Betting Blind (6 page)

Irina said quietly, “No, it’s not like money. But a person can get used up. They can get so that sex is just a physical act for them, like eating.”

Now, that was a weird thing to say. Because honestly, I thought sex
was
sort of like eating. You get hungry, you eat, then you’re full. At least, that was the only way it ever felt to me. I wondered again what it would be like to have sex with a girl I loved. But there was no way I was admitting that to Irina.

“You’re not going to find a guy who’ll wait,” I told her. “And you’re definitely not going to find a guy who’s a virgin, if that’s what you want. Unless he’s a loser.”

She rolled her eyes at me. “You don’t even know what a loser is. It takes a man to wait.”

An image of Phil the Toolbox flashed into my head.

“Besides,” she said, “even if he’s not a virgin, I’ll make him wait at least a few years while we’re engaged.”

“He’ll cheat on you,” I said confidently.

“And that,” she said softly, “is why you and I have no future.”

I felt my face heating up. “I’m not a cheater!” It was a lie. I had cheated on the only two serious girlfriends I ever had. Quite a few times.

Irina said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be insulting.”

I glanced at her, and she looked so beautiful with her cool stare and pale skin that I wanted to kiss her right there and make her admit she was wrong; we did have something. “Are you attracted to me?” I demanded, because I wanted a straight answer.

“Of course I am. You’re ridiculously hot. And I think you have a good heart, although I can’t tell for sure.”

I felt a little better.

She went on. “But you seem like sort of a player, and anyway, I’m attracted to a lot of people.”

Man, this girl could put her spike heel through a guy’s heart and grind it in. The problem with her was that she was too used to calling the shots. She needed a guy who didn’t let her boss him around.

“Let’s just be friends, then,” I said, really cool. “Are you allowed to do that? Be friends with a guy?”

She looked surprised. “You really want to be my friend?”

I nodded.

“Okay. I would like that.” She sounded happy.
Good move
.

I pulled up outside her house and had a sudden thought. “You don’t have a boyfriend or anything, do you?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” she said, reaching for the door handle. “Anyway, why do you care, if you just want to be friends?”

“I don’t want some Russian dude trying to shoot me.”

She giggled. “Other than my dad, no Russian dude is going to try to shoot you.”

That was sort of scary.

“Okay, friend. See you later,” I said as she climbed out.

She grinned at me. “See you later, Gabe.”

I watched her walk into her palace. The princess would go up into her tower and brush her long blond hair. I’d figure out a way to climb up it.

CHAPTER FIVE

A
fter Morton’s party, I was “the Man.” Nothing like having drug connects and leaving with a pretty girl to build status. The athletes were friendly to me, and Kyle and Forrest kept asking me to lunch and to hang out after school. Matt wasn’t sure about me, I could tell, but he was a nice dude and didn’t seem to mind that I came along.

The three of them had been tight since elementary. Kyle was the ace; he knew what to say to make people feel good about themselves, but not in a kiss-ass way. And he always seemed to be having a good time, or about to have one.

And Forrest didn’t give a shit—about anything. I think he had some messed-up family stuff going on, not that he’d ever talk about it. He was skinny, with dark brown curly hair, and somehow he made his Diesel look as if it came from a pile at Goodwill. He had a wicked edge and liked to shock people, which could be very funny.

Matt was deep into computer science and quiet, except when he was arguing with Forrest. He would have been a computer geek if he wasn’t such a good rower. When the rest of us started talking about partying, he’d kind of disappear, or open a book, or check his phone. But he never gave us a hard time. I respected him.

Every day, we’d pile into Kyle’s or Forrest’s truck and get lunch, usually with a few girls, like Erin and Becky. I think Becky liked me even more after I said I couldn’t hook up with her.

One day as we were heading to the parking lot, Kyle said, “Gabe, can you drive? My tank’s on E.”

My brain stalled for a second. Then I thought,
Fine
. I grinned at him. “You really want me to drive?”

