Leverage (9 page)

“That's nice, hon. A grown boy like you needs to get out of the house.” She busies herself with the movers, pointing to where they should set down the TV and asking them if they can hook it up to her cable box. I go into the kitchen and open the fridge. Thing's empty as usual. I grab a jelly container off the top shelf, then pull down some bread and peanut butter from the cupboard and make six PB and Js. I try washing them down with milk, but I make the mistake of drinking directly from the carton. The first curdled chunk hits the back of my throat like cottage cheese and I swallow before I have a choice.

 

Scott Miller rolls up in a muscle-heavy Camaro SS with a bulging engine hood and black racing stripes over golden body paneling. I don't really want him coming inside and meeting Patti, so I push through the screen door soon as I hear a honking horn followed by the deep rumble of a V-8 with four hundred horses pulling into the driveway.

“You ain't going to introduce me?” Scott asks with a smile that hints he might know something about me I don't really want known.

“Nah.”

“Suit yourself, big man.” He backs us out of the driveway, turns the car around, and at the end of the street, at the stop sign, asks, “See any cops?” Without waiting for an answer, he punches the gas. The big V-8 roars and Scott pops the clutch. Tires screeching, back end shuddering sideways, a cloud of oily blue smoke pours up from the pavement behind us.

“YeeeeeeeeHAAAAWWWWW!!!!!”

The bucket seat sucks me deep into its soft leather as we blast out toward the world.

“You like that?” Scott asks.

“Yeah,” I answer truthfully. And then, for no reason, lean my head out the open window like a dog. The wind howls through my hair.

“That's the spirit,” he shouts. I bring my head back in and see Scott reaching into the backseat to pull out a six-pack already missing a can. “Have one,” he says, dropping the beer in my lap. “Maybe you'll finally lighten up.”

I hate drinking, especially beer. Especially beer out of cans. Crud Bucket guzzled it like Gatorade before moving onto the heavier stuff. I pull a can off the plastic ring.

“Pass me one,” Scott says. “Chug it quick. My pops wants to meet our secret weapon before we head over to the party. And don't tell him Mike's parents went away for the weekend.”

I pull a second can off the plastic ring and hand it to Scott, then stuff the remaining three cans under my seat. Scott opens his can and downs it like soda. I take a small sip of mine and it tastes awful, same as it always does every time I try it, like dandelion weeds mulched in a blender and boiled into tea.

“Finish that bad boy. We'll be there in five minutes.”

I take a big swig, trying not to taste it. I take another swig and another until it's almost empty. Good enough.

Scott turns onto a street with big white houses and nice lawns, some with little lawn jockey statues holding lanterns by the front door. “Look,” he says as he fiddles with the radio dial, “we'll keep this short as possible. Just nod and smile and pretend everything he says is scripture. Then we'll get outta there.”

“Guh-got it,” I say, taking Scott's instructions seriously. With adults, I leave nothing to chance.

“There's that stern frown again,” he says. “My dad's gonna freakin' love you. Hold on to that look until we leave.
Then
you can lighten up.”

“Okay.” As much as I hate the taste, the beer relaxes my tongue in a good way.

Scott unloads a belch that sounds like a blown speaker. He kills the ignition and the vibrations rumbling through my seat die. I've only just climbed out of the car when the front door of the house opens and there's Mr. Miller: buzz-cut hair, heavy shoulders, broad chest, and paunch belly. A can of beer and an unlit cigar sprout from his right hand.

“Let me get a look at our newest acquisition,” he says by way of introduction. He wears a big, overly friendly grin to go with his XXXL Knights jersey, khaki shorts, and flip-flops. His eyes are watery. I think his nose is sunburned, but the closer he comes, the more I see that the pink is from little broken blood vessels, like Crud Bucket's.

“Brought him over, Dad,” Scott says, “just like I promised.”

Mr. Miller ignores his son and keeps honing in on me, stepping closer, getting right up in my face, and taking me in from shoe to hair. The way his gaze avoids the bad side of my face tells me he's working hard to ignore it.

“Lookit the size of you!” Mr. Miller says, then sticks the cigar in his mouth, shifts his beer can, and offers his hand to shake. I take it, feel his grip clamp down on my fingers, trying to grind my knuckles together. He won't let go, just keeps squeezing. His smile turns wicked while he waits for a reaction. I won't give him one. I won't squeeze back, either. Something tells me he'll take that challenge.

