Tap Out (23 page)

But hands are on me, and I'm ripped away, forced upright and into a choke hold. My face is level with the holster and the guard says something that I don't understand but rumbles through his chest. Another one crosses the room and checks on Cameron, who is wheezing on the floor. Fuck, all I needed was another minute. I could have held on for that long. The guard stands up, looks at me, and then to my mother. I watch her now, too, and see the call button in her lap.

“Mom?”

The guard tightens his hold, but more importantly, she turns away, refusing to make eye contact.

“Mom, tell me you didn't.”

She stays as she is but Cameron rises. “You got nobody now.” He laughs his redneck shrill note, and I go limp in the guard's arms, too overwhelmed to fight.

I
t's Friday and that means only one thing to me: Rob's fight. Fuck everything else. She pushed that button.

That's all it took. I thought maybe we'd come out of this all right, she'd wake up and realize what the fuck Cam is. No chance of that now. No, she made her decision loud and clear. Wouldn't even explain to the security guards what was what. I had to, told them we were just messing around. Cameron's smart enough to have agreed.

So what do I do now?

I wish I were fighting, because I'm feeling it, the flow, that hum throughout my body. I was so close last night, could have choked him the fuck out, shown him that I'm not a pussy. But I am. My mom made me one last night. Maybe that's the way she's always wanted me. Not like my father.

Fuck, maybe that's the point? If I take on Cameron, is that really the same? If I learn to defend myself, aren't I just being smart? Intelligent like I'm supposed to be? Not an animal like him. Like Cameron. Like all the rest. Life sure isn't like any standardized test where the results spit out just where you stand. It's messy and full of problems where there really aren't solutions. Does that mean I should give up or keep trying to figure shit out?

Myers hovers by her desk with a stack of papers at the
corner. “Shit,” someone says, “she's returning our essays.” Myers likes to talk to each of us about our writing. She calls us up, and we have to sit in this uncomfortable chair while she reads the comments she's written in the margin. Real fucking useful.

Myers moves to the front at the bell. “Today we will conference on your essays for
Lord of the Flies
.” She purses her lips. “Some of them were outstanding. And some, not so much.” Myers lifts her eyebrows and looks over the class. I know where I fall on that spectrum. And I know what she's going to say to me. It's all right; after this I got Vo-Tec and then Rob's fight. I can handle whatever bitch session she throws.

“While I conference you'll be reading a short story that we'll discuss next class, so take notes and be prepared.” She smiles but no one joins her. “Grab a textbook from the back. I've written the title and page number on the board.”

I read her chalk handwriting, join the rest, grab a book, and head back to my desk. I open to the page and try to read but the words slide out of focus. Last night keeps popping into my head. How could she? I can't think of an answer.

“Tony.”

Fuck, I don't want to listen to this. I'll just keep my mouth shut, and it won't last as long. I tuck my chin to my chest and take the seat, but have to glance at her face. It's serious, eyes dancing over the page of my sloppy handwriting and her flurry of red-ink notes.

“Well, first off, I should say thank you for being so . . . honest.” She looks at the paper, not at me, and holds the corner just off the desk, like she wants to flip it over. “But, second, you should understand that you didn't address the essay with any reference to
Lord of the Flies
. This is all personal response.”

I shrug and want to say “No shit?” but keep it to myself. I think she sees my shrug because she pauses for a second, but then continues.

“However, based on the information you provided, I don't have a choice but to speak with administration and guidance.”

I look up and her eyes are enormous, scouring every inch of my face. I've seen this look too many times over the years. Some teacher gets concerned, like in kindergarten, when I had bruises all up my back, or like when I talked about not eating when I was in third grade. Always the same shit about
speaking with administration
. Like that's ever done shit. Big O knows, anyway. I've told him enough so he understands. It's like that with all the Vo-Tec kids. So she can go tell him whatever the fuck she wants. I'm pissed at myself, though, for opening up. The fuck was I thinking writing what I did?

Her face changes though, her eyes widening, almost like she's happy or some shit. “Unless . . . Did this, did what you wrote really happen?”

I can't remember all of what I put in there, but I know it was mostly about my dad, before he left and how he hurt us. Stupid shit like twisting my mom's arm behind her back or pulling her hair. Making me sweep up broken glass from his beer bottle with my bare hands, and the hours he'd make me stand, facing the corner of the room, yelling so much his words became like white noise. To the point that one time I fell asleep. Only once, though, because what he did after was a permanent reminder to never do that again.