“What are you laughing at?”

“Nothing. Come on.” I led the way to my junk heap, which I always parked in the back lot so no one would see it. Their eyes were bugging before I even opened the door. I swept out my arm. “Ladies first.”

Erin giggled. “Um . . . are you serious? Will we even fit?”

“Maybe in the trunk,” I said.

Kyle chuckled. “That is the worst piece of crap I have seen in my life. Do you seriously drive this thing?”

I shrugged. “I don’t have a rich mommy and daddy to buy me a Porsche. Besides, I like my car. It has personality.” Inside I was holding my breath. Would they buy it?

They did. They thought it was funny. “Yeah, it does have personality,” said Forrest. “It’s a pissed-off old man. A dwarf war vet.”

“Actually, I won it in a pool game from a vet,” I told them, and that sealed it: now they thought the car was cool.

“Yeah, but we’re not going to fit. Let’s take my car,” said Forrest. So we did. I was relieved. Just another reminder that if you act confident, people will swallow anything.

On the way to the restaurant, Kyle gave a fake cough. “Announcement. My parents just told me they’re going to Sonoma in two weeks. Second weekend in October, the house is ours.”

Forrest whooped. “Party?”

Kyle shook his head. “Nah, did you see how bad they destroyed Morton’s place? I’m thinking a small get-together. Just us.” He looked at Erin. “And maybe some more of your friends.”

Forrest smirked at me over his shoulder. Erin’s friends were straight Victoria’s Secret.

Kyle punched me on the arm. “Hook up some supplies?”

I didn’t answer for a second. It was the third time he’d asked since the last party. On one hand, I had nothing against people getting high. On the other hand, I’d spent plenty of time around the tweakers in White Center, and I knew twenty-five-year-olds who looked fifty, with their nasty rotting teeth and caved-in cheeks and jonesing ways. I’m not saying e is meth, but that gateway crap is real.

But I needed the cash. We were dropping ten bucks a day on lunch, going out sometimes after school, seeing movies . . . Anyway, it’s not really dealing if you’re just hooking up friends.

“Sure,” I said.

“You can bring a friend if you want.” He gave me a look and I knew he meant Irina, but he wasn’t saying it in front of Becky. Kyle had my back.

“Nah, I’ll come alone.” I didn’t want to scare off Irina with the drugs. I’d been working on her, and I thought I might be getting somewhere. We were hanging out that night, actually. We’d been text-battling over which was better: music with lyrics or music without. She wanted a standoff. I couldn’t wait. She was cool; salty as hell, always talking smack. I actually did like her as a friend, although of course I wanted more.

We got to the restaurant, and ordered food and sodas. Becky sat next to me in the brown puffy booth, and Erin kept trying to get us talking the whole time. It’s weird how girls are always trying to hook each other up. But I was a little zoned out, thinking about which tracks to play for Irina. KRS One? The Roots? Maybe something old-school, like Bob Dylan?

Then Erin said, “It’s going to be great at Kyle’s. Small parties are better than big ones.” She looked right at me, then at Becky. You couldn’t miss her meaning.

Becky turned pink and said in a soft voice, “I like small parties, too.”

Suddenly I had pictures of big fancy beds and this sweet girl and me with practically a whole house to ourselves. “Yeah, me, too,” I told her.

Erin smiled and took a sip of her Coke.

No way was I going to rent a car just to drive to Irina’s house that night, so I parked the junk-mobile half a block away and walked. Irina’s mom answered the door. Her blond hair was pulled back, and she was wearing a white sweater and a long black skirt. She didn’t even say hi, just, “Follow me.”

I looked around, but Irina wasn’t coming to save me.

Mrs. Petrova waved her hand. “Come!”

I followed her through the baby-grand room, down a hall, and into another big room, all white: white chairs, white couch, white vases, with a big black-and-white striped rug. It made me paranoid about my shoes. Mrs. Petrova sat on the couch and patted the cushion next to her. “Sit.”

