Pins: A Novel (19 page)

He coughed out a ghost of a hurl, washed his face, rinsed off bits of barf and asphalt from his jacket. He found some old mouthwash under the sink, gargled, sat, his shorts around his ankles, on the toilet, when he heard a knock. “Yeah.”

“Are you okay?” his father whispered.

“Yeah.” He finished, flushed the toilet. Opening the door, the glare of the bathroom painted his father’s face a ghastly color. He hadn’t been sleeping.

“Were you drinking?”

“Yeah.”

Joey waited.
 
Come on. Hit me. Knock me out. Please.

“I take it this was your first time being shitfaced?”

“Ungh. Dad. I’m sorry.”

“Firing squad at dawn. Happy New Year.”

His father scowled, padded away, barefoot, bathrobed, back upstairs.

24

“Why are they hangin’ the flag at half mast?”

“That kid what got killed.”

“I thought he was in a car wreck.”

“What was his name?”

“No, he got beat up or mugged.”

“Lambrusci something.”

“They hang a flag down for a guy like that? He wasn’t even popular.”

Dink? Absent.

Hunter? Unknown.

Bennie? Mustang not spotted by lunchtime.

He couldn’t remember where he got that new knuckle scab, but pretending to be fascinated by it helped him dodge the glances around his desk. Kids in class wanted to see him break down, cry. He could almost feel them waiting for it. They knew he knew Anthony, was of the same tribe.

In the halls, his jacket off, they didn’t know:

“Did you hear the joke?”

“What?”

“Why’d Anthony get stoned the night he died?”

“Why?”

“‘Cause he wanted to die a Lambros-co on the rocks!”

“That’s stupid.”

While eating, or giving the impression that he was:

“I heard he was up at the graveyard, ‘cause that’s where all the fags go.”

“Hey, you know what gay stands for?”

“Guys, guys, he was on our team. Let’s not–”

“Oh, come on, Klein, he’s just having some fun.”

“Did you get on TV?”

“Naw, they left before I got to say anything. I think I got my face in, though.”

Over the loudspeakers: “ … that our uh counselors will be coming to homerooms throughout the week to uh talk about this tragedy. Any students who feel they need to talk with them sooner uh can come to the Assistant Principal’s office to uh make an appointment …”

He grew a headache in second period, stopped into the Nurse’s office, not for “crisis counseling,” but for an aspirin. He saw Hunter down one hallway, dodged him.
 
The guys were starting to ask him about Dink.

Frozen clumps of mud trimmed the streets outside. He’d spent all Sunday trying to find the nerve to just tell his parents everything, spill it out. But everything held, waiting.
 
He was told to rake leaves in the rain.

Maybe Anthony was okay. Maybe somebody found him, took him to the hospital.

When he would have to act surprised, could he act as sorry as he was? Could he do it then? Would that be mistaken for genuine innocent sorrow? If he bawled like people expected, he knew his feelings for Anthony, the real ones, the loving, wish-I’d-been his friend, wish-I’d told-him, wish-I’d-kissed-him feelings would roll out like a flood.

In the hall, huddled in groups, sharing rumors, he could see some girls crying, or acting as if they were crying. They didn’t even know Anthony.

But Chrissie Wright did. She huddled next to Kimberly Holbrook, the other Mat Maid. He considering turning around, maybe ducking all the way around the school to avoid them, but he’d been doing that all day, dodging someone he thought was Bennie from fifty yards.

“Oh, my God, Joe. Isn’t it awful?” Chrissie’s thin arms were around him, her sweet perfume surrounding him, her light combed-out hair in his face. He brought his right arm around her back, clamping his hand down on his raised books. His biceps twitched.

Almost landing on the strap of her bra under her sweater, he darted his palm down, then tried to release her, but she started crying, his chin parked on her shoulder as if it were a chopping block. Kids passing by stopped, or slowed, some of them, their eyes welling up. It was contagious.

Behind Chrissie, Kimberly crossed her arms, obviously over the sobbing phase. Kimberly was already medicated. “Yeah, it’s terrible. I can’t even think. Is this sick or what?”

Chrissie sobbed. “I mean, he was so good, he was just tryin’ his best, but who could have done it?”

He almost said it, but it got caught on the way out. The flood came up, choking him in the throat. He hugged closer to Chrissie, closing his eyes, letting the drops fall on her shoulder.

The bell rang.

“What are we gonna do?”

He released Chrissie, wiped her tears off with his fingers. “Pray for his soul.” He walked on to class, leaving them both, stuck his finger in his mouth long enough to taste her salt.
 
“Among others.”

A strip of the list where Anthony’s name was had been was cut off. The piece had been put on the banner wall, in a frame.

Coach Cleshun stood in the middle of the mat with his arms crossed in a knotted bundle. Assistant Coach Fiasole stood nearby, but never said a word. His eyes were bloodshot. Beside him, Dink stood in street clothes.

