I even fell into a routine with Cyndra. At break she’d sit with Michael, playing with his fingers, threading hers into them or holding them near her mouth.
But at lunch she’d sit close to me, leg alongside mine, leaning against my arm. Sometimes she’d show up in the hall after my first period, and we’d cut class, ducking into the back of the library to talk or going to the dugout to make out. Another thing I told myself I was in control of. Or that it didn’t matter, because she was there, and she wanted me, and I needed that something she gave me.
Told myself she felt the same way. Made it sound simple. We each needed something from the other, no more than that. Even though the ache in my chest when she’d walk away called me a liar.
If anyone else knew that Cyndra had won the bet, they never said anything. But Monique had backed off, and so did the others.
Cyndra was like two people: one, this sexy, pouty bitch-princess who taunted you, shot her hips when she walked, and let her eyes burn. And the other was the girl I knew. The one I started to think of as mine. The one with the laugh so loud it sounded like a shout. The one who, when we were really talking, would change, her face shifting, like she was letting a pose fall away. She could transition between the bitch-princess armor and the real girl so quickly the slingshot force of it would send your brain leaking out your ears.
After a while I got used to that, too.
Although I never really got used to the fact that she had to change in the first place.
Michael didn’t seem to notice or care about me and Cyndra, and he didn’t mention Cesare. But sometimes I saw the slick grin slide off, and the scared kid would reappear in his eyes. Just for a moment. But after he’d show, I started to notice that Michael would do something mean. Like play Beast off Dwight. Or throw out down-to-size remarks.
Clay said Michael was exerting dominance to make himself feel powerful. Making the others twitch when he yanked their strings.
Crap like that was always happening. Stupid, sometimes ugly, always on the edges of the day. Underneath everything, like the buzz of a busted speaker when only certain notes are hit.
I didn’t think about it much. It was like the smooth part of the roller coaster or the clicking ascent. Nothing much going on right now, but you don’t for a minute think it’s over.
So I wasn’t surprised when Michael stopped me at break one day. We slapped hands as he slid in close.
“I need you for a job tonight. I’ll pick you up in the parking lot at seven.”
“Fine.” An extra fifty for the expanding roll in the coffee can.
Michael stood beside me, looking out at the others.
“I’ve figured it out, by the way,” he murmured, as if this was a regular conversation between two normal people. His voice was soft, indiscernible if you weren’t standing right next to him. “I told you I would.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He smiled at me, turning, hiding even his lips from the rest of them. “I’ve figured out how we can do it.”
“Do what?”
Even though I had a feeling I knew.
“Kill your dad, of course.”
“You’ve got enough on your plate,” I said, thinking of Cesare.
“It goes with that.”
The girls walked by, slowly. Cyndra blew a kiss. I couldn’t tell who it was for.
“I’ll tell you tonight.” Michael picked up his backpack.
I shrugged. “Fine. Where’ll we be going?” The bell rang across the courtyard. People picked up their bags and started hustling in.
“What do you care? Anywhere’s better than here.”
The story of my life.
I went to the old gym after school. The punching bag looked lonely, and I was feeling healed enough to take a few test swipes at it.
After an easy workout, I went home and caught Janie, told her about the job. She called Clay and told him she’d be spending the night.
“Be careful,” Janie said as we walked to Clay’s together. “Remember: You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Just because you took his money doesn’t mean you have to take his shit.”
“That’s catchy. Wanna put it to music?”
She walloped my arm.
“I’m serious, Jason.”
“All right, all right.”
“We have enough money now to survive for a few months. Any extra is gravy.”
“Never enough gravy.” Sometimes I had to pull out the can and look at the cash curled inside, wrapped in rubber bands like a cocoon. Had to look, just to be sure that it was still there. Each time, before I opened the can, it was like there was a hole in my stomach.
I was starting to have nightmares about it. Because for the first time since we came up with The Plan, it actually seemed within reach. It made my stomach knot. I’d look at the roll, and I’d think of deposits for electricity, water, or an apartment. I’d see clothes and pots and pans and bus fares. Groceries and medicine. I was even starting to see the tuition for cosmetology school, which Janie had said would be a good skill for her to have. All these things, all these possibilities, rolled inside a coffee can stuffed down an air-conditioning vent.
It was making me sick. Because I had no safer place to keep it.
“We have enough. To make a start. A good one. It’s not entirely what we had in mind, but we could go now.”
“We need more. We need all of it.”
Janie stopped walking, so I did, too. “Seriously, maybe we should just go, Jason.”
She put a hand on my forearm. “Let’s not wait for your birthday—not wait for the guardianship, or to be eligible for food stamps or housing, or any of it. We have the money. We can just go.”
Her hands lifted, palms up and flat, like a bird. Or like she was praying, seeking blessings from the sky.
“Won’t work.” I shook my head. Crossed my arms, pressing fists into my sides. “We need the government assistance.”