How to Win at High School (27 page)

Steph sighs. “I just don't get it, Adam,” she says. “You worked so hard to be popular. Why the hell would you just throw it away?”

Adam goes back to the kitchen. Gets more ice for his hands. “I didn't throw it away,” he tells Steph. “I'm bigger than that asshole.

“Nixon needs me,” Adam tells Steph. “You'll see.”

And she will.

They all will.

Nobody's talking to Adam. Nobody wants to be friends. He's used up his party invites, his daps and hugs in the hall. Those pretty Nixon girls have stopped throwing themselves at him.

(Even Brian won't return Adam's calls.)

Adam's alone.

He lies awake nights and thinks about
Scarface.
It's not a pleasant thought anymore. It doesn't seem like such a good idea now. Tony Montana isn't much of a hero, in the end.

(Spoiler alert: Tony Montana dies. It's a really fucking chaotic, fantastic scene. Colombians. Assault rifles.
“Say hello to my little friend.”
You should probably watch it if you haven't already.)

Adam doesn't want to die. Adam doesn't even want to be a god anymore. He's through with winning. He just wants to take over. Sell enough pills to move out of Remington Park and get an apartment with an eighty-inch TV and a stripper pole in the bedroom.

Victoria's gone.

Sam won't talk to him.

His grades are a sinking ship.

But the gods still need him. All of Nixon does.

(And fuck homework, at this point. It's pills Nixon wants.)

(The machine keeps rolling.)

(Pizza Man won't die.)

Adam puts a blast on Facebook.

Pizza Man pill sale
, he writes.
Bargain prices. Buy now.

Then he sits back and waits for his phone to blow up.

And it does.

There are enough kids at Nixon who think Rob Thigpen's a dick.

A bunch of others who, frankly, don't care.

(People want to score. The Pizza Man's a good hookup. It's just business, man. Everything else is bullshit.)

Adam logs a whack of solid orders. Then he picks up his phone and calls Tommy.

“Shit, man,” Tommy says. “I heard you went dark at that party. Heard you kicked somebody's ass pretty hard.”

“Some punk,” Adam tells him. “The bastard had it coming. Anyway, listen, I need a re-up.”

Tommy goes quiet. Adam coughs. “You there?”

“I'm here,” Tommy says. “I'm just— Dude, I'm thinking you might want to take a break for a while. What I heard about Jamal, he's looking for you.”

“Fuck Jamal,” Adam tells him. “What is this, the movies? You have my supply or no?”

Tommy hesitates again. “I'm skipping town,” he says finally. “Getting a head start on summer vacation. Come by tomorrow morning—early—and I'll set you up.”

“I'm bringing cash,” Adam tells him. “Give me all that you have.”

Tomorrow morning.

Adam amasses every last dollar he has.

Figures, Tommy's leaving town, this might be his last shot. Stock up on supply now, and go looking for a supplier.

Bypass Tommy.

Bypass Jamal.

Take over Nixon, one pill at a time.

Only:

Adam needs a ride to Tommy's. And Brian's still not picking up his phone.

(What Adam figures, Brian might never answer that phone again, if he knows it's Adam calling.)

(Which is fine. Adam was starting to resent paying the guy 50 percent just for driving.)

(But now Adam doesn't have a driver.)

(And people want their pills.)

(The customer is always right.)

(Right?)

Adam finds the bus schedule on Google. Tommy's place is two bus rides from Remington Park. Adam figures he can get up early, head to Tommy's on the first bus, and still make it back to Nixon in time for second period.

It all works. Except:

Jessie McGill has a chem assignment she needs back. And Paul Nolan's history paper is due too.

(Even if the gods hate Adam, they're still paying him, right?)

Both jobs need to close out before school starts tomorrow. No way Adam can make it to the west side and back in time. Not if he's taking the bus.

Luckily:

Wayne's mom has a car.

Wayne can drive.

Except Wayne can't drive.

“Sorry, dude,” he says. “My mom's going to Detroit tomorrow. Needs her car all day.”

