“Tomorrow,” Michael echoed as I closed the door. The Mustang idled next to the curb for a moment as I crossed the litter-strewn dirt to our unit. I didn’t hear any noise from inside, so I slid my key into the lock and let myself in.
I crossed to the stairs, avoiding looking at the piled plates crusted with rotting food, stained clothes in heaps, and drug accessories. I usually try to hold my breath until I close the bedroom door behind me. Rancid food and body odor—you don’t get used to the stink.
“Jason?” Janie’s voice called from the other side of the drywall partition. She stuck her head around the wall.
My sister has the most beautiful eyes—almost obsidian in a porcelain-pale doll’s face. I wish I had eyes like hers instead of my dad’s.
“How’d it go?” She clambered onto my bed, bouncing a little.
I dug the money out of my pocket and handed it to her. Janie squealed and clapped her hands, like a six-year-old instead of a junior-high schooler. She disappeared back around her side, and I heard her rummaging in the ceiling vent for our hidden coffee can. She brought it out, showed me the pathetic roll, counted it. After she put the money back in and stowed the can, she came back to my side.
“My hero,” she said, giving me a squeeze. She let go quickly, but I was okay with her hug. I handed her the growling poodle. She smiled and shook her head. She liked it, though.
CHAPTER EIGHT
In the morning, I checked the cell phone and tucked it back under the bed. Put on the new clothes. It felt weird wearing them. They looked good—dark jeans, a navy T-shirt, and a black-and-red hoodie—but they felt weird. Not mine.
The jeans were so new, the ink so rich and dark, I expected it to rub off on my skin. Cyndra had cut the price tags off, or the salesperson had. I couldn’t decide if it was a nice gesture or if it pissed me off.
“Wow,” Janie said when I came downstairs.
I glared at her.
“What? They look nice. You look sharp.”
“I feel like a jerk.” My hands tightened. I didn’t know why wearing new clothes should make me feel ashamed.
“Don’t. They’re not dorky—they’ve still got your”—she waved her hand—“look.”
Like I had a look.
Janie twirled her fingers. “Take the hoodie off and turn around.”
I felt stupid, but it made her happy.
When I was done I held out my hands like Enough?
“They really fit, too,” she said.
I rolled my shoulders forward and felt the fabric tighten. “Nah, they’re small.”
Janie shook her head and smiled. “That’s called fitting, Jason. You look . . . great.” She sounded surprised. Like I was a whole other person.
“They’re just clothes, Janie.”
She handed me my bag. We headed to her bus stop.
After she was on her bus, I walked to Clay’s house. Clay’s mom opened the door.
“Good morning, Jason.”
She turned slowly, ruffling her son’s hair as he slouched to the door. “Have a good day, honey.”
“You, too,” Clay said. His eyes flitted over my new clothes.
As we closed the door behind us, Clay’s mom was shuffling up the short hall. Slow, like all the tired had pooled into her ankles.
There was a slight bite to the morning air. I zipped up the hoodie.
“Cyndra’s Ken doll.” Clay smirked.
We walked up the street. Our breaths puffed on the air.
“Not sure why I hate this so much.”
“Because you know it’s not real. And you can’t explain any of it.”
“Yeah, and people look at me different.”
Even him.
“You are different. It makes you different.” His hand waved in the direction of the high school. “People may not know why. But it’s there, wearing you. Not the other way around.”
Vintage Clay. Pinpointing the problem with laser accuracy. Like Michael had said, users and the used.
Clay was watching me as we walked. Gauging it. And that made me feel better than anything else. Knowing he had my back, to keep me honest. Keep me true.
“There’s a party tomorrow night,” I said. “Do you think you could get your mom’s car?”
“God. Me at a high school party. Perish the thought.”
“I just need another set of eyes there. I’ll be working.” Thinking of how observant he was, and the fact that there was something deeper going on.
Clay glanced up, brushing hair out of his eyes. “Okay. Sure.”
And that made me feel confident, like a weight had shifted. “Thanks. I’ll text you when I find out where.”
“Ooh, a cell phone, too! Oh, text me. We can send texts. Like BFFs.”
“Fuck off.”
Clay laughed and jumped up, throwing an arm around my neck. Trying to pull me into a headlock.
I let him.
Until I grabbed his backpack and yanked down. He fell back, but I caught him, blocking his stumble with my foot as I looped the backpack off his shoulder.
“Hey!” Clay yelled as I took off. On my back, Clay’s pack and my duffle clobbered each other as I ran to the corner.
I waited at the lights for Clay to catch up. He lightly popped a hand across the back of my head.
“Hey!” I rubbed my head like it had hurt. “I thought violence never solved anything.” I handed him his bag.
“That wasn’t violence. That was justice.”
The lights changed, and Clay stepped out without looking. I slipped ahead of him, glaring at the driver of a beat-up green truck that was still zooming up to the crosswalk. On the other side of the street, Clay slowed down and stuck out a hand. I slid a shake.
“Go do this,” Clay said. “Take that bastard’s money and don’t let it get to you.”
“Thanks, coach. I won’t let you down.”
I crossed through the senior parking lot, but Michael’s cherry Mustang wasn’t there yet. I headed into the cafeteria for breakfast and told myself it wasn’t cowardly to feel relieved.
Hunched over my biscuit and OJ, I nodded off so quick it was like sinking into something more than real. More than true. Darkness and fangs, fists and ripping. Threats and something clawing you.
“Jason.” A hand gripped my arm.
I lunged away, yanking my arm up and back.
Cyndra’s perfect mouth fell open into an O of surprise.