Betting Blind (2 page)

We headed downstairs to the auditorium and sat in the stadium seating, big fat plushed-out chairs like at the Cineplex. Kyle and Forrest broke out their phones and started texting. On my other side was an Asian guy plugged into a Kindle.

I wondered what my boys back at Jefferson were doing. Probably lighting blunts in the bathroom or texting through Hazlegrove’s class. Maybe still at home sleeping. I wanted to make some guy friends at Claremont, but that takes time. Meanwhile, some girls—Jamie Elliott and her crew—were taking care of me, which was cool. Nothing like being adopted by a bunch of hotties.

“Oh damn, here it comes,” Kyle said to Forrest. “Wait for it.”

I glanced over, and they were both staring at the stage curtain, which was starting to open.

“She grew up, Daddy,” breathed Forrest. “She ain’t a little girl no more.”

I looked at the musicians, dressed in black pants and white shirts, most of them about a hundred years old—and I saw who Forrest and Kyle were checking out.

There was a girl in front with a violin. She looked foreign, like Swedish or something. Her hair was blond, and she had slanted dark eyes and lips I could have sucked on for days. She was holding her violin under her chin, and she must have felt us staring, because she looked into the fourth row, right at us—and smiled.

“See that?” Kyle whispered. “She wants me!”

Forrest saw me looking and grinned. “That’s Irina Petrova, dude,” he told me. “It’s okay. Go ahead and stare. We all do.”

Kyle looked over, registering me for the first time.

“She’s hot,” I said. “How old is she?”

“Our age,” said Kyle. “She used to go to school with us, but she’s a music genius or something. Her parents pulled her out to homeschool.”

“That was a sad day,” said Forrest.

“Yeah, but it’s not like she talked to anybody. She’s . . .” Kyle made a stuck-up face.

“I’m going to get her number.”
Why did I do that?

Kyle said to Forrest, “Oh no, he didn’t really just say that.”

Forrest was nodding. “Yeah, he did. What’s your name, dude?”

“Gabe.” Well, I’d have to do it now.

“Good luck with that, Gabe,” said Forrest.

“She’s going to school you,” said Kyle. “But credit for trying. If you even talk to her.” He said it in a friendly way, and I could tell he thought I was all right. I smiled. It was actually the first nonschool conversation I’d had with guys since I started Claremont.

Principal Morrow tapped the mic. “Seniors, please join me in welcoming the Microsoft Orchestra.” He clapped. After a second, so did everybody else.

Then the conductor lifted his stick, and the music started. The girl was a witch on her violin: all you could see was this sheet of blond hair and her bow ripping like a knife. After the first few songs, the other people stopped playing, and it was just her and this old man blazing out music. Even I could tell it was good.

I checked my phone. Twenty minutes left in first period.
Screw it.
I
was
going to get her number.

I got up and told Mr. Newport I had to go to the bathroom. Then I tried the doors in the hall until I found the one that led backstage. I opened it quietly and stuck my head in. Empty. I slid inside.

Backstage was dark and loud and messy, and it smelled like a basement. The musicians had left their cases and jackets lying everywhere. I couldn’t help noticing that one of the jackets, tossed over a chair, had a big lump in the pocket. This was the kind of crowd that would carry cash and cards, maybe even checks . . . but I decided to leave it alone. I wasn’t trying to get kicked out for theft.

I heard the applause, on and on. Finally the curtain opened, and people started coming through. A couple of them gave me weird looks, but mostly they ignored me. Then the girl walked past and crouched by a long black box.

She was ten times better up close. No detail left out, just damn perfect, even down to some freckles to make her look real. I walked over and said, “You were great.”

She looked me up and down. “Thanks.” She closed her violin box.

I was used to getting better reactions from girls, at least a smile. “What’s your name?” I asked.

“Irina.” Then she got up and started walking away.
Burn!

I almost let her go, but I couldn’t face those guys if I didn’t get her number. Time to up my game. I followed her and said, “What was that song where it was just you and that old guy playing?”

