Twelve (5 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

WHITE MIKE AND
his father moved right after his mother died of breast cancer, three and a half years ago. It was hot in the new place, and there was nothing on the walls. In his room, there were bookcases and there were books on them and that was good, but everything else was stacked haphazardly, and the big box of his old stuff was sticking out of the closet so he could see it. Maybe you know how it is and maybe you don't, but sometimes if you can't see what you're finished with, it's better. The room was big, but getting rid of the box seemed to clear up a lot of space. White Mike stripped to his shorts and lay down on the floor, spread-eagling his body, so he felt a little cooler. That's how it was for him that first night in his new room
.

Chapter Twenty-Two

WHEN SHE LEAVES
Lenox Hill, Sara walks over to Madison. She takes her Nokia phone out of her Prada bag hanging over her black North Face parka. No missed calls. She accesses the menu and scrolls down until she comes to a new entry from last night:
Chris
. She has a plan. She hits the talk.

“Hello?”

“Are you with anybody?”

“No. Who's this?”

“Can I come over?”

“Sure, yeah. I mean, who are you?”

“Me. Sara. I'm coming over.”

Chris is very surprised and very happy. Yesterday he thought she didn't even know who he was. Now she has his phone number and everything. Maybe she has everybody's phone number. Probably. Anyway, she's coming over.

Sara walks up the steps of Chris's town house and presses the button on the intercom. Chris's voice comes
across. Sara announces herself. Chris says hold on. She gets in.

It's Saturday, so the house is empty except for Chris and Claude. Sara wishes she could get rid of the housekeeper and her little brother's nanny when her parents are away, which is always. She has to ask Chris how he does it. She can tell a lot of people work in this house. Sara follows Chris up to his room on the fourth floor. A television is buzzing and moaning in some corner. Chris is wearing basketball shorts, white and black, and Kevin Garnett sneakers—the ones that zip up the top. He is also wearing a wife beater, but he is not particularly beef, so it sort of hangs on him and brings out the pale skin and pimples on his hairless chest.
Chacne
is the name for pimples on the chest;
bacne
, the name for pimples on the back. Chris hopes she doesn't notice and sits down on one of the couches in his room and stretches out his arms on the back His armpit hair is sparse. Jessica sits in the thousand-dollar black and gray swivel chair opposite him. Chris gets up and goes to his computer, where he starts the first song on his playlist. The first song is Tupac Shakur's “California Love.”

Sara smiles at him. “Listen, I have this great idea.”

“Okay.”

“Your parents aren't going to be here for a few days, right?”

“Yeah.”

“We should throw a party.”

“What about last night?”

“No, I mean a real party.”

Chris doesn't know what to say. She's just so beautiful.

“I could get everybody to come,” she says. “Everybody cool.”

“I don't want it to be too big.”

Sara is not in the mood for this. She gets up and sits down close to Chris on the couch. He tenses, surprised by the arm she places around his shoulders.

I can't believe I'm doing this
, thinks Sara, mockingly, to herself.
I am trading on my womanly wiles for something I want. Ha, ha
. She slips her tongue into Chris's mouth. He reciprocates, and with perfect timing, she pulls away.

“Don't you want to have a big party?”

“Sure.” His dick is getting stiff and visible through his Jordan shorts.

“The biggest party ever,” she says. “It'll be amazing.” She knows the right party on New Year's Eve will lock her in as the girl who makes things happen. Which everyone knows she is already, but this would still be great. Great. Great for her.

“Just not too many people.”

“But it has to be huge. Besides, people will need to keep themselves occupied in case we start to have some extra fun, by ourselves, somewhere else.” Sara glances meaningfully at the bed.

“I thought you had a boyfriend.”

“I have lots of boyfriends,” she says, smiling at him.
“That's the way it works. I'm not a slut—”

“Of course you're not.”

“But different guys are interesting for different reasons. There are just so many of you. You're interesting for a very specific reason.”

“What's that?”

“You'll have to figure that out for yourself.”

