jams it in.

“We need to talk.”

I back into a sink.

“You ready to go?”

How the fuck can I possibly answer his question?

“You ready to go or not? Don't give me this shrugging shit.”

“I'm ready. I know it'll be different from last time, with everybody else but same place and all.”

“The fuck you talkin' 'bout? We're going to Johnny B's.”

The fuck is
he
talking about? “Who's Johnny B?”

“Didn't Cam talk to you?”

I nod.

“So then you know what's what. We gotta take care of this pickup so the big score goes down. No using the stash house with this size.”

Now I'm completely lost. Someone rattles the door but the wedge keeps it closed. “What do you mean, this
pickup
?”

Dave cocks his head and looks me over. “You playing fucking stupid with me?”

I watch his stance. His feet are shifted just so, and his hands are no longer hanging by his sides, but tucked around his hips. He's not messing around one fucking bit.

“No, Dave. I don't know who the fuck Johnny B is or what you're talking about.”

The door rattles again. Dave rushes over and kicks it, and I'm surprised his foot doesn't go through. “We're cleaning!” he shakes his head and comes back to me. “So Cam never said nuthin' 'bout tonight and me needing a little support?”

“No.” Support from me? Why not Marcus, or shit, even Rob?

“Stupid fuck.” The bell rings, but Dave doesn't seem to hear it. “I'll deal with his ass later.” He looks up at me and his eyes search my face as if trying to make sure I'm not lying. Then he clears his throat. “Here's the deal. Johnny B's got the score we need for the twenty-third. That's how things work. But Johnny don't like the Front coming to pick up shit. He says they're too obvious and probably got police tracking'em. So they like to send me.”

I shift my weight, trying to get comfortable, because I feel like a body has been dropped on me. Another job, cops,
and some guy who deals with the Front, but doesn't want to be seen with them. What the fuck am I into?

“Johnny B likes me, cuz we got the same taste in shit. But like I said, it's a big score and this is still business, so I need a guy at my side.”

“What about Marcus?”

Dave laughs. “That big nigga scares the shit out of Johnny. He's not exactly welcome.”

“So why me?” My voice sounds like a little girl's.

“Well, like I said, Marcus is out. I know some guys from my new gym, but don't know 'em enough yet. Ya know what I mean? Rob's a better fighter, but I trust you more.” He pauses and smiles at me. “Your shit's more fucked up. You're more desperate.”

The truth hits so deep that it's a struggle to breathe. I look down and nod.

“'S what I thought. You get five bills for this and whatever perks are at Johnny's.”

My head swims. I don't want this, but there's nothing I can do. Getting paid doesn't matter. Not after what Cam said. What the fuck am I going to do with the money?

“I'll pick you up round ten. Johnny's shit don't go down till late.”

“All right.”

“Woo. Gonna be good times.” Dave kicks out the doorstop and goes through the door. I head in the opposite direction to English, and can't imagine what Dave thinks is a
good time
.

I reach Myers's door and she's up front, talking away. I put my hand on the knob, but then let go. I can just skip. I don't have to deal with her bullshit, especially not now. My head's a mess. But someone in the room must have said something
because she's turning now and waving me in. Fuck.

The class stares as I step through and Myers says, “Pass?”

I shake my head. “I was in gym and Jorgenson wouldn't give me one.”

She looks me over and smirks. “He's a tough one. I respect that.” She waits for me to respond, but I don't.

I take my seat and settle into the story we're supposed to read while she calls us up to talk about our last essay.

The story isn't that bad. This guy, Hughie Luke, is trapped by this other character, Mrs. Setliffe, and I think she might shoot his ass.

“Tony?”

I look up and Myers waves me to her. I stand and cross the room to her desk, sit and see the grade on my paper. How the fuck did I get an A?

“Tony, I have to say, this was truly amazing.” She's bent forward, her words all breathy. It's creepy, and thankfully, she flips the page. “Here, where you talk about how the father chooses to hurt himself, not just his family, through his actions—no one else got that.” She looks at me and tilts her head.

How the fuck the rest of the class missed that is beyond me. Myers flips the page again and looks at me. “Brilliant.”

My face flushes and I want to return to my seat, but Myers inches forward in her chair. “I don't know if you are aware, but Mr. Ostrander has come to me and asked if I could write on your behalf, regarding your intelligence and potential as a student.”

I feel the blood in my face drain away. I see the torn pamphlet. Knowing Big O's gone this far makes it hurt all over again.

Myers waits for me to respond, but I've got nothing.
Fortunately, she continues. “At first I wasn't sure what to say, I'd just read your
Lord of the Flies
piece, but once I read this, I knew. You can't find this kind of analysis online.
You
have potential, Tony.” She looks at me, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, probably waiting for me to seem all shocked. She doesn't know that I'm already done in from a completely different angle, and that I've been told
this shit
forever. So I just nod and wait for her to finish.

“Well, I told Mr. Ostrander the same, and it seems he's got some plans for you.”

I laugh. Who doesn't?

Myers tilts her head. “Something funny?”

I sit up right. “No, it's just it seems a few other people have said the same thing recently. It's just ironic, that's all.”

She smiles at my use of the literary device. “I understand.” She pats my paper and then asks, “So are you liking the story?”

It takes me a second, but I understand. “‘To Kill a Man'?”

She nods.

“Yeah, I'm just at the ending.”

Myers brightens. “Well, I won't keep you. That's the best part.” I go to stand but she asks another question. “Have you decided who's the good guy and who's the villain?”

I stare at the corner of her desk for a second as the answer flashes through my head. I could just shrug and pretend like I don't know, but something inside, the small shred that wants what Big O's offering and not what Dave's forcing me into, speaks. “That's a too simplistic way of looking at it. Each has a little of both.”

I'm sure she smiles and looks genuinely pleased, as if somehow she's cracked my shell and I'm now spewing forth all I've pent up. And in a way, she has. But that same part of
me that spoke also reminds me of the greater reality.

Truth is, it doesn't really matter how she feels about me. Truth is, I may be smart and a bit athletic, but no praise from an English teacher or coach is going to change much in my life. Truth is, maybe not even Big O's attempts would have, either.

No matter how much I'd like any of it, for something positive, it doesn't matter what I do, it won't ever be enough. Shit's going to fall apart. Because it always does.