“Mozart’s Symphony number forty in G Minor,” she said, still walking.

My neck was getting hot, but I made myself act completely calm, like when I’m bluffing through a bad hand in poker. “Do you know who does a good recording of that one?”

She turned and squinted at me. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

“Probably,” I admitted. “Aren’t you going to tell me, though?”

“My favorite is Karl Böhm and the Berlin Philharmonic.” She gave me a little wave and walked fast down the stairs, kind of an obvious,
Don’t follow me.

But I had to. My manhood was at stake. I could see a straight ask was out of the question; no way would she give up the digits. So I said, “Hey, I know this is kind of weird, but I never heard anybody play the violin like that. Could I come watch the next time you play?”

She stopped walking and smiled—and I knew I was in. “Are you serious?” she said.

I nodded. “Yeah, you’re really good.”

“Well, we’re performing at Seattle Center on Wednesday. But that’s kind of soon.”

“No, it’s not. Can I text you or friend you or something, so I can get times and stuff?” I was already pulling my phone out of my pocket.

It took her a second, but she said, “Okay.”

I handed it to her, and she punched in her digits and gave it back. It was harder than I usually had to work for a number, which made my phone feel like pure gold.

She walked away, didn’t even say good-bye. I stood there for a second, grinning. Then I darted back into the auditorium just in time to grab my backpack before our row emptied. As I squeezed past Kyle and Forrest, I held out my phone.

“No,” said Kyle. “You’re lying.”

“He’s totally lying,” said Forrest.

I showed them her number.

“You put that in yourself.” But Kyle sounded amazed.

“Think whatever you want,” I said. “It’s the real thing.” As we pushed out of the auditorium and into the hall, Kyle and Forrest kept staring at me.

“Is that really Irina Petrova’s number?” Forrest demanded. “If you’re screwing with us . . .”

“I’m not.”

Forrest made little bowing motions. “You. Are my hero.”

Kyle said, “You cracked the Rosetta stone, dude.”

“I’m seeing her on Wednesday,” I told them.

“Bastard!” said Kyle.

Forrest just shook his head. “Gotta hit calculus.”

“You’ll have to tell us about it. Take pictures,” Kyle called as they went down the hall.

I couldn’t stop smiling as I headed to the north wing for Algebra II.

Mr. Chatterjee had the softest, calmest voice, like something you’d listen to on purpose to go to sleep (as if math weren’t enough). I sat in the back and searched Irina Petrova on my phone under the desk. She had about a hundred YouTube links. I clicked one, and at first I thought I’d gotten it wrong. The kid on there was six or seven, playing the violin on a big stage. But she had that same blond hair, and yeah, I decided it could be a younger Irina. I tried another, got the same thing—and then another tagged
Child Prodigy Plays Sonata in F Major
.

Irina was seriously a child prodigy? I always thought of them as nerds, not hot blondes. I guess you can outgrow anything. I was definitely going to give her a hard time about it on Wednesday. Girls like it when you tease them about something they’re good at.

CHAPTER TWO

N
ext day, I passed Kyle, Forrest, and Matt on their way to the parking lot at lunch, and Forrest held up his hand. “Gabe!”

“You’re going the wrong way to lunch,” Kyle said. “Cafeteria food sucks.” We were all stopped in the hallway, and it was one of those awkward moments where I couldn’t tell if he was asking me to come with them.

Forrest made it easy for me. “Let’s go. We’re getting Mexican.”

“Okay,” I said, and fell in step.

“This is Matt.” Forrest jerked his head toward Matt Chen, like everybody in school didn’t know who he was. He was Asian, tall, and big, which was an unusual combo, and the girls loved it, judging by how they tracked him in class.

“You’re in fourth-period history, right?” I asked.

Matt nodded. “You’re new here?” He had a soft, quiet voice, kind of the opposite of the way he looked.

“Yeah. We moved here in August.”

“Where from?” said Forrest, turning into the lot. He clicked his key chain, and the lights flashed on a massive Land Rover.