“Crap,” Adam says. “Thanks anyway.”

“Maybe on Wednesday, though?”

“Wednesday's not soon enough,” Adam says. “Thanks anyway.”

At first, Adam's like:

I'll just, like, rent a freaking car.

(Or steal one.)

(Or borrow one.)

(Or
buy
one.)

But nobody's going to give Adam a car on such short notice. Especially since he only has his learner's permit.

So then, Adam's like:

What the hell, let the customers wait for their pills. Who cares?

But Adam's not in the business of disappointing his customers. Not after the Rob Thigpen debacle.

(His girlfriend? Sure. His employees? Why not? His friends and family? Duh. But
never
the customers.)

(Anyway, who knows how long Tommy's skipping town?)

Adam needs a driver.

Today.

“Wanna cut class?” Adam asks George Dubois.

It's the next morning. Adam gives Paul and Jessie their assignments back, and George is there, too, running a couple of sophomore English papers through Adam for approval. And Adam looks at George, and thinks for a minute—

(not long enough)

—and then he pops the question.

“I need to get to the west side of town,” he tells George. “Just for, like, twenty minutes.”

George frowns. “You can't go at lunch?”

“I need to get there this morning,” Adam tells him. “I need to go now.”

“So, I don't get it,” George says. “What do you need me for?”

“Your mom drives to school, right?” Adam says. “Can you get her keys?”

Turns out George has a spare key to his mom's Buick in his back pocket. And George is ready to roll.

“Holy shit,” he says. “You're making a drug deal? This is so gangster.”

“It's just a re-up,” Adam tells him. “It's not really that glamorous.”

“How much are you buying?” George asks him. “Can I see the money?”

Adam looks around. Unzips his backpack and gives George a peek. “Holy shit,” George says, his eyes wide. “How much is in there?”

(All of it, is the answer.)

“Enough to buy enough pills to put us both in jail,” Adam says. “So keep your mouth shut. You sure your mom won't miss the car?”

“She has a meeting first period,” George says. “She won't even know.”

“Excellent,” Adam says. “So let's go.”

The deal plays without incident. Tommy's bags are already packed. His apartment is empty. He looks like he's itching to leave.

“Little vacation,” he tells Adam and George. “You know how it goes.”

Adam looks around. “Looks like you're leaving for good.”

“Maybe,” Tommy says. “Who knows?”

“Where are you going?” George asks him. He's giddy, nervous, bouncing around. Tommy just looks at him.

(George is the wrong guy for a drug deal.)

“Anyway.” Tommy pulls out a bag. A big bag. It's filled with about fifteen smaller bags of pills. “Here's the stuff,” he says. “You run out, I got a number you can call. Just don't let Jamal catch you.”

“He's not going to catch me,” Adam tells him. He takes the bag. Stuffs it into his backpack. Hands over the money.

“Have a nice trip,” Adam tells him.

“Dude, you gotta calm down,” Adam tells George as they walk back to the car. “You couldn't be more suspicious if you were wearing an ‘I'm a Drug Dealer' T-shirt.”

“I'm sorry, man,” George says. “I'm just, like, excited. This is the most badass thing I ever did in my life.”

They're crossing the street to the parking lot where they left the Buick. George is still bouncing around. “I wish I was you, man,” he says. “I bet it gets easier. Does it get easier?”

Adam's about to tell him, yeah, it gets easier. Yeah, this stuff is simple. Then Adam sees a cream-colored Lexus pull into the lot ahead of them.

“No,” Adam says. “It never does.”

The Lexus parks at the other end of the lot. The doors open and two men climb out. One of them is Jamal. The other guy should be an offensive lineman.

“Hurry up.” Adam grabs George, pulls him toward the Buick. “Get in the car and start driving.”

George is pissing himself. “Who is
that
?”

“Nobody,” Adam tells him. “Let's go.”

They book it for the car.

They don't make it.

Jamal intercepts them ten feet from the Buick. Grabs Adam and George by the collars and practically lifts them off their feet. “Whoa,” he says. “Slow down, little homies.”

