The Real Deal

He salutes me. “I will.”

I hope he will. But I know too well that what kids do without adult supervision isn’t always what they say they’ll do. I’ve done my part, though. And really, that’s all I can do. At least he has only a twenty-minute window to get into hot water. When I was little older than Jared, I had windows lasting days. Endless days.

I grab a key and unlock the top lock. The middle lock. The bottom lock. It groans open, moaning its abject pain and distinct need for WD-40. “Catch you next week.”

He high-fives me. “See ya.”

I wait till he unlocks the door to his tiny apartment. His mom is a single parent, and she works late hours, trying to make ends meet. I try to hang out with Jared once or twice a week. Who knows. Maybe it’ll make a difference for him.

I head upstairs, hoping to avoid Mr. Boyle and his bologna.

I can pull off a lot of impressive tricks—I learned to eat fire one summer on the Atlantic City Boardwalk, and I can also make a compass out of a dead cell phone’s battery. But the one thing I haven’t quite mastered is walking up the rickety steps in this ten-apartment building where I rent a studio slightly bigger than a steamer trunk. Like Indiana Jones hopscotching his way to the treasure in the South America cave, I’ve nearly mastered how to make it up the steps without him hearing. But the last one is the doozy. It groans. Every single time.

When I turn the corner on the second-floor landing, Boyle is standing in the doorway of his place, the scent of fried bologna curling through the dusty air. Before I moved into this building, I wasn’t aware that bologna was still a food item people eat. Now I know a few key facts about bologna: The smell is strong. It carries in air vents. It sticks to clothes. It’ll flood my room in about two minutes.

Let me tell you how I feel about bologna—I’d rather eat dog food.

Boyle wears a wife-beater. It’s in the creepy-landlord dress code. He glares at me. “You know it’s Monday in six days.”

“Huh.” I give him a surprised look. “You don’t say.” I stare thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Would that make tomorrow Wednesday, then?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t mess with me, Banks.”

“I’ll have the rent on time. I always do.”

He snorts. “You’re lucky I let you stay. I’ve got someone willing to pay me a hundo more than you pay a month for that studio.”

“That so?”

He nods, scratches his jowly jaw. “Yeah,” he grunts. “Tell me why I shouldn’t rent your room.”

I jut up my shoulders. “Got me. If I were you, I’d kick my ass out.”

“What?” He tilts his head as if what I just said makes no sense.

He wants me to cower. He wants me to pay him early. He wants to use the cash to go down to the pharmacy a few blocks away that writes him scrips for OxyContin. He thinks I don’t know this. But I do, because all it takes to figure shit out about people is to pay attention.

That’s why I know he’ll back down first. He doesn’t have someone for my place. Even if he did, I’d come up with something. It’s what I’ve done: life hacking. I’ve had to do it since I was fourteen years old.

“You think I should kick you out?” Boyle asks, because for some reason, this guy likes fighting, and he’s deciding I’m the one in the building he should antagonize. Better me than Jared or Jared’s mom, I say.

Because I know how to get him to back down.

I’ve paid attention.

I defuse the bomb.

I laugh, take a step closer, and clap him on the meaty arm. “Get some rest, Frank. You’re tired. Your daughter comes tomorrow for lunch. You don’t want to miss her visit, right?”

He blinks, as though he’s just remembering. The pills mess with his memory. He draws a deep breath. His expression transforms. Gratitude now. “Yeah, shit. Thanks, kid.”

See? It’s not about me. It’s something else. It usually is.

He leaves, and I head to my studio at the end of the hall. I shut the door behind me and lock it.

Time to pack. Can I set a new world record for speed? I grab clothes from a drawer and toss some options onto my bed. As I stare at the pile on the mattress, I figure it’s best to check with April. I’m not looking for an excuse to text her. I just want to make sure I’m playing the part she wants.




Whoa. I wrench back when her one-word question appears on the screen. It surprises me, the return to the flirting. But it’s not a bad surprise. Like the blast from the past knocking on your door to tell you, Changed my mind, decided to collect on the ten-thousand-dollar debt after all. Plus the vig.

Flirty April is a surprise I like.




I run my hand through my hair and laugh. This girl has rapid-fire fingers and wit to match.




I flop down on the bed, a smile on my face.




She doesn’t answer that one, and I toss some more T-shirts into a backpack, then roll up a pair of jeans and grab some shorts. I hate shorts. But the name of the gig is transformation, so I pack them and everything else April ordered.

Less than two minutes later, I’m done.

Yeah, I’ve won awards for my fast-packing ability. It’s impressive, I know.

I grab my phone again, click over to Facebook, and out of habit, I visit my brother’s profile, hoping he’ll post a picture, since I haven’t seen him in a while. He rarely posts pics on Facebook, though, so it’s a futile mission.

I call him instead.

He answers on the first ring. He shouts above the noise in the background. It sounds like a celebration. He’s been celebrating for a few months now. Glasses clink, voices rise, and music plays.

“Little dipshit!”

“Big shithead!”

“How the hell are you? I miss you, man. Come visit me,” he says in his booming voice.

“I’m trying. It’s hard to get away.”

He scoffs. “Not that hard.”

“Boston’s almost five hours, and I’ve been working like crazy.”

Another scoff. “Still, you’d think my little brother would come see me.”

“I want to.”

“Hey, don’t worry. I can see you soon. I should be free to leave any day.”

The tinkle of steel drums echoes, and my stomach drops. “Heath. Tell me you didn’t skip town already. You’re not in Jamaica, are you?”

He laughs, a deep, rich sound that was his calling card back when we did everything together. His laughter could seal any kind of deal we were working.

“Settle down. I’m just making up for lost time with Lacey. We’re living it up. Listen, there’s a band onstage, and Lacey is making those dirty eyes at me. She wants me to sidle up next to her on the dance floor.”

I drop my forehead into my hand and sigh. “Are you still in Boston? You better be.”

“Maybe I’m in a galaxy far, far away.”

I groan and try again. “Are you in Boston?”

“Yes.” His tone is as firm as mine. “Settle down. It’s all good. You know I’d never leave without telling you. You know that, right?”

I sigh and nod. “I do know.”

“You sure? Because you were talking to me like you weren’t so sure. Like you don’t know me.”

“I know you. I just worry about you.”

“It’s my job to worry about you, not the other way around. Is everything okay with you? You got all the shit squared away now? Paid the final loans off?”

He’s asking about school loans, so I tell him, “Yeah.”

I don’t tell him Addison came by. I don’t tell him she wants money from me. I don’t tell him those things, because I don’t know what he’ll do to get the money to get her off my back. Addison wasn’t supposed to come collecting. But then Heath left Addison for Lacey, and Addison decided she wants her money back. All things being equal, I suppose I’d want it all back if I were Addison, too. She did things for us that went above and beyond, and when the going got tough, she was there.

But now? Now, she’s all about Addison, and I get it. I understand where she’s coming from even if I don’t like it. She texted me this evening.




My reply was swift and immediate as I told her I’d take care of it.

Love doesn’t trump money.

Money trumps love.