He fished in his pocket and brought out a fat roll of cash. “You know you had twenty-five absences last year?”
“Are you going to pay me, or do I grind this out on your dashboard?”
He handed over a twenty.
“That business with the shirt. That’s about your back. What was it, a belt buckle? Extension cord?”
He peeled off another twenty.
“You know what gets me?” he asked, handing the second bill over. “According to your file”—waving the wad of bills toward the school—“your home has been reported to DHR three times since you’ve been at Mercer. That means it’s been investigated, and you’re having to lie to them. You’re having to work to stay where you are.”
I felt like a fish in the open air.
“My file?” I’d never even thought of one—at least, not one that reported more than my absences and discipline referrals.
Michael smiled. “I got LaShonda to make a few copies. She’s an office aide. Future Business Leader of America, my ass. I told her to think of it as corporate espionage. Then she went for it. Sick, right?”
He handed over another twenty.
“Yeah. Congratulations. You’re real good at manipulating people.”
“It’s a gift.”
He unrolled the wad of cash and fanned it.
“What I can’t figure out, and no file will ever tell me, is why you’re still there.” He held out a bill, a lure to talk.
I took it. “Foster care is worse. Group homes, too.”
“Not for you, though. For her.” Walking the line. He peeled off another bill. “Okay, no foster care. And also no running away. Janie again. I get it.”
My hands clenched.
He held out the bill. “Why don’t you just kill him?”
The air went out of my lungs. I imagined my plan—a few years from now—the barrel of the gun pressed into his temple or jammed into his mouth.
Pulling the trigger.
“It’s not that easy.”
Michael pulled the bill away. “If that’s your answer . . .”
I scrubbed my hands on my legs. Hating him. Wanting the money.
“Look, so I kill him. Then what? He’s dead. I go to prison. Janie—”
My mouth snapped shut.
Michael slid off another bill and held it out.
“Who said anything about getting caught?”
I took the money. “He’s strong. And he’s not stupid. He’s paranoid. I’d have to shoot him. My record? They’d put me away.”
“Make it self-defense.”
“How exactly do I do that?”
“Well, shoot him, like you said—”
I interrupted him. “With what?”
“His gun.”
I shook my head. “Impossible. He keeps it on him.”
“You could use mine.”
My head spun. “Okay—so I use your gun. How is it self-defense?”
“The DHR referrals. Your record.”
“My record shows a kid who got sent to juvie for decking a teacher. Among other things.”
“Make it airtight. Make him go for you. In front of witnesses. And then, shoot him.”
“What if a judge thinks I need counseling or a residential care center or a group home? You can’t just shoot somebody and get away with it.”
“I could.”
He changed like a fast-moving storm, intensity lighting his eyes. I laughed but felt like running.
“Sure, Prom King.” I put my hand on the door.
He handed me another twenty. “I did it, officer. It was me.” His voice shook with nerves and adrenaline. “I was worried about my friend. You know his dad beat him? Damn useless social workers. I was getting worried. It was escalating. I tried to get him and his little sister to run away.” His voice was panicked. A good kid caught in a bad situation. “They finally agreed. I went over to get them—was gonna take them to the bus station. I walked right into it. It was the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”
I sat, transfixed.
A tear slid down his cheek.
“I didn’t know what to do!” His voice broke. “His dad was killing him. I found the gun—”
“What gun?”
He dropped the act. “The one you had.”
“Mine?”
“Weren’t you listening? I gave you mine. We don’t say that, though.”
I shook my head. “What are we talking about here? You’re going to kill him?”
“I could get away with it.”
He could, too. And I could stay out of juvie and maybe even get appointed as Janie’s legal guardian.
“You’d have to get the crap kicked out of you, but that’s no big deal. Is it?”
He talked about it so easily.
“Sorry,” he said. “I just mean that’s happening already, right?”
“Why would you do it?” Not asking about his alibi—asking the real question.
He shrugged. His lips pursed. “I’ve never killed anybody.”
He said it like it was an experience he should have. Something on a bucket list. He didn’t give a damn about me. My situation was his opportunity. Nothing more. Chills marched over my skin.
“It’s too risky,” I said. “It wouldn’t go down like that.”
“You’re wrong. It’s perfect.”
“It’s messed up.” What I was thinking: that he’s never watched someone getting killed, either. That he might go for the double header. Watch me get killed, then shoot him after.
“You don’t trust me.”
Which was so obvious it didn’t warrant a response.
“My dad’s not stupid. He might smell it and not go for it. And that’d leave me worse off than before.”
“The same.”
“Worse.”
He put his window down and propped an arm there. “You don’t trust me.” Repeated, like he could fix it.
“I don’t trust anybody.”
He sighed. “Maybe there’s another way we could do it. Some way you’d trust.” He made it sound like we were a team.
“Sure,” I said, but my tone was fat-fucking-chance. I opened the door. “You have your own problems to worry about.”
Michael smiled. “Don’t you see? This would help with that. It’s perfect. Cesare would leave me alone for sure once he heard I’d killed someone and gotten away with it.”
I shook my head, put my foot out.
He held out a bill. “What’s going to happen when you get home?”