I had a sudden horrible thought that maybe she was one of those bored housewives who are into younger guys, and this was going to be like a bad movie, and Irina would walk in right when her mom was pushing me down on the sofa.

Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad . . .
But Mrs. Petrova picked up a remote, and I realized I was being an idiot. She clicked it, there was a whirring sound, and a screen came down from the ceiling.

“Nureyev,” said Mrs. Petrova.
“Le Corsaire
.
”
She pointed the remote.

There were two people in a desert, a guy and a girl, practically naked. They danced for a while, but the guy was so smooth and powerful, you almost didn’t notice the girl. She was more like a prop for his moves. Then she danced away and it was just him, and he went crazy. I mean, I never knew a human body could do that. He was spinning so fast, I thought for sure he’d wipe out, but he just kept going. Then he leaped like a deer, over and over. I had to admit, dude was strong.

Mrs. Petrova was watching me. “You see?”

“Yeah, he’s really good,” I said.

“He is better than good. He is the best,” she said sternly. She hit “Stop”
and turned to look at me. “Where are your parents from?”

Uh-oh. This was turning out bad after all. “New York?”

She shook her head impatiently. “What is your heritage? What country do your grandparents or your great-grandparents come from?”

This was a crappy question if I ever heard one.
Well, ma’am, I don’t know who my father is, so I couldn’t tell you where
his
parents are from, and my mom doesn’t know
her
dad, so I couldn’t tell you where
he’s
from, but I’m pretty sure my grandma’s from Rochester.

“I’m Irish,” I said. Everybody has some Irish in them.

She squinted at me. “What were your grades on your last report card?”

What kind of bold-ass question was that? She didn’t deserve an honest answer. “All As,” I said, looking straight at her.

“Really? And what—”

“Mom! How long has Gabe been here?” Irina was standing in the doorway, looking mad. And hot. She was wearing light blue jeans and a white long-sleeved shirt about an inch away from tight.

“I showed him Nureyev,” Mrs. Petrova said. “For the first time.”

Irina huffed. “Sorry, Gabe. Come on.”

I got up and followed her.

“Do
not
close your door!” Mrs. Petrova called after us.

Irina blushed and didn’t answer. On the way up the stairs, which were as wide as two normal staircases, she said, “Was it
Le Corsaire
? That’s her favorite.”

“Yeah. That guy is a serious dancer.”

She smiled at me over her shoulder. “Yes, he is.” Then we were on the landing, and she led me a few doors down to her room. She left the door open like her mom said.

I looked around. A bedroom can tell you a lot about a person. And Irina’s said hard-core musician. There was no rug, just a wooden floor, a four-poster bed with a puffy white comforter, and lace curtains on the windows. There were three metal stands, all with music on them, and two violin boxes, both lying open. The framed pictures on the wall were obviously real paintings. One was—big surprise—a violin. The other was a sad-looking lady staring at her hand.

On the other wall some religious pictures were set up on a dresser with candles. They looked old-fashioned and different, not like the yellow-haired Jesus pictures you see in Walmart, or the Catholic ones with hearts and knives.

A bookshelf took up the rest of the wall. I gave it a closer look, because I thought the books inside might tell me something about Irina.
The Prodigy: A Biography of William James Sidis, America’s Greatest Child Prodigy. Mozart: A Life in Music. Life of Sir William Rowan Hamilton.

“Are these about famous musicians?” I asked, touching the back of one.

She shook her head. “Child prodigies. Who’s going first?” She opened a cabinet door on the bottom of the bookshelf, and there was the phattest sound system I’d seen in my life, not counting the ones behind glass in Best Buy.

“You,” I said. “So why do you have all those books about child prodigies, if you’re not one?” She
was
a prodigy; I knew it.

She sighed. “Because my parents really, really wanted me to be one. And they bought this
shit
to motivate me. But it didn’t work. Because I’m not that good!”