But if I say yes right now, even with what Big O knows, guidance will haul me into the office as soon as I take a step out of this room. And nothing will come from that. I'm too old now. That shit's all in the past anyway. And if I have to deal
with that, I might get so caught up that I'll miss the fight. Fuck that. Like Rob said, the here and the now. I know what the answer needs to be. “Well, uh, some is, you know, like fiction.”

She draws her lips into a line, eyes still dancing.

“I made the story fit the thesis. You know, man's true self without boundaries.”

Her face softens. “Oh, okay, I see.” She leans in. “Well, which parts? What's real and what's fiction?”

I lean back. “All of it, really. You know I didn't read the book, so I had to write something you might like. You know?”

She nods and looks back at the essay. “Well, yes, and for fiction this is gripping.” She looks back at me, and her eyes latch on, probing for any shred of a lie. “You're sure it's fiction, because like I said—”

I put up a hand. “It's fake. I'm sorry. I won't do it again.” I stand up before she can say anything else, and I head back to my seat, ending the conversation before I'm caught, but I feel compelled to look back up at Myers. She's shaking her head and moving my paper to the bottom of the pile. I don't even know what my grade is, but it doesn't matter. She's burying the story. Just like I've done. It's better that way.

Greyson's playing some documentary and not paying attention to us. Half the kids are sleeping, and the rest are zoned out or talking. “So, you ready?” I keep my voice low. Rob stares at the TV.

“Yeah, I'm good.” His voice is as energetic as the slugs snoozing on the table.

“That's it?”

He turns away from the TV. “All right, Coach. Settle down.”

I feel stupid, but not enough to let him off the hook. “Seriously, it's all you've been talking about since I don't know how the fuck long. And now?”

Rob sighs. “I hear you. It's just I got a lot of shit on my mind with Amy and the baby and everything.”

“Why the fuck you worried about that?”

“You know how much a baby costs?”

I shake my head again and keep my mouth shut.

“I do. I got all sorts a numbers worked out, and it's a fuck lot more than the nothing I've got.” Rob pounds his fist against the table and his eyes pierce me.

I know where he's going with this, and I don't like it one bit. He dealt so he could afford an abortion. That didn't happen. Now he's looking at the big picture, and there's only one surefire way around here to make a lot of cash. There's no way I can let him make
that
decision.

“Rob, don't. Don't go there. Don't even think what you're thinking.”

“How you know what I'm thinking? You so smart you just got it all figured out?”

I shake my head. “Not like that. It's just obvious. You're in a tight spot, and finding the easiest route out only makes sense.” I pause and look at him. “That is unless that route only leads you to something worse. You know what I mean?”

He holds my look for a moment and then glances away, sighs. “Fuck, Tone, I hear you. But damn it, the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“Stick with Coach. You've got time. You'll earn. You've got the skill.”

He looks at me and nods.

“Meantime, put that shit behind you. Tonight is all you need to think about.
The here and the now
, motherfucker. Got it?”

Rob smiles and I feel good. “Since when you get all philosophizing?”

I laugh. “It's always easier to figure other people's shit out. Just have to give the advice, not take it.”

“Guess that's true. Just don't expect me to tell you what the fuck to do. I got no idea there.”

I don't answer because there's nothing to say. I doubt there's anyone who could give me the advice I need.

“Fuck!” I spit and my heart quickens. Rob sees the bikes, too.

“These guys must be making a killing.”

We walk past slow, even though I want to race to my trailer to see if Cam's been by. Five hogs rest on kickstands, and all is quiet in the trailer. I pick up the pace and envision the rest of my house as ripped up as my mother's room was.

“Tonight?” Rob's standing in the lane, not keeping up with me. He juts his chin toward Amy's.

“Yeah. Swing by.”

I take off at a run. The door's still locked, but I enter and hold my breath and listen. There's no flopping from the back door, no sound except for the wind outside and my heart in my ears. I exhale and go room to room. Nothing's been touched. No one's been here. I plop down in the recliner and breathe and feel my heart slow. Tonight's the fight. Tomorrow she comes home. The bikers are in town. I'd better save my strength.

I finish the last of the hospital sandwiches and then grab my
old Carhartt and slide it over my hoodie. The walk to the civic center is a half hour, easy, and it's cold enough to snow. Rob rolls up and we head out.

“You set?” he asks me.

I laugh. “That's my question.”

He nods and keeps walking, his steps light, and his body at ease. He seems energized, his eyes darting and fingers tapping. It's good.

“Give me your bag.”

“What?”

I stick out my hand. “Just do it, save your grip.”