Sara's grandmother went to a coming-out party once that was supposed to be the most famous party of her generation. It was out on Long Island. Not in the Hamptons, but on the North Shore where they used to have huge estates with incredible gardens on the Sound. This party was so wild, kids really were swinging from chandeliers, and the place got totally trashed. Cops came from two counties, and eight or nine boys from Yale and Columbia were arrested. The story was on the cover of
Life
magazine. Sara's mother was born nine months later
.

Chapter Twenty-Three

WHITE MIKE IS
walking down Lexington toward Ninety-first Street to meet Jessica. He is with Lionel, because when he got the call, he knew he would need this new Twelve stuff. The girl had described the drug perfectly when she was asking for it, even though she had asked for “The Number Twelve.” He knew what it was. It was practically like she was still on it.

The whole deal is starting to make White Mike uneasy. This new drug is bad news. Plus, he is having to deal with Lionel all the time because of it, and Lionel is a creepy dude. Lionel with his brown and yellow bloodshot eyes. White Mike knows that Lionel carries a gun. The gun is the scariest thing that goes along with making more money. White Mike never saw a gun in the beginning, but pretty soon the money got more serious. Once a thousand dollars is changing hands, the dealers always have some kind of protection. It is just too much money to fuck around with. The kids, of course, have no idea.

Intellectually, White Mike knows everything. He knows that Lionel comes from a place where there actually was
crack, even if there's not so much anymore. He knows that Lionel's neighborhood can get really fucked up, manifest the specter of the inner city he and all his friends heard about in history class but only White Mike ever came close to seeing. White Mike is
cognizant
of, even involved in, this other New York City. All of which makes it weird and not weird at the same time that he knows, say, that Lionel has children. And get this: Lionel told him how in the third grade his son, Jeremy, had been disciplined by a teacher for writing on his desk, and the kid had said,
My dad's gonna shoot you
. The teacher backed off, then quit later that year. Lionel was proud of that:
Sure, I'd have shot the bitch. Shoot any bitch-ass nigger fucks with me. Teacher, cop, punk kid, doesn't matter to me. All the same anyway
. The words stuck in White Mike's head. White Mike and Lionel don't talk as they walk.

As they get to Ninety-first, they see Jessica waiting on the corner, walking around a phone booth. She keeps looking around but doesn't notice the two drug dealers until they are almost right on top of her. She is trying to play it cool, but she has never done this before. White Mike feels sorry for her.

Lionel eyes the girl, but she is focusing her attention on White Mike. He is the one she can deal with. They introduce themselves, and White Mike inquires as to how much she wants. First, though, Jessica wants to know exactly what the stuff is called, even though she doesn't want to come off as naïve. So she braces
herself and asks, looking away from White Mike. Lionel grins and grunts with laughter.

“Twelve,” White Mike says. He tries to look her right in the eye but can't catch her gaze.

“Sorry?”

“
Twelve
.”

“Oh.”

Lionel's baritone slides out from his hood, surprisingly smooth, even musical. “How much,” he says, not even really a question.

For the first time, Jessica really looks at him. The dark skin hooded under the sweatshirt, unwashed, and the eyes looking straight at her. Lionel is handsome, in his way. He has a strong jaw and doesn't look fat, even though he is enormous. Jessica takes this all in.

“A thousand.” She almost totally busted her cash-advance lines for this.

Lionel's eyebrows arch for half a second. White Mike sighs and indicates for the three of them to start walking, and takes the money from the girl, crisp bills in his hand, and Lionel hands her five tiny Baggies. Jessica now has the impression that this drug is Lionel's domain and not White Mike's. Her attention is refocused. White Mike is surprised when she asks Lionel for his beeper number, “because, you know, it might be easier if it was direct, and maybe I'll want some more . . .”

Lionel gives her the number. White Mike doesn't want to think about this.

Jessica, eager to get away from them now, says goodbye and turns the corner hurrying toward Fifth Avenue.

That was easy
.

I am so cool.

