Betting Blind (17 page)

My mom poked in her head to say good night and about fell over when she saw me with a book open. “Oh, Gabe! Good job, honey!” she said in this shocked, delighted voice.

“Are you going to bed?” I asked.

“Well, I was going to, but do you need anything? I could make you a sandwich.”

I pretended to think about it. “Yeah, a strawberry milk shake from Dairy Queen, some McDonald’s fries, and a big Wendy’s burger.”

Mom sighed. “Well, it’s a little late, but you know what? You’re doing such a—”

I started laughing. “Mom! I was kidding! I’m fine. If I’m hungry I’ll go make myself a sandwich.”

“I would have gone, you know,” she said, sounding relieved.

I looked at her standing there in her old blue pajamas, the ones she wore when Phil didn’t spend the night, with cream streaked under her eyes like a football player. “I know you would. Thanks, Mom.”

She blew me a kiss. “I’m proud of you, buddy,” she said, and closed the door. I took a swig from my water bottle and rubbed my eyes. My mom said she loved me all the time, but proud of me? I couldn’t remember hearing that before. It made me sit up and try to figure out what the heck protease was, even though I’d been ready to pass out.

On Monday, the first day of finals, and the day I’d get to see Irina, Mueller asked me to stay after school. Leave it to Mueller to pick the worst day to make me hang around. I thought of how Forrest backed me up in class, and I wondered what kind of devious plan she’d concocted to get revenge.

When I got to Mueller’s classroom, she took her time squaring some papers on her desk. With her sleek blond hair and light blue eyes, she would have been pretty if she weren’t such a hard-ass. When she finally looked at me, her face was cold. “Hello, Gabriel.”

“Hi, Ms. Mueller.”

“I’ll make this quick. Mr. Newport called a conference with me and several of your other teachers. You’re lucky to have him as an advocate.” Pause. Stare. “As you know, your grade is in a precarious place right now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Mr. Newport spoke strongly about your potential and motivation. Unless you get over ninety-five percent on your essay and your multiple choice test, you won’t pass this class. So I’d like to offer you the opportunity to earn some points with an additional essay.” She looked like she was tasting lemons, forcing the words out her mouth.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Five pages, twelve-point font, double-spaced. The topic is . . .” Her lip curled. “What you believe in. What you would fight for. What is that, Gabriel? What gets you motivated? Tell me about it.” Her tone said she didn’t think there was one damn thing that could motivate my sorry ass.

“Okay,” I said.

“You need to study for finals this week, so you may e-mail it to me next Saturday by five p.m.,” she said. “And if for some reason you get over ninety-five percent on both your essay and your test, I’ll e-mail you by nine a.m. Saturday to save you the trouble.” She sounded like that was about as likely as finding a trillion dollars in my desk.

I nodded and walked out.

By ten thirty p.m. I was showered, dressed, smelling good, pacing, itching for midnight to get there. I had bought something for Irina—found it by accident at our neighbor’s yard sale, which was pretty much on our lawn, since we shared a wall.

It was on a blanket with a bunch of jewelry and watches, this cool black painted egg with a sticker that said, “Russian Egg
.
” It had a tiny picture on it of a girl and a bear in a forest. It was hard to believe somebody had painted details that small. It was only two bucks, so I bought it, and now it was in my pocket, and I kept squeezing it like a stress ball and wondering if she’d think it was stupid.

Finally I couldn’t stand waiting anymore. I left and drove fast through the empty streets. Redmond was sleepy after eleven, everybody holed up getting rest so they could rule the world better. I couldn’t wait to tell Irina what happened with the cop. I’d build it up and let her worry about the ending, then tell her how he let me off.

I parked the car at Angel Point, walked to Irina’s house, and sneaked around back. All the windows were dark; that was good. I waited behind one of the trees in her yard. The air felt icy, and the moon was a white sliver above the black roof. Something was dripping.

11:50. 11:51. 11:52.

I swear I looked at my phone every minute. Finally it hit midnight. I kept my eyes on her window. She had the ladder; she’d have to drop it to me.

The window stayed shut.

I stared at the same spot so long, the whole house started to look weird, and I had to blink a few times. I checked my phone. 12:07.
Did she forget?

Or maybe she didn’t want to come out.

I thought about Friday night. Why did I tell her about my dad? Nobody says it, but everybody thinks it: if you come from a screwed-up family, you’re damaged goods. Even the trailer trash and gangbangers I hung with in White Center knew who their dads were. I used to tell people my dad was dead, because there was nothing worse than having people think your mom was sexing so many guys, she didn’t even know who she had a kid with.

I’d broken one of the only rules my mom taught me: Don’t say something important right when you first think of it. Sleep on it.

Oh well. Irina was just a girl, and there were a million girls in the world.

