The Drowning Game (10 page)

“Where we going?” I asked.

“Knucklehead's,” Ashley said, pulling a cigarette out of her pocket and lighting it up. She held it to my lips and I took a grateful hit.

“You're gonna have to tell me where to go,” I said, pulling away from the curb.

“I'll tell you where to go, all right,” Ashley said. “Ha ha ha, ha ha ha. It's on Pacific and Third.”

It was only a few blocks away. The bar was a cinder-­block building the size of a small ranch house. I parked on the street and Ashley swiveled the rearview mirror to look at herself and fluff her hair before getting out. Instead of holding the seat forward for Petty, she let it clunk back into place and walked ahead of us to the bar. I sighed and yanked the seat so Petty could get out. As Ashley disappeared inside, Petty froze up.

“I can't go in there,” she said.

“Sure you can,” I said. “You got your ID, right?”

“No, I mean . . . I . . .”

Once again, pity for this girl washed over me. What must it be like to be so paranoid? Still, observing Petty side by side with Ashley made me admire her more, because unlike Ashley, Petty hadn't chosen her circumstances.

“I'll stay right by your side,” I said. “There's nothing to be nervous about.”

“I think I'd better wait in the truck.”

“Listen,” I said. “Let's go in there for a little while. I think we—­I should buy her a beer or two since she's letting us stay at her place for free. I'll make sure you're sitting against the wall, away from the window. I will not leave your side. Okay?”

Petty breathed deeply, clearly psyching herself up.

“You want me to get your gun out of the truck? Would that make you feel safer?”

“It's not in the truck,” she said, and opened her hoodie to show me her holstered pistol.

The sight of it made my stomach clench. I stopped walking. “Wait. You can't wear that in there.”

“But you asked me if I wanted you to—­”

“I know I did, but I was just . . .”

Why had I said that? I'd never really thought about all the ordinary, weird conversational and behavioral tics everybody used; the casual lies, the empty offers, the figures of speech.

Petty awaited my answer.

“That's just how ­people talk.”

“Why?”

“They just do,” I said.

“So why can't I wear the gun in there?”

“You got a concealed carry permit?” When in doubt, divert, distract, or avoid the subject altogether is my motto.

“I'm not going in there without it,” Petty said.

“You're not going to threaten anyone, right?”

“Not unless someone threatens me first. Or you. Or even Ashley.”

The ­people I knew who toted guns around with them—­who was I kidding? The guys I knew who carried were usually overcompensating for their shortcomings, ready to yank out their piece and wave it around like a flag. Petty was the first person I'd ever met who actually carried for self-­protection. I couldn't help but feel admiration for this strange girl.

“Okay,” I said.

Instead of holding the door for her, I led the way inside, where the sharp
whock
of colliding pool balls punctuated loud classic rock. Just beyond the door, Petty stood with her back against the wall and scanned the room.

Ashley, who had her arms draped over two guys' shoulders, waved at me. I pointed to a table in the corner, which would be a perfect place from which to view the entire room.

Petty led the way over to it, turning in a circle, then sat on a stool with her back against the wall. Ashley came dancing over to the table, an unlit cigarette between her lips.

“You want a beer?” Ashley asked me, then turned. “You want a beer, Petty?”

Petty glanced at me.

“You need his permission, or what?”

“Is that how you ask permission?” Petty said. “By looking at someone?”

Ashley burst into laughter.

“And why would I need permission?”

My head spun. No way could I explain to Petty that Ashley was insulting her in order to assert her queen-­bee status. That this new, fucked-­up Ashley perceived her as someone too weak or too stupid to make her own decisions.

Thinking about all the head games involved in a normal social interaction depressed the shit out of me. I definitely needed a beer to stop the editorial bubbles from appearing over every communication. I dug out my wallet and handed Ashley five twenties. “Buy a pitcher and keep the rest to get yourself a ­couple of packs of smokes and some groceries.”

Ashley screamed and threw her arms around me. “I love you!” she shouted, and returned to the bar.

I leaned close to Petty, but she leaned away.