Hunter looked freaked as the others silently entered the practice room. Joey could tell. Their shared glances shot around the room like lasers, silently asking, ‘Where’s Bennie?’

“Circle,” Coach Cleshun said.

Colts crouched or kneeled.

Coach announced, “We will have a talk.”
 

Just that one sentence kept them silent. Hunter stood at opposite corners from Joey and Dink, pieces of a broken compass.

The talk turned out to be few words, all of them Cleshun’s.

“I know it’s already been going around the school all day, that one of our team members, Anthony Lambros, was found dead yesterday. Despite the rumors and the talk, I want to hear none of that coming from a team member. We will honor and respect Anthony Lambros in memory.”

Cleshun sort of choked on the last part. “Any of you…who might be having…personal problems …I wish you would …I want you to please talk to me or your parents or anyone you can trust. No matter what you are feeling, no matter what your problems are, nothing is worth…doing something that could hurt yourself or someone else.”

He kept tripping over his words, but it was understood. A few guys were trying to hide their tears. Fiasole would not even look at him or anyone, but kept his head bowed, hands over his face.

Coach waited for someone to bring up a topic, to ask a question.

“There will be no practice today. Go home and think about that.”

“But we got a match against Montclair tomorrow,” Hunter blurted.

“GO! NOW!!”

The team flew apart. Boys ran off toward the lockers, some directly out the door.

Across what was the circle, Hunter stood apart, on the other side, doing anything not to look at anyone.

Joey had to tell. He had to tell.

Guide of Pilgrims, direct my steps in the straight path.

He hoped one of the men could reassure him, talk to him, but he couldn’t bring it up. Dink signalled with a nod; outside.

Hunter kept lingering at the door, the potential stranglehold he could apply looming behind his glare. Fiasole had begun pacing, just walking away. Cleshun stood, staring at nothing.

A few guys puttered in the locker room, bouncing their voices off the walls, which were oddly dry, the echoes quiet.

“Jeez, at least he could have told us not to suit up,” Troy grumbled.

“That was the point,” Buddha Martinez said.

It felt as if Hunter had gone. He must have gone.

But then Hunter appeared behind him. He turned, afraid of anything. Hunter only stared down at him, sang softly in a voice like the guy in Pearl Jam, “Anthony spoke in…cla-a-ass today.”

He wanted to punch him, scream, but he sat, relacing his new shoes, again.

Hunter walked away.

Some lockers slammed. Some guys came by, patted his back.

Dink whipped around a corner.

“What did you say?”

“Hold your mud, Neech. We’re gonna get out of this.”

“What, are you gonna steal a car now?”

“No man, we have got to be together on this.” Dink’s hand gripped his shoulder. “We were not even there.”

“No way.”

“Are we gonna stick together on this?” Dink asked.

“Not with those two goons.”

“No, not them. You and me. We did not do it. You didn’t do anything. I didn’t do anything. You hurled. I got punched.”

“You fuck! Did you tell? I’m tellin’.”

“I say you didn’t. You say I didn’t. We’re fifteen. We’ll get off. Believe me. I know.”

“How do you know?”

“Just …” Dink released his grip on his shoulder. “No matter what, we gotta stick together.”

He wanted to hug Dink right there, just grab him.

“Dink?”

“Yeah.” He tucked his shirt in, got frustrated, yanked it back out.

“This is some heavy shit.”

“You got that. Oh, you gotta come to my house, get some tapes, before they bust me.”

“What?”

“Neech, just–”

“Could you, could you not call me Neech anymore?”

“Whaddayou talkin’ about?”

“Dink…Donald.”

Dink winced.
 

“We’re maybe gonna have to keep our mouths shut and go to court and wear suits and ties and then tell everything.”

“Dude, I am fucked. I got priors.”

“What?”

Dink held two pinched fingers to his lips.

“Look, if they do and even if they don’t you are no longer Dink to me. Dya unnastand what I’m sayin’? We are gonna have to put up a tough front, okay? What you said, about the Orange and Black.”

“What?”

“It’s always Halloween.”

Dink’s eyes registered, his mouth open. He just wanted to kiss him once, those open lips, his stupidly cute face. Dink leaned in, put his hand on his shoulder as if knighting him. “Joseph most just. Joseph most chaste. Joseph most cute.”

They were staring eye to eye like they had never done before. He was obliged to do it now.

He leaned in, kissed Dink, just once, on the side of his face, expecting a shove or a push, something that would help him do what he knew he might have to do, narc on the boy he loved.

 
But Dink moved his face toward Joey’s kiss. His lips parted just a moment to where it was wet and their tongues met. He wanted to think of it as a sexy love kiss, but even a dumb jock Laps Catholic knew about kisses and betrayal.

Joey pulled back, slightly amazed. They pulled apart at the crunch of a distant locker. Dink hovered close, whispered, “We got about an hour.”

“Till what?”