Trade Me (19 page)

Then I finally let myself answer.

No,
I write.
There’s nothing you can do. It’s just not safe.

He reads this. He looks ahead. His chin squares, and for a moment, I think he really will protest. But a few minutes later, he sends back a note.

Okay. If that’s what you need.

I let out a shaky breath, afraid to believe.
Adam Reynolds’s son, showing restraint?
I write.
That’s hard to believe.

He turns his head and looks at me. His eyes are impenetrable. And then he bows his head and writes again.
On the contrary. Adam Reynolds’s son knows what it’s like to be pushed too far. He would never do it to anyone he cares about. Friends?

Friends,
I write slowly.
Until this is over.

12.

BLAKE

Friends is supposed to be a bad word, and I suppose my body thinks it is. Spending time around Tina leaves me on edge, horny and restless in a way that no amount of running—or, let’s be honest, masturbation—can cure.

Truth is, I want her and I want her bad. It’s worse now that we’ve kissed. Now that I’ve touched her almost all over, now that I know how she responds to me. Those wants feel embedded permanently in me, a tattoo of lust that resides just beneath my skin.

But—and this is going to sound weird—I actually enjoy it. It fits with the life I’ve adopted for now. I wash dishes; I stumble through my classes in a haze. I spend time with Tina, going through details of the launch.

The want gives me something to do, something to focus on. Something so that sometimes, I forget myself and I can eat without choking on my own food. The desire distracts me; I almost don’t even have to run to push everything else away.

Almost.

Want is always present, fierce and ferocious, a punch to the throat.
Here,
it says.
Here this is. Here you are. Here is one thing you want.

I want, therefore I am.

Tina and I don’t talk about how much I want her, not for weeks.

It hits me hard one day as we’re doing homework together before my shift. I’m not sure when we started hanging out together—it’s partially because I want to spend time with her, and she spends an inordinate amount of time doing work, and partially because as we come down to the last few weeks before the launch, there are a thousand tiny details that we have to discuss.

We’re sitting in my kitchen. She’s frowning at her computer, reading through a discussion on the Cyclone intranet. And then her phone rings.

She glances down and her face tightens. It’s scary how well I know her. She shuts her eyes and pushes back in her seat.

“Your mom?” I ask.

She nods.

Her parents call regularly, and ever since that first time, she’s let me listen silently on the calls. Her mom doesn’t always need money, but when she does, Tina always sends it. And I always pay.

I can only imagine what it must have felt like for her to feel every spare dollar—and then some she couldn’t spare—slip through her hands. I would resent it, but for me, it’s temporary. For me, this is just another form of an ultra-marathon. It feels difficult. It seems interminable. But I’m doing it to myself, and that makes it bearable in a way it wouldn’t be for her. Deep down, I know it’s going to be over.

For her? There is no end. The marathon never stops. She can’t get off. She can’t rest. It just keeps going on.

This time, her mother is calling about another friend, an appeal that will be heard in a few weeks.

“Any way you can come down?” she asks Tina. “Maybe find someone you can carpool with. Then you can come to the hearing with me.”

The other thing I’ve learned is that Tina’s mother, in her own way, is as relentless and indefatigable as my father.

Tina winds her hair around her finger. “Mom. That’s a Friday. I can’t miss class.”

But she’s already pulled up her schedule and she’s frowning at the date.

“You just have two classes on Friday. You have a test?”

“No.” Tina bites her lip. “But…”

I reach over her shoulder and type on her laptop.
You should go.

“You can’t get notes from someone else?” her mother asks insistently.

“Yes, but—”

“Because this is Jimmy Ma. You used to babysit him, remember?” Tina’s mom makes a distinct clucking noise through the phone. “I told his parents to file for citizenship as soon as he turned eighteen, but did they listen? ‘Too expensive,’ they said. ‘He can do it later.’ You should come. We can show the judges he is part of a community.”

Tina types in response to me:
How?

She hasn’t told her mother about the trade—unsurprisingly, given her mom’s propensity to spend other people’s money—and so it’s not like she could buy a plane ticket without occasioning questions. And driving my car down, I suspect, would lead to even larger questions. Questions like:
Where’d you get a car that costs six figures?

Tina runs her hand through her hair and looks at the ceiling. “I don’t think the judges will care.”

This is met with silence. Then, her mother shifts tactics. “It could have been you. If the community hadn’t come together when your father lost his job and paid the filing fee for your citizenship, it could have been you. That is why you should come. Because it’s not just about Jimmy. It’s about all of us.”

