Ferocity Summer (6 page)

June

H
ey,” Willow said, “you think you could loan me like fifty bucks?”

“Like I have fifty bucks,” I said. We were sitting outside on her back deck absorbing vitamin D and UV rays, trying to imagine we were just carefree high school girls working on our tans.

“What, they don't pay you at that place?”

“I have to give it to my mom,” I explained. “She's got this savings-account-type deal so I can go to school or buy a car or something.”

“You don't even get your own paycheck? What the hell is wrong with her?”

I shrugged. I was pissed at Willow and I didn't know why. Okay, maybe it had something to do with the fact that I spent my summer at some shit job and Willow goofed off while collecting a nice fat weekly allowance, yet she still had the nerve to beg money off of me.

“Let's go to the beach or something,” I said. I was tired of moping around her backyard.

“Why?” Willow asked.

“We can go swimming.”

“I need money.”

“You could get a job,” I said.

“You sound like my fucking father. Let's go whip up some lunch.”

A few minutes later, I lugged out the blender while Willow lined up a variety of alcoholic beverages on the counter. She pulled an entire six-pack of wine coolers from the fridge.

“Midge told me I could have one anytime I wanted,” Willow said. “Do you think she'll be pissed if we use them all?”

“We don't need them all.” I looked at the counter with the vodkas, the rum, the gin, and the daiquiri mix. “What about the solid-food portion of our lunch?”

“You have absolutely no sense of adventure.” Willow began randomly pouring bottles into the blender. She tossed in some ice. “Let's give it a whirl,” she said, reaching for the button.

“You've got to put the lid on,” I said, but it was too late. A tsunami of pinkish drink spewed forth and sprayed over me and half the kitchen. Willow stayed clean except for a few drops. She poured the remaining blender contents into plastic cups, and we drank while we cleaned. The cabinets, the countertops, and the floor needed to be scrubbed. My shirt and the kitchen curtains got thrown in the washing machine.

“You can borrow one of Randy's shirts,” Willow generously offered.

I waded through the mess of his bedroom, feeling slightly guilty at the idea of violating his personal space. The top drawer of his dresser held socks and underwear. I shut it and yanked open the second drawer. I froze. Jesus.

The second drawer of Randy's dresser was filled—completely stuffed—with marijuana. I actually touched it, to confirm it wasn't some sort of bizarre hallucination brought on by my liquid lunch. I stared at it, expecting to realize the ridiculous mistake I'd made. But the marijuana didn't metamorphosize into a pile of T-shirts. It was one hundred percent real.

What the hell was Randy doing with this much marijuana? Was he planning the mother of all parties, a party that he hadn't yet bothered to invite me to? But I knew the answer. What other answer could there be? No way on earth this could be for personal consumption. Even a diehard stoner would be overwhelmed by such a bounty. As for parties, Randy had never been much of a social butterfly. If I was a member of law enforcement, I would have clearly identified this as Possession with the Intent to Distribute.

“What are you doing up there?” Willow yelled. “Reading his diary?”

I turned around and suddenly she was there, standing in his doorway. I couldn't let her see this. She didn't know it was here. I slammed the drawer closed.

“What?” she asked. She walked into the room.

“Nothing,” I said. I felt jumpy and nervous. I couldn't let her see inside that drawer.

She started walking over to the dresser. I remembered the original reason for my foray into Randy's bedroom. Perhaps drawer number three held T-shirts, or perhaps it too was stuffed with pot or God knew what. I didn't dare open it. I looked around and saw something vaguely T-shirt-like on the floor a few feet away. I grabbed for it and pulled it on. It smelled like pizza, but I didn't care.

“What's wrong with you?” Willow asked. “You look like you saw a fucking ghost.”

“Oh, it was just, um, some porn magazines.”

“Whatever floats your boat,” she said. “Midge found one once under his bed when he was thirteen, and she thought the depictions were not very tasteful so she bought him this art book of erotic photography for Christmas. My father didn't know until Randy opened it Christmas morning, and he blew a head gasket. They had a big fight. He took the book away and donated it to the library. Under the cover of darkness. In the bookdrop.”

“She had good intentions,” I said.

“Yeah,” Willow said. “Yeah. She always does.”