“White Center. I used to go to Jefferson.”

There was a silence, and I saw Forrest and Kyle trade looks. “Really?” said Forrest. “Was that a cool place?”

I grinned. “You don’t have to be subtle, dude. It’s straight ghetto.”

Forrest laughed. “Hey, you said it.”

White Center
was
ghetto. We used to call my old school “Destination KCJ,” meaning King County Jail. The hood was a weird mix of whites, blacks, Mexicans, and Vietnamese, with families dealing weed out the front and raising chickens out the back.

“Remember that basketball tournament where a guy got knifed a couple years ago?” said Kyle. “That was at Jefferson, right?”

“Yeah, Dre Franklin got stabbed,” I said. “He’s my boy Devon’s brother.”

“You
know
him?” said Forrest. He opened the Land Rover, and we all hopped in. As Forrest drove, we talked about the crazy thug from Tacoma who’d knifed Dre right on the court. Dude had a blade strapped to his waist under his basketball shorts. That was the kind of thing that happened at Jefferson.

The Mexican place was small and packed, but the girl quickly got our food—burritos the size of my head—and big paper cups of Coke. It cost ten bucks, which was more than I usually spent on lunch, but I was guessing it was pocket change to those guys.

We set up at a table, and as we were opening our food, Forrest said, “You guys going to Morton’s on Friday?”

Kyle dumped salsa on his burrito. “Definitely.” He looked at me. “One of our Overlake friends is having a party. You should come.”

Forrest said, “Yeah, bring Irina. But watch it, or I’m taking her off your hands.”

“Better put a bag over your head if you’re going to try that, so you don’t scare her off,” I said.

Kyle and Matt hooted.

“Nah, she’s blind. I mean, she gave
you
her number, right?” Forrest threw back.

Kyle crumpled his wrapper into a ball and said, “Morton’s looking for somebody to hook up some party favors. You got any connections at Jefferson? I mean, since all you guys do over there is get high?” He made it sound like a joke, but he and Forrest were both watching me. Matt looked like he wanted to crawl under the table.

Actually, I had all kinds of connections. I could have driven forty minutes and swung by my friend Damon’s dad’s meth shed, or called my buddy Tim to hook up molly and Oxies, or bought dirt weed by the tire load from the Mexican family on South Street. So yeah, I could hook it up. And I could probably add a rich-kid tax, and they’d never know the difference.

I glanced at Matt, who obviously felt like he was stuck in some after-school special.

“Don’t pay attention to him,” said Forrest. “He’s straight-edge, but he’s cool.”

Matt rolled his eyes. “You guys are idiots. That shit kills people.”

I smiled. I liked these dudes, even Matt. “I’ll see,” I said.

Kyle said, “Cool. And if you don’t bring Irina, my girlfriend’s friend wants to meet you.”

“Who?” Forrest demanded. “Becky?”

Kyle nodded.

“Lucky fool.” Forrest slugged me in the arm.

By the time we got back to school, we’d all traded numbers, and I felt better than I had since I moved.

Wednesday night before Irina’s concert, I was like a cartoon character, dropping crap and sweating bullets with my heart beating out of my chest in big valentines.
Why?
I had no idea. I didn’t even know the girl! And I’d been out with a million girls.

I think it was that violin. It was sexy that she was so good at something. And yeah, I’m a typical guy. It was also that she wasn’t throwing herself at me—at all. In fact, I’d texted her, and she hadn’t texted back. So of course I was whipped.

I spent so long getting ready, my mom knew something was up. She peeked in the bathroom at me (I was fooling with my hair) and said, “You have a date, don’t you?”

I didn’t say no. She squealed and said, “Tell me about her!”

“Nothing. Just some girl.” I smashed my cowlick again—stupid thing would never stay down—and pulled at my shirt.

Mom pushed the door open a little more and looked around at the mess of deodorant, gel, mouthwash, and towels. “You look so handsome. She’s going to be head over heels for you.”

I made a face. “No, she’s not. Can I borrow your car?”