He turns them around, one meaty paw apiece. He's grinning a great-white-shark grin.

“Holy shit,” George says. “What the hell is
happening
?”

“Just be cool,” Adam tells him.

“Yeah,” Jamal says. “Just be cool, man. I just want to talk to you.”

He grins at Adam. “Adam, right?”

Adam shrugs. Tries to look mean. Tries not to look like he's a half second away from pissing himself.

(Actually, scratch that. Adam isn't really scared, per se. I mean, of course he's scared.
You
find yourself face-to-face with a guy like Jamal and tell me you aren't scared. But
fear isn't the overriding emotion here. No way. Not by a long shot. What Adam's feeling most here is . . .

Anger.

Anger at himself for letting them get caught.

Anger at George for not running to the Buick fast enough.

Anger at Jamal for showing up outside Tommy's, of all places.

Anger at the whole goddamn universe, pretty much. For fucking him over.

For not letting him win.)

Jamal looks at George. “And who the fuck are you?”

“I don't know,” George says. “I'm just George. I don't know anything, I swear.”

“Shut up,” Adam tells him. “Let me handle this.”

“What brings you to the west side, little homies?” Jamal says. “Didn't anyone tell you this is my territory?”

“We're just running an errand,” Adam tells him. “Nothing to do with you.”

Jamal chuckles. “Something tells me all of your errands have something to do with me.” He picks up Adam's backpack where it dropped to the pavement. “So let's see what kind of errands you and homeboy are running.”

Jamal has to let go of Adam to pick up the backpack. Adam thinks about running. Before he's even aware of the thought, though, Jamal's big linebacker friend is up on him. There's no escape, Adam realizes. There's just playing this thing out.

Jamal unzips the backpack and peers inside, and Adam can literally
see
the moment when Jamal finds the pills. His posture shifts. His breath catches. His shark grin gets bigger, and Adam knows he's screwed.

“This is a lot of weight, man,” Jamal says. “Fuck you up a long time, you get caught riding with this.”

George is openly crying now.

“I'mma do you a favor,” Jamal says.

Adam waits for it.

“Don't want you little homies doing anything crazy,” Jamal says. “Get yourself caught with this stuff and fuck up your whole lives and shit, know what I'm saying?”

Adam shakes his head. “Come on, man.”

“Hate to see you kids do something stupid,” Jamal says. “So I'mma take this weight off your hands, okay?”

“You can't do that,” Adam tells him. “That stuff is mine. I paid—”

“Homey.” Jamal leans in real close. “I don't give a
fuck
.”

Jamal shoulders the backpack. “Let's take a walk, little homies.”

It's not a request. There's no room for negotiation. Jamal takes Adam and the linebacker takes George, and they walk into a back alley behind some shithole bar and Adam knows what's coming.

“Go easy on my buddy,” he tells Jamal. “He isn't part of this.”

“Rolls with you, though,” Jamal says. “That makes him an accessory. Better teach him a lesson, just in case.”

“Come on,” Adam says. “You don't have to—”

He never finishes the sentence. The linebacker cold-cocks him—

(
POW
)

—and down Adam goes.

It's not much of a fight. Five minutes, maybe. Adam gets his shots in, for all the good it does. Jamal's big. His buddy's bigger. Adam isn't exactly a tower of power.

George gets the same treatment. Except George doesn't get any shots in. Not that it does him any good. Five minutes and they're both curled up into little balls on the pavement, begging Jamal and his buddy to stop.

Jamal and his buddy do stop. “Remember, little homies,” Jamal says. “Stay out of the deep end.”

He spits on the ground, a few inches from Adam's face. Adam lies on the ground and stares at the loogie on the gritty pavement. The ruined remains of his TAG Heuer a few feet away.

Jamal and his buddy walk away with Adam's backpack. They climb into the cream-colored Lexus and drive off. Adam just lies there. Listens to George crying and feels a perverse satisfaction that—

(at least)

                                           
—he isn't crying himself.