Cheated (9 page)

“No way,” I said, but Brody pushed the pool cue into the back of my right leg.

“I dare you,” Brody said. He accented the pronoun with his second shot, a bank job that knocked in another two
balls, more than Brody implied I owned. “You've lost
this
game already.”

I flipped off Brody, who just laughed, then I started down the long, lonely road from our table to the jukebox. I heard Brody cracking balls and cracking up in the background. I told myself it's a dare and it's truth: truth is I'm gonna have to get up my nerve to ask out Whitney since Nicole was gone forever. I needed some practice, and this girl was available. Right place and time.

“Hey, anything good?” I asked, trying to be cool even as I felt the sweat on my brow. The heat of the crowded pool hall and my nerves had my sweat glands working overtime.

“Depends,” the girl replied. She unzipped the leather jacket, then put her hands on her hips. She was wearing two tank tops—a black one under a white one—a pair of big green cargo pants, red Converse All-Stars, and that kiss-me smile. I tried to look at her face, but my eyes would not focus. Breasts of any size, and hers were perfect, were magnets to my steely green eyes.

“My boy dared me to talk with you,” I whispered, then pointed back toward Brody.

“And what did he tell you to say?” Her tone was sassy, not scared. She flicked her head back to get the hair out of her eyes.

“We didn't get that far; I didn't think I'd get this far,” I said. I knew this was not as hard as talking to Whitney because I didn't know this girl: some things are easier with a stranger.

“Why is that?”

“Because when I saw you I was speechless,” I said, then laughed.

“Please.” She said
please
like the word was spelled with seven z's, but she was at least smiling. I was so caught up in her wide grin and perfect breasts that I didn't notice the varsity-jacket-clad Flushing High School Raider breathing down my neck.

“Got a problem?” The guy was an inch shorter than me, but looked a few years older. I knew he could kick my ass, but wondered if he knew that. Besides, the bandage on my hand made me look tough, the tiredness in my voice made me sound rough, and the anger in my soul seethed out my pores. This poor bastard didn't know I'd had a day full of last straws, and the look he gave me was the final one.

“No problem, but you interrupted me, Tad,” I said dismissively, looking at the name on the jacket. The letter was from baseball, not wrestling, hockey, or football, so I felt safer.

“Leave her alone, okay?” Tad said, and I smiled at his instant retreat.

“Who is ‘her'?” I asked.

“Natalie,” the girl said, but Tad pushed her out of the way like he was moving a chair.

“Shut up!” Tad shouted. The girl smiled, and I winked at her. The wink was too much and Tad pushed me. Not too hard, not too soft, enough to make a point, not enough to hurt.

“Back off, mother!” Brody yelled. I turned around to see
Brody just a few feet away in almost a replay of the Rex incident at school, except Brody had his pool cue in his hands.

Two more of Natalie's noble defenders emerged. “Fuck off, long hair,” one shouted.

“What did you say?” Brody shouted back.

“Brody, he said ‘fuck off,'” I said, figuring the flame needed a little more fuel.

Brody swung the pool cue fast and hard against Tad's collarbone. The bone sounded like it snapped along with the cue. The others stepped back, while Natalie knelt by her fallen nonhero.

“Don't tell me what to do, motherfucker! Nobody tells me what to do!” Brody shouted. He twirled the pool cue in his right hand, dancing up and down on the balls of his feet.

“Brody, come on, he ain't worth your sweat,” I said as I grabbed Brody's right arm, blocking another shot into the corner pocket of Tad's anatomy. Brody gave me a hard stare, then threw the cue down on the floor when I shouted, “Let's get out of here!”

As we ran from the arcade, I yelled over my shoulder at Natalie, “Some first impression.”

We almost ran into Aaron in our mad dash from the mall. “Where's your car?” Brody yelled. My heart was pumping double time: fear on one side and released frustration on the other.

“Over there,” Aaron said and pointed at his stepdad's white Ford Explorer by the curb.

“We gotta go. Now!” Brody raced off with Aaron and me in pursuit. When we got to the car, I felt all scrambled inside.
Brody had this huge smile on his face, while I had a question mark dangling over my head. As we drove from the mall, I couldn't help but wonder if Brody was my best friend or my worst mistake.

