The Bad Decisions Playlist (30 page)

He pauses to dip a french fry in ketchup.

“That,” he says, “would be unpleasant.”

He goes back to his french fries, sips some water. I'm not sure if he has anything else to say.

“Rick, I'm really sorry.”

He nods absently.

“Yeah, whatever.”

“You're not gonna . . . ?”

“What, have you arrested? That what you want? You think I'm going to put you through the criminal justice system? I'm pretty familiar with that side of things. I have a fair sense of what the outcome would be.”

“My mom's gonna send me to that military academy.”

“Doubt it. For my part I told her it was about the worst idea imaginable. I'm sure she'll figure out some punishment for you, but”​—​he shrugs​—​“what's the point? You'll either learn or you won't. You'll keep doing stupid crap, sabotage yourself, or you won't. Doesn't matter much what I do or your mom does. But here's how it works: Very soon you'll get to be a real grownup and comprehend that the world doesn't revolve around you. That you, and only you, are responsible for you. No one else.”

He wipes his hands and mouth with his napkin, stands up.

“Okay. I'm going to take a shower and go to sleep.” He glances at Todd on the sofa. “Looks like you get the floor.”

Last verse / same as the worst thing I've ever done

Rick is snoring in the bedroom as I gather my things quietly in the darkness. Todd doesn't stir. I slip silently out of the room, easing the door closed. It's four a.m.

The hallway is empty. The elevator is empty. The
bong
it makes when it arrives is loud and lonely in the deserted hallway. There's no one else in the lobby except a single night clerk behind the reception desk.

“Checking out, sir?” he says, eyeing my bag.

“No, I'm just . . .” I say, pointing to the exit, then walk through the double doors out into the Manhattan night.

∗  ∗  ∗

When I wake up, the sun is bright in my eyes. There are people talking. I close my eyes against the glare and listen to the conversation. It takes a moment for me to figure out it's the TV, tuned to CNN.

“Get up,” says Rick. “We have to take Todd to the airport.”

∗  ∗  ∗

When I walked out of the hotel, I stood for a moment on the sidewalk, listening to the sounds of the city at night, trying to decide which way to go.

As I shifted my weight back and forth, standing there, I became aware that I had something in my back pocket. The note from Shane.

I dug it out and looked at it without opening it. Ten yards from me was a trash can. Well, at least that was a direction. I walked to the can and held the envelope over it, preparing to drop it in.

Then didn't. Instead I opened the letter.

It wasn't a long note, the
Dear Austin
note I'd been expecting. It simply said,

It's not too late for you, either.

I'm not sure how long I stood there, reading and rereading those seven words. Then I folded up the note and returned it to my pocket.

“Welcome back, sir,” said the night clerk without expression when I came in. I didn't say anything to him as I trudged to the elevator bank and went upstairs.

∗  ∗  ∗

When we get to LaGuardia Airport Todd says, “You can just drop me off at the curb.”

Rick says, “Yeah . . . no.”

We park and go in with Todd, Rick helping him print out his boarding pass from the kiosk and then escorting him to the security line.

Before Todd joins the line, he looks at me and nods. I nod back. He sticks out a hand and we shake.

“You did good, Methune.”

“You too, Malloy.”

Then Rick squares himself up with Todd, like he did last night, and says, “Todd? At some point I assume your parents are going to see their credit card bill and have some difficult questions for you. But as for me being here? It never happened.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did any of this happen?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you see me here?”

“No, sir.”

“You have a good flight.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

We wait until Todd has made it through the metal detectors.

“All right,” says Rick. “We've got a long drive ahead.”

∗  ∗  ∗

A long drive with no words. West through the ugly industrial tangle that rings the city, west into Pennsylvania. We eat lunch at a rest-stop McDonald's. We stay that night in a nondescript Holiday Inn just off a cloverleaf. Rick pays for two adjoining rooms.

Before closing his door for the night, he says, “If you run out like you did last night, I'm leaving you here.”

∗  ∗  ∗

When I come down for breakfast the next morning, he's already at a table, eating. He glances up briefly from his paper and says, “I paid for the buffet breakfast,” so I go and fill up a plate and join him.

I sit there for a bit, my eggs getting colder and rubbery-er. There are only a few other people in the restaurant. Rick reads his paper, sipping his coffee.

“Rick,” I say.

Still reading, he says, “Yes?”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why this? Why'd you come for me?”

“Wanted to make sure my car was okay.”

I don't say anything.

He sighs and puts down the paper. “Austin . . . first off, you're a thoughtless little asshole. I mean, you do some absolutely ridiculous, inconsiderate things. I don't think you have an ounce of malice in you​—​and believe me, in the D.A.'s office I dealt with some pretty malignant young men. But still, your behavior's hard to forgive, especially because you end up hurting your mother so much.”

He sips his coffee while my face burns.