“I wanted to tell you something,” I said, “to whisper it to you, so I need to get close to your ear.” I felt like a foreign exchange student host, having to explain American customs.

Even in the dim bar light, I could see her face redden, embarrassed at her ineptitude.

“But nobody will be able to hear it anyway,” I said loudly. “I was going to say we probably should have crashed at Mike Zang's, but I thought you'd be more comfortable at a girl's house. Ashley's changed a lot since the last time I saw her.”

Petty didn't look at me. She kept her eyes on the careening mass of ­people before us. Ashley danced over to our table and set down two red plastic cups of beer. Petty pushed hers away, but then seemed to reconsider. She picked up the cup and took a sip.

I watched.

“My first beer,” Petty said, holding it up in a toast.

I clicked my cup against hers. “How about that. I had my first beer when I was ten.”

She tipped up the cup and drained it.

Out of the corner of my eye I watched Petty as she watched ­people, until two guys by the pool table started arguing loudly.

“Don't worry,” I said, in my best Batman growl. “I'll protect you.”

“From those two guys? I could take them both, easy.”

I felt a thrill. She probably could. I smiled at her and she smiled back, her dimples deepening, and I realized this was the first time I'd seen her smile. It was a sight to behold, and it sent blood rushing through me before I could stop it. That was all I needed, to be crushing on this gooney girl who could probably snap me in half.

“Until you pulled that wicked jiu-­jitsu move in front of Walgreens, I wouldn't have believed you,” I said. I sat up straighter. “Who else? Who else could you take?”

As soon as it was out of my mouth, I was afraid she'd say, “You.” But she didn't. She glanced around and said, “The guy on the far right of the bar, the bartender, the waitress, and the guy in the hunting vest.”

“And who'd you have trouble with?”

“The stout guy in the slipknot T-­shirt at the bar and the guy in camo.”

“And we're talking strictly hand-­to-­hand, right?”

She nodded. “It's Ashley I'm most worried about, because she's wiry and unpredictable and meth heads sometimes have super strength. Plus I'll bet she cheats.”

“Right?” I said. “Listen, I swear I didn't know she was doing drugs. She was such a sweet girl. It sucks.”

A giggle escaped Petty, but she sobered immediately. “That's not funny. I don't know why I laughed.”

“Because it's your first beer and you haven't had anything to eat. Don't worry about it.”

She giggled again.

Ashley came back to our table. “You need another one?” she asked.

“I think we're good, Ash,” I said.

“Okay. I'll be right back.”

She went back to the two guys in baseball caps she'd been talking to. She would talk and talk then throw her head back and laugh, then glance in Petty's direction. The two guys kept smiling at each other, smiles that said, “We're getting laid tonight.”

D
EKKER ORDERED US
some nachos. I felt clearer after I had some food in my stomach, but the beer made me warm and relaxed, which alarmed me. Ashley spun over to us every once in a while. She didn't eat anything, which didn't surprise me. By eight o'clock the place was standing room only, and Dekker told Ashley it was time to go.

“She wants to stay,” Dekker said when she walked away from the table again. “She said to go back to her place and she'll catch a ride with her new ‘friends' later. She gave me the key.” He held it up.

That was fine by me. But looking around at the packed bar, I felt jumpy. No way I'd get out of here without making physical contact with a bunch of ­people.

Dekker said, “I'll go first and clear a path for you.”

“Okay,” I said.

He turned his back to me and I followed him out into the dark night. I took a huge gulp of the clean-­smelling night air.

“Why do ­people hang out there?” I said.

“To get laid,” Dekker said, and then turned toward me, a horrified expression on his face. “I'm sorry. That was rude.”

I shrugged. I was sure he was right. All the movements and facial expressions and sounds inside the bar had been cartoonishly exaggerated, like the acting in bad TV movies I'd seen over the years. It was like mating week on Animal Planet or something.

We got in the truck and Dekker said, “Ashley told me there are two twin beds in her room, and you can have one of them. I'll sleep on the couch in the living room.”