June

S
tuck behind the counter of Johnny's Quik Mart on a pleasantly overcast summer day, I had little better to do than ponder Randy Jenkins' second dresser drawer. I wondered if he had a plan. If he sold it all, would he be able to buy that new life he had his eye on? Perhaps he could, in Mexico or Canada or someplace far more remote. I hated him and envied him at the same time. The bastard could have at least told me what he was cooking up.

Who the hell did he think I was, anyway? Was I just some stupid accessory in his life's wardrobe? I wanted to know where he was going. I wanted to go with him.
No. No, that wasn't it. I wanted to be a million miles away from Randy Jenkins. I wanted to be a million miles away from Johnny's Quik Mart and this whole piece-of-crap life I'd been trapped in for so long, but it wasn't as if I was doing a damn thing about it. Working at the convenience store would never earn me enough money to buy a new life, even if I didn't have to fork most of it over to my mom for this mysterious savings account she had for me.

Randy knew that playing by the rules was for suckers. That's why the Comstock Lode of marijuana was sitting in his bedroom waiting to be turned into cold hard cash. If I wanted out, if I really wanted out, then I needed to step up and do something about it.

“Pack of smokes.”

The mumbling voice pierced my self-absorption. I looked up to see a young guy with tattooed arms and shifty-looking eyes. I'd never seen him before. He wore an oversized sweatshirt, which even with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows seemed like a strange choice in this heat. I noticed he had thrown down a crumpled wad of money on the counter. He was fumbling with something in the front pocket of his sweatshirt and nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He radiated unease, and I, in turn, felt very uncomfortable. My fingers lingered near the panic button; maybe he was just an underage kid with a bad habit, or maybe he was working up the courage to blow my brains out.

“What brand?” I asked.

The guy glanced nervously over his shoulder. I didn't like this one bit. I glanced through the nearly plastered-over front windows. There was an old beater of a car parked out there, a black teenage girl behind the wheel. This is not a part of New Jersey exactly brimming with diversity, so her dark skin alone was enough to make me think that whoever this pair was, they weren't from around here. But whether they were Bonnie and Clyde or just two day-tripping young lovers from Passaic or East Hanover or some other place where the KKK would never even think of holding a rally, I couldn't say.

“Oh, Marlboros,” the guy said, still doing his little dance. Maybe he just had to pee. “Menthols.”

I turned around to retrieve the requested cigarettes. My hand was shaking and it was hard to slide the box free. I didn't like having my back to this guy. I didn't like being so far from our panic button.

“Prissy Scilla!”

The shout sliced through the uneasy silence. I let out a yelp and dropped the pack of cigarettes. I spun around to see the would-be cigarette buyer running out the door, his crumpled wad of money still sitting on the counter, and Saint Joe Bullock jock-walking into the store with a harem of three cheerleader-slut hangers-on. I didn't bother to acknowledge his greeting. In the parking lot there was a squeal of tires as the old beater pulled out onto the highway.

“Is poor, poor Scilla earning her bail money?” Joe asked.

No reason existed why anyone in their right mind should like Joe Bullock, and yet for some inexplicable reason, people did. In second grade, he dared Sandra Lane to kiss his little-boy dick on the school playground. She was branded a cocksucker almost instantly, the nickname and its connotations staying with her through eighth grade, when she disappeared from school either to enter an insane asylum or an all-girls school in the Midwest; the rumors were never clear. In sixth grade, Joe defaced a fellow student's art project with a box-cutter, which led to the permanent dismissal of our art teacher on the grounds that she had no control over her students. The eventual result was that the school board decided to permanently cut art from our curriculum, claiming that it was a waste of money. By the time we'd reached high school, Joe had acquired divine status, revered by fellow students and teachers alike. He remained an obnoxious prick.

His little posse roamed through the aisles of the store, whispering and snickering amongst themselves. I ignored them to the best of my ability.

“Hey dyke-breath!” Joe yelled from the snack-food aisle. “How about giving a school chum a five-finger-you discount. I'll make it worth your while.”

A few seconds later, Joe and the girls emerged, the girls giggling moronically. “Oh, Priscilla,” Joe moaned as he clutched his crotch. “I'm just burning with desire for you. I don't think I can take it any more. Oh, Scilla.” He reached down his pants and pulled out a still-wrapped Twinkie. He stroked it suggestively. The girls giggled some more. I looked down at the cash register keys. “I'm gonna come! I'm gonna come right here in the store!” With that, he squeezed the Twinkie package and creamy innards burst forth, spraying, among other things, the side of my face.

