Traplines (13 page)

Jeremy made it to the top of the stairs, then turned around. Mrs. Tupper hit him in the chest with the banana peel, and he hooted as he fell down. Unimpressed, Mrs. Tupper picked up her pace and advanced on him, her left cane raised above her head. She began to smack him with it as soon as he came in range. Jeremy crawled away, gasping for air as he laughed, dropping jeans as he made a slow and unsteady escape.

“Mrs. Tupper,” Tom said. “I think that’s enough.”

“What you need,” Mrs. Tupper said, her voice crisp with
indignation, “is a good wupping.” She pivoted on her canes to make a dignified retreat.

Jeremy, reduced to giggling, staggered back to pick up the jeans he’d left behind. Tom went out to help him.

“That was,” Jeremy said, giggling again. “The slowest chase in history.”

Tom took the jeans from Jeremy as his cousin collapsed again, helpless with laughter. Some of the neighbors opened their doors and peeked out.

“It’s okay,” Tom said.

Jeremy wiped his eyes. He punched Tom’s arm as they went into the apartment. “Kid, you’ve got no sense of humor.”

Tom smiled wanly.

“Come on,” Jeremy said. “Lighten up. I’ve got just the trick.”

Jeremy went to the bedroom and Tom followed, jeans draped over his arms. Jeremy pulled his suitcase from under the bed and opened it. There was a black garbage bag inside. It crackled as Jeremy opened it. He held up a bag of cocaine.

“Jeez,” Tom said, sitting down on his bed.

“It’s just coke,” Jeremy said, looking at him. “It’s not like it’s crack or anything.”

“You sell it,” Tom said, disappointed, realizing where the money was coming from as he looked at the suitcase.

“No, no, no,” Jeremy said. “This friend of mine sells it, but he cuts me some pretty good deals because I store the stuff for him. This stuff”—Jeremy lifted up a packet —“isn’t
top of the line. He gives me samples. As long as I don’t dip too deep, that is.”

Tom didn’t know what to say.

“Hey, I didn’t kill anyone for it or anything,” his cousin said. “You ever tried this stuff?”

Tom shook his head.

“Well,” Jeremy said, hitting him on the knees. “Let’s get you toasted, Clark Kent.”

It wasn’t too hard to give in, since he was curious. Mike wouldn’t touch cocaine, wouldn’t do anything anymore except pot, saying he’d rather not be that fucked up and stupid. Tom had never done anything heavy, but he hadn’t admitted that; he’d faked knowing what Mike was talking about.

What if the coke reacted with his medication? He hadn’t had a seizure in four years. He might relapse, he might have some really freaky reaction and end up in the hospital. Or nothing could happen.

Jeremy opened the bag carefully, laid down four lines, and rolled a hundred-dollar bill into a thin tube. He inhaled hard. He handed the tube to Tom, who copied him.

“Nothing’s happening,” Tom said.

Jeremy shrugged. “Try again.”

Tom made it through the second snort. He waited. He felt a bit buzzed but nothing more. So. This was living dangerously. Life in the fast lane. Yee-hah.

Jeremy handed him the tube and he snorted another half a line. “I don’t think it’s for me.”

Jeremy grunted, smiling at nothing. He got up and opened a window.

Tom felt light. He lifted his arm for no reason and found himself staring at his hand. He had no idea how long he held it up. Jeremy started laughing. He was on the bed, jumping up and down. His shadow loomed in the corner and shrank. Tom blinked slowly, his bones melting into the pillows. His lids felt heavy, his legs were sinking, the room was a vortex, and he was sucked down, slowly, Jeremy moving in the air like an excited poodle doing tricks.

“You,” Jeremy said when Tom woke up, “are possibly the most boring partier in the entire world.”

Tom rolled over, covering his head with the pillow.

“Come on,” Jeremy said, yanking the blankets off. “School time, kid.”

“God,” Tom muttered, “it can’t be morning.”

Jeremy poked him out of bed, poked him into the kitchen, fed him cereal, and laid out his clothes. Tom, tired and achy, felt like he hadn’t slept for weeks. He didn’t want to argue, just wanted to be left alone.

“Here,” his cousin said, handing him a bottle of Visine. “Make yourself presentable.”

The sharp, sweet smell of pot filled the room like a cheap air freshener. The ceiling was covered in a blue haze.