“I don't know if I'll be able to sleep at all,” I said. “I've never slept anywhere but my house. Ever.”

It must have been hard for Dekker not to shout out
What?
every time I revealed another facet of my weird life.

“I've always had a tough time when I'm away from home too,” he said instead. “When I first got to K-­State, I had a hard time falling asleep. Unless I was toasted, of course.”

It would also be hard to sleep because there would be a man in the apartment, plus a girl I didn't trust at all. I thought this but didn't say it. When we got to Ashley's neighborhood, Dekker circled the block twice looking for parking. We had to park a block and a half away.

I reached for my suitcase but Dekker said, “Maybe you ought to leave that here.” I guessed he didn't exactly trust her either. He put it in the cab, then locked the doors.

Inside the apartment, the smell of smoke was now old and stale, so Dekker opened some windows. He went into Ashley's bedroom and flipped on the lights. I looked under the beds and in the closet. The bed I was supposed to sleep on was piled high with dirty clothes. Dekker swept it off for me.

“There you go.” He yawned and stretched, and he was so tall his knuckles scraped the ceiling. “I'm going to watch some TV.”

“Good night,” I said. He closed the bedroom door behind him. I heard the TV switch on in the living room as I sat on the bed. I wished I'd brought the photo album into the apartment so I could look at it, because I was sure I wouldn't be able to sleep.

I wondered why Dad had told me there weren't any photos. I thought about how he never wanted to talk about Mom, and I started to wonder if maybe the house fire was set by some criminal syndicate my dad was mixed up with and we were in the witness protection program like Dekker had said. I lay on top of the covers and closed my eyes anyway to get some rest.

I didn't know how much later sharp voices startled me out of sleep. I grabbed my bra knife from outside my shirt and held onto it. At first I thought the voices were coming from the TV, but then I heard Dekker shout, “What?”

Ashley's slurry drunken voice half cried and half whined, but I couldn't make out what she was saying. Every word Dekker said, though, was as clear as if he were sitting next to me.

“That's bullshit. I don't believe you. You're full of shit.”

I sat straight up, straining to hear more, but I suddenly knew I had to get out of there. Right then.

“Oh, shit,” Dekker said. “Oh, no. Oh, no.”

It was as if I had X-­ray vision, because I saw Dekker heading toward the bedroom door. It opened and he said, “Petty, come out here.” It wasn't a request.

“What's going on?” I followed him out to the living room.

Ashley was lolling on the couch, her hair covering her face, but Dekker stood, staring at the TV, his bottom lip pinched between his thumb and forefinger. He saw me looking at him and pointed at the TV. I turned toward it and saw a picture of me side by side with a picture of Dekker. For a moment I thought Ashley and Dekker were playing a trick on me.

“How—­”

“Ssshhh,” Dekker hissed. “Listen.”

“ . . . Moshen is five-­eight, one hundred thirty pounds, brown hair, hazel eyes,” the anchorwoman said. “Moshen and Sachs are considered armed and dangerous and were last seen in Saw Pole, eighty-­five miles northwest of Salina. If you have any knowledge of their whereabouts, call Crimestoppers at 825-­TIPS or text SATIPS to CRIMES (274637). You may receive a cash reward of up to one thousand dollars. Remember, you don't need to give your name to receive the reward.”

Dekker turned toward me. “You fucking
did
rob Dooley. You took more than your dad's stuff. You robbed him, and now they think I robbed him too.”

“I took what was rightfully mine,” I said.

“It doesn't matter. You took something from his office. And now they're looking for us, you lunatic.” He collapsed onto a chair, his head in his hands.

“I'll go,” I said.

“It doesn't matter if you go, Petty,” Dekker shouted. “
My
picture was on the TV too.”

I looked away from the TV and my eyes landed on the glowing screen of Ashley's cell phone, held casually open in her hand, displaying the numbers 911.

“Dekker,” I whispered, pointing.

Ashley hid the phone, but not before he'd seen.

“You . . . what's wrong with you? You want the cops to come here and find the meth you bought with the money I gave you?”