“But of
course
I came. You're Kelly's son. I love her, and she loves you. Of
course
I came. I
had
to. I may not be your father, but I had a responsibility to come for you.”

He picks up his paper, and I think he's done. Then he puts it down again.

“And you know, there's something else. I'm aware that my opinion doesn't carry much weight with you. But, Austin, I think you have a real light in you. I'm hoping that you can bring that light, bring
Austin,
to the world, because the world could use it. I don't know
how
you're going to do it, whether it's through music or art or being the world's best lawyer​—​that's a joke, by the way​—​but whatever it is, it's going to take hard work and effort on your part, not just gliding by on talent. But I have faith, Austin, that you can make it through, that you can find your way. And the world will be better because of it. That's why I came for you, Austin.” He picks up the paper. “Eat your eggs.”

∗  ∗  ∗

We both go up to our rooms to get our bags. When we reconvene in the parking lot, I say, “Rick . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“Yep.” He tosses me the keys. “You drive.”

So I do. Rick even falls asleep for a bit, then wakes up, and we listen to music on satellite radio, settling on an alternative station, Rick asking now and then about who we're listening to. Other than that, we go long stretches without talking. We stop at a gas station, and Rick takes over driving.

At one point, guess what comes on the radio: “Good Fun.”

I change the station.

After a minute, Rick says, “This may sound weird to you.”

“What?”

“Don't take it the wrong way.”

“Um . . . can I make that decision after you say it?”

“Sure. You can reserve that right. The thing is, I actually really enjoy your father's music.”

“Excuse me?”

“I have both his albums. I used to listen to them all the time. I saw him play live once.”

I absorb that.

“What are you thinking?” he says.

“I'm thinking, yeah, that is really weird.”

“Agreed. But it's true. I think your dad is, well, he's sort of a genius.
Is
a genius.”

He checks the mirror and changes lanes.

“I'm about the least creative person I've ever met,” says Rick. “So maybe I have more respect for it, I'm more awed by it, than other people. I sometimes think that real artists​—​like your dad​—​their job is to go to the edge and sort of report back to the rest of us. But you know what Nietzche said about the abyss.”

“I do?”

“He said something like, You stare long enough into it, and pretty soon it stares back at you.”

I think about what Shane said about being on good terms with the devil without being his friend.

“So, yes, I think your father is a genius.”

“I'm sorry I ever met him,” I say quietly.

Rick doesn't answer.

A hundred miles later he says, “I'm not sure exactly how you regard my relationship with your mother.” Sounding more like his old stiff self. “You said some rather harsh things about it, but I assumed it was because you were upset.”

“Sorry. I was being an asshole.”

“You sure were. But again, I understand. You know that we plan to get married.”

“You asking for permission?”

“No. But I'm hoping that even if it doesn't make you happy, it's something you can at least accept.”

A mile goes by before I say anything.

“Yeah, it's all right. I think it's good.”

He nods, then sticks his hand out. I shake it.

And that's pretty much all the talking we do until we get home, my mother running out of the house to greet us as we crunch into the driveway.

I can see us better now that it's all in the past tense /

it was all good fun / from a safe distance

I made it into twelfth grade. Squeaked in. A 67 on my final math exam. Rick helped me study, strings were pulled, tests retaken.

Josephine refused to speak with me for the rest of the summer. I called her, I texted her, I emailed her, I stopped by her house. Her sister answered the door and told me to go away, using language you'd never believe could come out of that beautiful face.

“I just want to talk to her.”

“She doesn't want to talk to you. Go away.”

“No. Can you please just go get her?”

She pulls out her phone.

“If you don't leave, I'm going to video you, and I'm going to put it online.”

I left.

I did more calling, texting, emailing. No response. I'm more or less friends with Devon again, and I showed him all the drafts of my emails to get his advice. Finally he said, “Austin, face facts. She's gone. You're not going to pathetic your way back to her.”

Josephine and I finally ran into each other in the hall about two weeks after school started​—​okay, I did a little recon and figured out her schedule and planted myself at a spot where I knew I'd see her​—​and we talked.

Hey.

Hey.

You good?

Yeah.

Good.

Yeah.

Shuffle shuffle throat clearing.

Then she said, “I'm still so angry at you.”

“I'm so sorry,” I said. “I'm just . . . I'd like to be friends, at least.”

“Nope,” she said. “Not yet. Maybe never.”

“Because of that one time?”

“One time's plenty.”

“Yeah.”

More shuffling.

“I think about you every day,” I said.

She sighed. “That still doesn't fix it for me.”

She walked away and I watched her go.

A few weeks later, I started seeing her in the hall with Gary Eichten, who wears collared shirts and nice sweaters and is probably Ivy League bound. Sometimes we'd see each other and she'd smile at me or give a little wave, but whatever happened between us had been wrapped up and packed away somewhere very deep.