“Someone's been feeding you good,” he says. “Got to get Scottie here on that diet, beef him up a bit.” I think about the six PB and Js I chowed down, pretty sure Scott wouldn't be too happy with that diet. “Come on and grab a beer. Just one, though, since you're driving and doing God knows what tonight. Am I right? Huh? Right?”

“Dad, we should get—”

“God
dammit
, boy!” Mr. Miller lashes out at his son, ears and cheeks growing crimson to match his nose. “Don't interrupt me again.” Mr. Miller shakes his head and turns back to me, blowing out a stream of air, and the redness fades. “My boy has trouble minding himself. Thinks he's the man in charge. Well, he may be the man out there with those little faggots and pussies, but around this house, there's only one big dog.”

“Yes, sir!” I say, happy that the beer smoothes my reply and makes Mr. Miller seem more like a joke than a threat. I glance at Scott, catch his eyes narrowing behind his old man's back.

“You hear that, Scottie? You hear how he addresses me? Someone taught you good, boy! Someone brought you up right.”

“Th-thank you, sir.”

“I sure would like to meet the parents of such a fine, upstanding young man. Makes me proud to be a part of this mostly derelict human race.”

“Dad, maybe we can—” Scott begins, but is cut off again.

“Boy, I am not going to tell you again about interrupting your old man! Now get on in there and grab all three of us a beer. Now!”

Scott goes into the house without another word and returns with the beers while Mr. Miller and I stand in front of Scott's car.

“Kurt, I sure did like watching you run and block last night. You teach Scottie some of those moves, make a man out of him. He thinks he knows it all. The boy don't know shit. What you lookin' at, Scott?” Mr. Miller asks. “You know they've been pampering you. You may be the star quarterback here, but once you walk on campus with the big boys, they will knock you on your ass. Am I right?”

“Yesssssir,” I say, glancing over at Scott, see him glaring
at me
. Mr. Miller leans down to rest his beer on the fender of the Camaro, but the can slips off and falls to the ground.

“Ahh, for Christ's sake! Scottie, what the hell are you doing to me here, with this damn car? Can't drive a truck. Got to have some flashy fairy car with a fancy grille you can't set nothing on. Jee-zus, what's the point?”

“You liked it plenty when Rick bought it,” Scott hisses.

“What?! Whaddid you just say?” Mr. Miller squares his shoulders toward Scott like he's preparing to box his son into the ground. “Blaspheme his name again, boy,” Mr. Miller growls, pulling the cigar out of his mouth, readying for attack. “Go ahead. Test me.”

“Have my buh-buh-beer, sssssir,” I offer, knowing from experience angry drinkers can be distracted with more alcohol. Mr. Miller stands there staring Scott down while deciding something. Then he plugs his cigar back in his mouth, keeping his eyes set on Scott while talking to me.

“Boy, got some good manners on you,” Mr. Miller says, his hand opening expectantly for the almost full can of beer I place in the circle of his fingers like a servant. He likes that. I can tell. “Scottie, you stick with this one. Learn some respect from him.”

“Yes,
sir
,” Scott says, voice brittle. His face turns raw red as his old man's while his jaw clenches and unclenches. I swallow nervously. Mr. Miller takes a long pull from my beer, tipping the can up almost vertical, then wipes his forearm across his mouth.

“Okay, you two get out of here. And don't go knocking up a cheerleader. Don't think I don't remember being your age. But the wrong move with one of them girls will put you on the path to food stamps. You remember that and keep it in your pants.”

Scott's already in the car, turning over the ignition, when I say good-bye to his dad.

“Nice meeting you, suh-suh-sir.”

“You too, son. Can't wait to see you run against Millfield High. You'll make fools outta those boys.”

A quarter mile from his house, driving up the on-ramp to Old Highway 8, Scott punches the gas. The Camaro bucks, engine snorting, and presses me into my seat once again.

“Who's ruh-ruh-Rick?”

“My brother. My forever-perfect brother. Never did a single goddamn thing wrong, according to my dad.”

The speedometer needle climbs way past the legal limit. I wait for Scott to ease off the pedal. The flatbed of a pickup truck grows larger and larger in front of us. Just as we're about to ram it, Scott switches lanes. We rocket past it, chased weakly by the truck's horn.