Chapter Twenty-Four

WHITE MIKE LOOKED
at her as she spoke. His mother said that it could be a couple years, but it might he less, and at the end she said she was sorry, and he said, Don't worry, it's not your fault. She said she wasn't going to talk about it anymore, and they were just going to live the best life they could. Did you hear me, Michael? Always live the best life you can.

That night White Mike woke up sometime after midnight and walked to the kitchen in the dark. There were no windows in the old kitchen, and when the swinging door swooshed silently closed behind him, the room was black. Not even a sliver of light came through the crack under the door. He reached up to a cupboard, opened it, and searched for a package of cookies. His hands found the package and took it down, all in total darkness. Next he pulled a stool up to the cupboard to get a glass. The first thing he felt was a champagne flute, so he took that, and it was as cold as the tiles on his bare feet. He placed the glass next to the package of cookies on the counter. He opened the package as
silently as he could and removed a stack of cookies, the whole bunch in the first of the divided rows of the package. He placed the stack next to the flute, closed up the package, and replaced it in the cupboard. He turned in the direction of the refrigerator and regarded the darkness before him. Then he closed his eyes, and the darkness changed imperceptibly, maybe just in that he knew his eyes were closed. He stepped across the kitchen to the refrigerator and opened the door. Orange brightness flooded his closed eyes, and he reached about for the carton of milk. He found a carton, cold and full, and took it out, closing the door as quickly as he could. The brightness faded, and he opened his eyes. In the darkness he opened the carton and poured himself a champagne flute of undiluted cranberry juice, his mother's favorite drink.

Chapter Twenty-Five

WHITE MIKE AND
Lionel watch the girl hurry away.

“We'll be seeing that one again soon,” says Lionel.

“You seen my cousin?” White Mike asks.

“Who?” Lionel is thumbing the cash.

“You know, Charlie. He put us together. Goes to college now. Still deals.”

Lionel thinks back to the feathers flying up in front of his eyes as the parka exploded under Charlie's face. The other kid flashes through his mind too, down on the pavement.

“Oh, yeah.”

“If you see him, tell him I'm looking for him.”

“Yeah.” Lionel peaces himself out and walks off quickly, to go back uptown and get stoned.

“Fucking guy,” White Mike is muttering under his breath as he catches a cab.

Where is Charlie?
Charlie has been on White Mike's mind a lot recently. He grew up with the kid, after all. Charlie is his cousin. His father's sister is Charlie's mother. But she and her husband were all fucked up.
Way too much money, in the gossip columns all the time, party-party-party, and it was houses in Tuscany and chartered boats off Bali. Their family is much wealthier than White Mike's father. For most of Charlie's life, it was either live with the nannies or live with White Mike. So Charlie just used his parents' house when he wanted to throw a party or something. He kept that address, but he really lived with White Mike. They were almost the same age and looked like brothers; people used to mistake them for twins. The big difference between them was that Charlie was a very bad student, or just didn't care, or both, and was sent away to a bad boarding school in eighth grade. It made him grow up faster, in a funny way.

White Mike always looked forward to Charlie's return during vacations: it always brought interesting adventures and eventually tutorials in drug dealing. When Charlie came back home this time, though, he was different. Maybe it was the new school, or maybe it was just that he was doing more drugs than usual— college didn't stop that—but he had been distant. Like his mind was on something. He went off without White Mike for basically the whole vacation; doing what, White Mike couldn't guess. So the hell with Charlie. The whole deal is making White Mike cranky.

Chapter Twenty-Six

JESSICA STRUTS DOWN
Fifth Avenue, anticipating, her high, shapely ass swinging and hair flying, beautiful in the light streaming through the sky at the tail end of dusk. She takes her purple Discman out of her bag and puts on the headphones, the kind that wrap around the back of your neck. She is listening to a mix a boy made for her. Jessica walks on, hand in her pocket, fondling the tiny Baggies.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“
WHY DON'T YOU
do drugs? You deal 'em; why don't you do 'em?” asked Hunter as he handed White Mike the bong disguised as a highlighter that he bought in a smoke shop downtown.

White Mike looked at it and handed it back. “I don't know. I just never had the urge to.”

“Not even to try?”

“No.”