Jeremy herded him into his car and dropped him off at school. Tom planned on skipping gym. He couldn’t miss physics or band. He remembered his medication and dug around in his bag until he found it. He’d already missed too much school. The new no-tolerance rules had come into place this month, and he’d be suspended if he missed any
more classes. He stepped into the hallway and felt strange, as if people were watching him. He thought it was an aura, but it didn’t feel as intense. Mike had said that happened sometimes; when you first tried pot, you got paranoid. Tom wondered if it was the same with coke.

He put his books in his locker. The black-haired girl with the multiple earrings who had the locker beside him stopped dead when she saw him, open-mouthed. He tried to convince himself that he was imagining it, but she turned to watch him leave, still looking shocked.

It’s okay, he told himself. Keep calm. Don’t look stoned.

He walked to his physics class, telling himself that conversations were not going quiet as he passed. He fixed his gaze straight ahead, determined to appear sober.

The buzzer rang, and he jumped at the loudness of it. He was late. Maybe he should just skip classes altogether. No, he decided, go ahead. He pushed the classroom door open. Mr. Calloway’s voice droned through the air, low and monotone, telling everyone to open their books to page 143. Tom took his place at the back of the class, feeling eyes on him. His neighbor snickered.

“Hey,” the guy said loudly. “It’s Mr. Armani.”

Tom sat still, not comprehending.

“Whoa, check out the duds,” someone else said, and the class turned to stare at him.

Tom looked down. Jeremy had put him in some kind of suit and he hadn’t noticed, he’d been that stoned. Hadn’t really cared what he put on, never really saw what he put on until now, when he was being gaped at like a freak.

Mr. Calloway tapped the desk to get everyone’s attention, then began to write equations on the board. Interest in Tom faded as Mr. Calloway made his way through the lesson.

In the bathroom after class, Tom checked himself in the mirror. He’d forgotten the haircut too. He looked goofy. He didn’t mind being laughed at wearing his normal clothes; he could handle it then, shrug it off. But now it was different. Everyone would think he was trying to be cool.

I am going to kill Jeremy, he thought. I am going to strangle him while he sleeps.

The buzzer rang. He didn’t want to leave the bathroom. He felt embarrassed about being embarrassed, told himself he didn’t care what anyone thought.

Fuck it. He moved down the hallway, opened the locker, manhandled his bassoon out, and made his way to band, sober and tense.

The reaction in band was more dramatic than in physics. Jaws dropped as he sat, careful not to meet anyone’s eyes. The French horn player sitting beside him burst out laughing. Tom opened the bassoon case, concentrating firmly on keeping a deadpan expression.

He knew Paulina Mazenkowski had turned around. He didn’t want to see her giggling.

“Hey, Tom,” she said.

As calmly as he could, he looked at her.

“You clean up nice,” she said, smiling right at him before she turned back and they started warm-up scales.

She smiled at him again, before she left with her friends,
but he couldn’t quite manage to smile back, so he nodded, feeling like an idiot, like the biggest phony on the face of the earth.

“Holy fucking Jesus!” Mike said, when they met in the hallway. “What the fuck happened to you?”

Tom sat down, tired. “I got a haircut.”

“Shit,” Mike said. “Man, you look like a fucking retard.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it. You look like a goddamn suit. What happened to you, man? Where’d your brain go?”

“It’s
hair
,” Tom said. “Not a face-lift.”

“You sold out,” Mike said. “You bought into it. You’re a fucking clone.”

Tom pulled out his sandwich and began to eat. He didn’t feel up to dealing with Mike. What was the big problem? He’d always been scummy and Mike had never cared. Tom looked up and Mike was gone. Just like that.

He couldn’t take it anymore and skipped the afternoon. The whole day, he decided, was just too weird.

Tom woke up on the couch. The phone rang and kept ringing, and he reached for it, bleary-eyed. “ ’Lo?”

“Tom. I want to talk to your mother. Now.”

“Who’s ‘is?” He groped for the clock, then remembered it was in the kitchen.

“You goddamn well know who it is,” the man said, and Tom realized it was Uncle Richard, sounding more pissed off than usual. “Where is she?”

“I dunno,” Tom said. “Wait. Lemme check the fridge.”

He put the phone down and stumbled into the kitchen. There was nothing where Mom usually left messages. He went back to the living room and picked up the phone, but Uncle Richard had hung up. Poor bastard, Tom thought.

He sat for a few moments, then went to his bedroom to change. He couldn’t find his real clothes, his jeans and T-shirts. He was hunting under the bed when Jeremy came in.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” he said, kicking Tom in the butt. “About time you woke up. Where’s Aunt Chrissy?”