“Suh-suh-suh-Scott. Ease up.”

“Whatsa matter?” Scott asks, wearing his old man's wicked grin. “The big, upstanding, young gentleman scared?”

“It ain't fuh-fuh-fuh-funny.”

There are two cars up ahead, running side by side, blocking both lanes. We blast toward both sets of tail-lights on a collision course. Scott glances over at me, then throws his head back in laughter. He re-grips the steering wheel.

“Grow some balls,” he says. “If my dad saw you right now, squirming like a sissy, he wouldn't be so hot to kiss your ugly ass.”

“Suh-suh-suh-suh-suh—”

“Scott. My name is Scott. Say it. Scott!” He shouts at me.

“Duh-duh-don't . . .” I brace an arm against the dashboard, expecting the crash. The two cars ahead plug both lanes. Nowhere to go. No room between them; only grass ditch and ravine on either side.

“Suck it up, man!”

“Suh-suh-suh . . . Come
on
!”

Scott flashes his headlights and lays on the horn. “Out of the way asshole!” he shouts, refusing to slow. I reach for his arm but he jerks it from my grip.

“Suh-suh-suh-
Scott
!”

A second from ramming the back of the left car, he cranks the steering wheel. We shoot down into the grassy ravine, Scott's side sinking and my side lifting, threatening to flip. Tall grass whips over the hood, smearing the windshield. Scott wrestles the wheel, whooping loud. The Camaro munches hunks of earth while the floorboard bangs under my feet. Any second we'll hit an unseen dip and crater into the field or cartwheel end over end. Either way it'll finish in a fireball.

“How you like it, tough guy?” Scott shouts. “Still my dad's best friend?”

Both my hands clutch the dashboard. “Puh-puh-puh-please . . . suh-suh-
stop
!”

Scott yanks the wheel back toward the road. We ramp up the embankment, catching air, then land back on the highway at an angle, hitting hard.

Metal scrapes pavement and rubber squeals. Scott hits the brakes and we fishtail while he struggles for control. The Camaro straightens out, barely avoiding flipping into the opposite-side ravine.

My mouth stops working all together. Scott laughs but it sounds more like crying to my ears. “You should see the look on your face,” he says, slapping the steering wheel. We slow to the legal limit. I wait for my heart to climb back down out of my throat.

Other than Scott asking me to grab him another beer, we don't speak the rest of the ride to Studblatz's house. I grab a can for myself and drink it fast, not minding the taste anymore, hoping only to feel a little less jittery. By the time we reach Mike Studblatz's house, most of my adrenaline's burned off, but my legs still feel wobbly.

At the driveway, Scott hits the horn, waits a second, then honks again, a long, annoying blast. “Okay, you passed the test,” he says to me, turning off the ignition. Except for a few engine ticks, the car goes to sleep. “Not exactly in flying colors, 'fraidy cat, but we'll keep that to ourselves,” he says. “In my book, you passed.
Now
you're a Knight.”

“
That
was a tuh-tuh-test? You driving like a kuh-kuh-kuh-crazy man
was a tuh-tuh-test
?”

“Of course. Whaddid you think? I'm going to freak out and scratch up my paint job just because Pops gets a couple drinks in him and wants to trade sons? You think that's all it takes to work me up? Shit, that was nothing. You just saw my old man on his best behavior. You should see him when his team loses. Or hear him gush every time Jankowski and Studblatz come over. Or starts telling stories about Rick. I keep waiting for him to offer Tom and Mike's parents a swap for me.”

I look down and see that I've crushed the empty beer can in my grip.

“Me, Tommy, and Mike decided you had to have some sort of initiation. You can't just party with kings and get the keys to all the cheerleaders' panties without a little suffering first. You got to pay some membership dues. But you're in now. You're golden.”

Through the dirty windshield I watch the front door of the house open and Jankowski step through it. A train of bald boys follows him. I slowly realize it's the entire JV squad and some of the benchwarming varsity players. Music comes thumping out of the house: heavy guitar chords, boom-boom beats, and some guy wailing like a banshee. The bald boys all wear dog collars with bone biscuits attached to them. Tom comes over and taps fists with Scott through the open car window, then casts a brief glance at me.