Do you want to know a secret?

The only thing harder than keeping a secret about yourself is keeping one for someone else. It was a Sunday afternoon last summer. Brody had spent the morning in church—his mom was insistent, especially after the porno incident a few weeks earlier—but we got together in the afternoon to shoot pool at Space Invaders. We were playing, talking, laughing, like any other time, when Brody mentioned how his dad always promised he'd buy a pool table, but never did
.

“He did a lot of that,” Brody said as he waited for me to break
.

“A lot of what?” I asked after my break shot barely managed to shake up the table
.

“Promised stuff, then never delivered,” he said, then sank two on his shot. “Solids.”

“I know all about that,” I added. Ex-Dad was a promise-making-and-breaking machine
.

“It was typical of him,” Brody said as another ball fell in. “Son of a bitch lied probably from the day he was born until the day he died.”

I chalked up the cue. I always felt awkward when Brody talked about his father's death. I remembered reading the article in the newspaper about the car crash, and my mother showing me the obituary in the
Flint Journal.
I remembered the funeral and how different it was than ones I'd seen on TV or in movies. On TV, everybody cried. At Brody's dad's funeral, not a tear
.

“Until the day he died,” Brody repeated as he tucked
the three ball into a corner pocket. “You know how he died?”

“Auto accident, right?”

“Kind of,” Brody said, although he never looked at me. Instead, he lined up his shot, then smacked the cue ball into a group of solids that split like radioactive atoms
.

“What do you mean?”

Brody sank two more, leaving only the eight ball and my untouched seven stripes. “Dude, I know I can trust you, right?”

We'd had such a history. I was insulted and honored by the question. I leaned forward
.

“It was no accident,” Brody said as he pointed toward the corner pocket
.

“What do you mean?”

“We're Catholic, and suicide is a sin, so—” The smack of the white ball against the black one drowned out Brody's fading words
.

“What are you saying?”

“My dad killed himself.”

“How do you know?” I asked
.

“I found the note.” Brody had the cue ball in his hand. He was tossing it like an apple
.

“What did you do?”

“What do you think I did?” Brody hurled the white ball down the length of the table. It careened off one side, then another, and another until it landed in the pocket nearest Brody
.

“I burned it.”

“You didn't tell anybody?”

Brody shrugged, then spoke. “My mom gets to go to bed every night thinking it was an accident. You tell me, what good would have come from telling her the truth?”

We played a few more games. Brody acted like he had confessed nothing; I was the one sinking in guilt. Guilt for not protecting my mom from an ugly truth like Brody had, and guilt for not being a better son. I felt both so honored and so weighed down by Brody's trust that I would never betray him. Like solids and stripes on the pool table, trust and guilt belonged together
.

As I stared out the smudged window of the SUV as it pulled into the crowded school parking lot jammed with Dragon football fans, all I could think about was how stupid it all was: not just football games and cheerleaders, but high school. When I was with Brody, even getting into trouble like at the arcade, I didn't feel like some stupid kid. I felt the rush of becoming a man.

“Thanks for the ride,” I told Aaron's stepdad. He's this nice, balding, middle-aged man with no personality. Jumping out of the car, Brody disappeared into a group milling around the buses, so I was left with Aaron. The adrenaline still pumped through my body and poured out through my mouth. I asked Aaron something I'd wanted to for a long time. “So, what's he like?”

“Who?” Aaron answered.

“Your stepdad,” I said. Conversation with Aaron and me was always awkward, especially if I asked him questions. He'd rather listen to Brody than reveal himself to us.

“He's all right, I guess,” Aaron said, and then pulled up his hoodie against the wind.

“Really?” I asked. I sometimes wondered if my life would be different—and I wasn't sure for better or worse—if ex-Dad was dead like Aaron's and Brody's fathers. Maybe I would love him more, or not at all, if he wasn't around. I envied Aaron and Brody in some weird way.