I wiped it off with my sleeve. Then I walked away. I walked into the back room, where Gill Ecks sat on a milk crate smoking a cigarette. I handed him my register keys.

“I'm not getting paid enough for this shit,” I said. “I quit.”

I didn't give him a chance to respond. I walked out the back door and nearly right into a Lincoln Town Car, driven by a certain Hawaiian-shirt-clad man.

When life sucks, it really sucks.

Back in April

T
he letter from the public defender's office and the marquee on the office door listed my court-appointed attorney as
S. Louise Killdaire
. First of all, I wondered what the “S” stood for. Second of all, I wondered if it really could be more objectionable than “Louise” as a chosen name. How bad could it be? I spent a lot of time conjuring up loathsome “S” names but could only produce Sugar, Salsa, and Sable, which to my knowledge weren't names at all. So I missed most of the introductory remarks that S. Louise made to us in our first meeting, and I didn't ask her my one burning question.

My mother asked if this whole court-appointed lawyer thing was just a big waste of everyone's time.
“Are you really gonna do a damn thing to help us out? The other parties are paying for their own representation. Don't they stand a better chance of getting off? Why would you help us when you've got your paying clients?”

S. Louise, a fortyish woman with badly dyed chestnut-colored hair, had her own law practice, but the state of New Jersey mandated she do pro bono work from time to time and had stuck her with my hopeless case. We couldn't afford an attorney any other way, so I failed to see the point of my mother's rant.

“I understand your concerns,” S. Louise said. “But I assure you, I'm an ethical person. I will give this case the full measure of my attention.”

“Do you have a strategy?” my mother asked. She'd done her homework by watching courtroom dramas on TV. Now, in her questions, she was busy showing off her knowledge.

“I think a key component is going to be your daughter's good character.”

My mother snorted. “Oh, we're sunk. We're sunk for sure.”

Undeterred, Killdaire said, “This is a first offense for Priscilla. She's been a straight arrow all along. This was a clear accident, an isolated incident. She's a good kid. We'll make the jury see that.”

I don't think I said more than two words through the whole meeting. My mom and Killdaire bantered back and forth as if I wasn't there. My fate was theirs to discuss as they pleased.

That's why I was surprised when I saw Killdaire a week or so later in the hallway on my way to third-period study hall.

“Priscilla,” she said, “do you have a few minutes? I'd like to talk to you alone.”

We sat in the school cafeteria, the smell of greasy donuts hanging heavy in the air. With her crappy hair and her sky blue suit, Killdaire could have passed for a substitute teacher.

“This trial is about character,” she said.

“Okay.”

“What I mean is, it's important for you to remain above reproach.”

“Sure,” I said, but I was so far below reproach that I didn't hold out much hope I'd ever be able to claw my way back up.

“Your behavior needs to be perfect from here on out. Because that's what they're going to judge you on.” I nodded. I felt my attention waning as I saw Andrea walk in and head toward the beverage cooler. “I'm not just talking about not getting busted,” S. Louise continued. “You need to be extra good for a while. It's possible that the prosecution might deliberately try to catch you engaging in illicit behavior in order to make their case. They could decide to have an undercover cop or a private investigator keep tabs on you and wait for you to slip up.”

“What?” I asked, suddenly pulling my eyes off Andrea. “You mean, someone's going to follow me around?”

“Not necessarily,” she said. “But you need to behave yourself, just in case.”

“Do you think it really matters?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“All this shit about character. That's not exactly the issue, is it? What's done is done. What's the point in fighting against it? It's not going to change anything.”

“That sounds pretty negative.”

“I'm just being realistic.”

Killdaire reached into her pocketbook and pulled out a business card. She handed it to me.

“I gave one to your mom, but this is for you. If you ever need to talk to someone, give me a call. And keep yourself out of trouble, okay?”

What Sherman saw when he looked at the untamed South—with its guerrilla fighters and its rebellious hostility toward the Union, that impossible, unconquerable enemy—was the way I felt about the trial. Sherman had an army at his disposal, and even so, he had to invent an entirely new type of warfare in order to claim victory. I didn't know anything about courtroom strategies. I didn't have an army or even a legal team. I had one court-appointed attorney who was already burdened with a host of other paying clients.

I nodded. I even tried, for a time, to see things with Killdaire's optimism, but I couldn't. For her this was just another case, and one that she wouldn't even get paid for. For me, it was everything.