“Where’s my clothes?” Tom said. He pushed himself up onto his knees.

“I asked first.” Jeremy crossed his arms over his chest. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know. I want my clothes back.” Tom felt himself getting angry and breathed deeply. A sudden suspicion made him dizzy. “You threw them out. You—”

“Relax, relax. I’m keeping them over at a friend’s place. You can have them back when you earn them.”

“Earn them?” He stood up. “Those are my clothes! I bought them! You—”

“
Meep
,” Jeremy said, wiggling his fingers.

There was nothing he could say to that.

“Smart boy,” Jeremy said. “You hungry?”

Jeremy disappeared into the kitchen and made some Kraft dinner. Tom could smell it cooking and came to the table as Jeremy put the pot on the table. Tom ate two helpings. He couldn’t remember macaroni and cheese tasting so good. He made himself a sandwich afterward, then scooped some ice cream.

Jeremy picked at his food. His left foot tapped against the
floor. Tom watched him. A thin trickle of blood leaked out of Jeremy’s right nostril and dribbled down his face. Before it dropped onto the plate, the blood quivered on his chin. Jeremy noticed Tom staring at him and looked down as if to check his fly.

“Fuck,” Jeremy said. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his cheek.

His cousin left the kitchen. Tom heard the bathroom faucet running. He got up and scraped Jeremy’s dinner into the garbage. The TV suddenly blared to life and the lounger squealed as Jeremy plopped down in the living room.

The feeling that something was not right was getting stronger. It’s an aura, Tom thought. It’s from hitting my head the other night. He should get up and leave, he thought, sneak out, go to Mike’s place, hang out for a few days, borrow some clothes. Or he could stay and put up with the shit Jeremy was handing out. Or he could tell Mom that Jeremy was a drug pusher. She’d never stand for that, too afraid that Tom was going to become an addict and run away, disappear, then reappear dead. She’d seen it happen to her friends’ kids.

Option one, going over to Mike’s place, had the disadvantage of being unreliable. Mike might not be home, or might not be his friend anymore, after today. It bugged him that Mike could be so superficial.

Then there were the bills. In spite of everything, Jeremy had paid off the electric bill, had shown him the receipt. Tom had checked it out himself, privately, and discovered that Jeremy was telling the truth. They were all paid up. Jeremy had tacked the phone bill up on the wall of their bedroom
and circled how much they owed. If he screwed up with Jeremy, the chances that his cousin would pay off the bills were very, very small.

So. He’d stick it out. He’d get laughed at and bossed around. Big deal. How long could it last? A month? Two months? Only he hated it. He didn’t know if he could face another day of being stared at. Time to talk to his cousin.

He took a deep breath, then another. He went into the living room, where his cousin was zoning out in front of MuchMusic.

“Could you turn it down?” Tom said.

Jeremy shook his head.

“I got to talk to you!”

“Later!” Jeremy shouted back, eyes narrowed to slits, not looking at him.

Tom stayed for a few more minutes, then left, disgusted.

He searched his bedroom, his mother’s bedroom, the hallway closet, and the bathroom but couldn’t find his clothes. The stuff hanging up in his own closet made him cringe. Nerdball stuff.

The bedroom door opened and he expected to see Jeremy. He was surprised to see Uncle Richard and then completely surprised when Uncle Richard’s fist connected with his jaw. He hit the wall and Uncle Richard grabbed his shirt, held him up by it.

“Where is she?” Uncle Richard said, his voice completely calm.

“I nono,” Tom said, his mouth not working properly.

Uncle Richard pushed his face right up against Tom’s, his
flat black eyes wide and blank. “You’re lying,” Richard said.

“No, twuth.”

Tom saw the fist coming this time and put his arms up. The fist hit the wall beside him and he heard the plaster give.

“I can hurt you,” Uncle Richard said. He pulled his fist back. “Don’t lie to me anymore. I don’t like it.”

Unsteadily, Uncle Richard reached to pull him close, grabbing a fistful of shirt. Tom kicked out, getting him in the shins, and Uncle Richard’s face distorted. But even shocked and in pain, Uncle Richard kept his grip. Tom tried to bite his hands, tried to force them off, but he couldn’t get out of Uncle Richard’s stranglehold. Tom went for the groin, tried poking him in the eyes, while Richard slammed him against the wall, pulled him up, slammed him again.