“No, not really,” Aaron mumbled, his eyes firmly focused on the pavement. “He must think I'm stupid or something not to know what this is all about.”

“What?” I asked, but I knew. Now that his sister's out of the house, he was virtually an only child. I have this strange anger at Aaron's stepdad for moving Aaron out of the neighborhood. Where he lived—the new Lake Breeze subdivision—was full of new homes and fancy cars. It seemed like another world, even if it shared a common wooded area with WindGate. Swartz Creek's messed up that way: it is full of old trailer parks, new subdivisions, and a glaring imbalance. It's not a creek, but a river of truth about unfairness.

“This: you know, the rides, the vacations, all of it,” Aaron said. “He doesn't want in to my life. He just wants in to my mom's pants.”

“Dude, that's harsh.”

“Dude, that's what the truth is,” Aaron replied, head straight down. “Where's Brody?”

“Who knows?” I said, then surveyed the crowd for Brody's familiar head. Before I could say anything else, my world turned to white noise when I saw Whitney along with Shelby walking toward the bus.

Aaron saw the same vision. “Here's your chance.”

I took a deep breath, and then started off on my second long walk of the night, telling myself I feared nothing. “Whitney, wait up!” I yelled, earning a nasty glare from Shelby. Her eyes were like barbed wire trying to keep me out of the Whitney World.

Whitney turned to face me, then spoke. “You going to the game tonight?”

“Maybe,” I muttered, then pointed at the bus. “Seems I only get to see you on a bus.”

“I guess,” Whitney said as Shelby cleared her throat. “Hey, we have to go.”

“Can I ask you something?” My head was down, palms open, heart yearning.

“We have to go,” Shelby answered. “Maybe your ears don't work as well as your eyes.”

“Whitney, I need a second,” I said. Shelby looked at Whitney, who stared back at me.

“Save me a seat,” Whitney said, then took a step back. Shelby rolled her eyes, but walked toward the bus. I was ready to say,
Whitney, I know you don't know me that well, but I really like you. Or would like to get to know you. Would you like to go to homecoming with me?

“I have to go, can't this wait?” she said.

“Um, well, homecoming is coming up and—” I started but then saw the look on her face: a strange mix of sympathy, pity, and embarrassment. I wouldn't need to remember her rejection of my offer because I never got to make it. Her nonanswer saved my life.

“Mick, I have to go,” she said as she turned and walked away. Her long blond hair was the yellow brick road not taken. Whitney was the last one on the bus, which pulled away moments later. I was left alone in the middle of a large gray parking lot with my thoughts and the imagined sound of laughter from Shelby falling over me like a cold rain. I
turned on my heel then walked back to my friends. I knew by the time we saw the bottom of the bottle, I wouldn't be thinking about Whitney, Nicole, Shelby, or anyone. By the last swallow, I wanted only one thing: not to be thinking or feeling anything.

· · ·

“She blew me off, like I was garbage,” I told Brody and Aaron as we left the school parking lot a few moments later.

But as the words left my mouth, I wished I could have taken them back. Brody pounded his right fist into his open left palm. “Whitney's a stuck-up bitch!” he yelled.

“Forget it. It's over,” I mumbled, barely audible over the rustle of the leaves on the back road.

“You're too easy on people who treat like you shit!” Brody shouted. We wanted to stay out of sight and off the main roads on our way to the Miller Road Big K stop-and-rob. We needed smokes, snacks, and Coke to cut the rum. The Coke made it taste better and made the evening last longer. We had three hours of game time before we had to get back to school for Aaron's mom to pick us up.

The Big K on Miller was pretty run down, even for the Creek. The security cameras inside and outside were the most valuable things attached to the store. The three of us walked in together and the fat middle-aged woman behind the counter stared us down. We decided to forgo any food. Aaron grabbed a liter of Coke, and we headed to the front. I loudly spilled a bunch of change onto the counter, most of which fell on the floor behind. Once the woman's head
disappeared under the counter, Brody snatched a pack of Marlboros from behind her, then buried them quickly inside his hooded sweatshirt. By the time the woman looked up, Brody was out the door. Aaron grabbed the Coke, and we started to leave.