I checked my phone. 12:10.

I should have known she was just like her parents, too good for me. Why did I ever chase her? There were plenty of girls who were into me, like Becky. I should have stuck with that. I hated myself sometimes. I said I’d never let a girl get power over me—I’d seen how it had messed up my friends—and here I’d let it happen.

12:18.

I felt shaky and pissed. Screw her and her whole rich, stuck-up family. I squeezed the egg and wished I could throw it at something. I turned to go and then—I couldn’t help myself—I walked back to the side of her house and stared at her window one last time.
Open.

Right away I hated myself for being weak. I dropped my eyes—and saw a white envelope propped on the window ledge. It had blended into the frame when I was standing farther back. I grabbed it and tore it open.

Gabe,

My parents caught me climbing in the window the other night. They’ve got the alarm system on for all the windows and doors, and they’re making me sleep in the dressing room attached to their bedroom. I have a concert at Seattle Center on November 7 at seven p.m. in Center House. Meet me by the restrooms at intermission.

Kisses,

Irina

I squeezed the paper, crinkling it. Then I crouched and set the little Russian egg in the corner of the windowsill. Maybe she’d find it and know I’d been there. I dodged away, ran down the sidewalk, and got in my car. November seventh. A little more than a week.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

F
inals were a brand-new version of hell. At my old school, we would complain, get high in the bathrooms, and help each other survive, but at Claremont, people were walking around with books open, like cartoons of nerds. I would have killed to meet just one other screwup, but the Eastside didn’t roll like that.

In the afternoon, I had the big science final. When I walked in, most people were already at their desks, silent and clenched up as if they were about to walk the plank. Newport was famous for hard tests. I slung my bag over my chair, sat down, and pulled out my pencil. I was actually sweating.

Newport passed out the exams and we got to business. It was ridiculous how loud everything was: a damn testing soundtrack. The girl behind me breathed like a stalker, and this other guy had a throat-clearing problem that sounded like he was trying to hack up change. The clock was as loud as the timer on
Jeopardy
.

The test had a million tentacles. As soon as I found a question I knew, two more popped up to wrestle with. I got the sick, headachy feeling I always got when I had to read a lot, and the questions wouldn’t stay still on the page. But I did my best, and I knew I got some of them right. The sessions with Newport had definitely helped. Still, I was one of the last ones finished, because it took me forever to check the written part to see if I was missing words.

Also, I kept thinking about Irina. I couldn’t stand what her parents were doing to us. I wanted to hold her, talk to her, so bad . . . And I was sick of sneaking around. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. How long would this go on? Freaking ladders and notes on the side of the house?

When I finally dropped my paper on the pile, Newport looked up from his desk and gave me a kind smile. “I bet you did great, buddy. Good luck on your other tests.”

“Thanks, Mr. Newport.” I headed for the door. The only thing on my mind was Irina. Just over a week to go.

The rest of the tests weren’t as bad. On Wednesday I had the math final, and the studying paid off: there were only a few answers I didn’t know, and it was write-in, not bubbles, so that was on my side. On Friday, I messed up the
Hamlet
test pretty good, but I was doing that extra-credit essay, so I figured I’d pass.

I left school Friday afternoon feeling mostly relieved, except for Mueller’s extra-credit paper still hanging over my head. I couldn’t believe she made it due on Saturday. Who does that? I had plans to go to Forrest’s end-of-quarter party that night, and I didn’t want to deal with the essay the next morning after no sleep.

The worst part was, I wasn’t sure I could find the right essay online for such a specific question. Mueller had a bullshit meter. I thought about asking Missy to help, but there wasn’t time for that, so I sat down in my room with my laptop Friday night to see if I could come up with something myself.

I cleared my desk of tempting stuff: my phone, a bag of chips, and even random mail. I scratched at an old Seahawks sticker on my desk . . . and forced myself to look at my computer.

What
did
I believe in? What would I fight for? Of course Mueller had to ask me the hardest question in the universe. It made me depressed, because I started thinking how I actually didn’t know what I believed in. My mom never took me to church. I never read any philosophy books.

Fight for? Well, I might fight for Irina, if she needed me, but hell if I was going to say that.

I guess I’d fight if they drafted me.

Shit.

I stared at the screen for a while, but I couldn’t concentrate because those fools at Crayola Construction made our town house out of foam core and Elmer’s glue, and I could hear Mom and Phil right through the wall. I couldn’t exactly make out the words, but the way their voices sounded gave me a pretty good idea of what they were saying.

Blah blah blah . . . I’m whipped and needy
.

Blah blah . . .
Stop nagging me
.

Blah blah blah? . . . When are you leaving her?

Blah blah . . . Stop nagging me
.

Blah?
. . .
When?