This I did not know. Tina shuts her eyes and sets her fingers on her forehead. “Mom.”

“Was that a guilt trip? Sorry. Didn’t mean it.” Her mother sounds singularly unapologetic.

I’ll figure it out,
I type.
I can get you down there. Without too many awkward questions. That’s my job, right?

“It couldn’t have been me,” Tina says sarcastically. “Because—this may surprise you, Mom—I would never be found with fifteen pounds of meth in my backseat.”

“True,” her mother says. “If you ever transported methamphetamines, you would hide it under the car. Harder to find, less likely the pigs will see it if they pull you over in a traffic stop.”

Tina lets out a little snort. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“And don’t use dryer sheets, either. They confuse drug dogs, but it’s still a bad idea. All the judges say the smell gives the cops probable cause to search. Better to not raise suspicion.”

“Great.” Tina rolls her eyes. “No dryer sheets for me.”

“Just making sure. In case you decide to quit school and turn to a life of crime.”

Her mother actually sounds excited by the prospect, and based on what I’ve heard of her thus far, I suspect that she really is.

Tina rolls her eyes. “Great. When I become a drug mule, I promise that you’ll be the first person I consult.” But she’s smiling ruefully.

“So you’ll come,” her mother says excitedly. “We’ll plan your future as criminal mastermind.”

“I’ll see.”

“You’ll come.”

Tina sighs. “
Fine.
I’ll come.”

“Bring your boyfriend.”

“
Mom.
He’s not my—”

“Ah, ah. Not what Zhen says. How many times have you gone to him after work now? And so late at night, too. I don’t know what to think about you seeing your boyfriend so late.”

“That’s irrelevant. He’s
not
my boyfriend.”

“Oh,” her mother says with a hint of overly-saccharine politeness. “I see. Then bring your very good friend who is a boy but
not
your boyfriend who you see late at night.”

Tina glances over at me. I give her a thumbs up.

“Fine,” she says. “I will. But only if you promise not to call him—”

“Oh, would you look at the time. Too bad. I gotta go. Bye, Tina. See you in a week.”

The call ends. Tina looks up at the ceiling. “Oh, God.” She doesn’t say anything else.

I glance over at her. “It’s
hilarious
that your mom calls the police pigs. Seriously, where did she pick that one up?”

“She’s down with all the idioms for the police,” Tina says. “If it’s immigration or crime, my mom is all over it. But just watch what it’s like when my dad and I try to explain Beyoncé to her.”

“I like your mom,” I say. “I wouldn’t mind meeting her.”

“That,” she says succinctly, “is because you’re not related to her.”

“Probably.”

She sighs, shakes her head at her laptop, and stands up. “Well. I’m going to start dinner.” She looks over at me. “Are you sure you won’t let me feed you?”

“That would be cheating,” I say glibly.

“Because I think you’re losing weight, and I didn’t think that was possible.”

I am saved from answering this by the sound of the Imperial March emanating from my watch. I swallow, check to make sure that Maria isn’t in the room, and then very carefully, I hit accept.

“Blake.” My dad is sitting at his desk, which is unusual. Usually he stands, paces even, like he can’t bear to be still for even the duration of a video conversation. Today, he looks…tired. More than tired. I’ve seen him tired before, and usually, he can hide it. This? He has dark circles under his eyes.

“Dude.” He lets out a sigh. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for days.”

“I’ve been answering your emails.”

“And I’ve been telling you we need to talk.” He glares at me.

“Okay. So.” I don’t look at Tina. “Talk.”

“So. We have to talk over the Adam/Blake scenarios for the Fernanda launch. I actually liked your number three.”

I try not to glance at Tina.
Like
is not the word I would use to describe how I feel about her third scenario. It’s the closest I can come to the truth at present. In her draft, Tina’s written us with our usual banter, our typical friendliness—except with just a little added distance, a little formality. It’s obvious from the script that I’m trying too hard.

“Blake,” my father is supposed to say at some point. “What’s going on with you?”

“This is the first project I’ve taken on by myself,” I will confess. “I just want you to be proud of me.”

“Always,” Tina has my father saying. “I’m always proud of you.”

I don’t
like
this scenario. I want it. It makes me feel naked and exposed. It’s not just a true construction; it’s a whisper of my deepest desires.

“Yeah?” I’m carefully nonchalant. “You liked that?”

“It’s heartwarming,” Dad says, “it’s sweet without being maudlin. It’s exactly what I want—something that reinforces the fact that you’re an adult now, entirely capable of anything that gets thrown at you. But I want to ramp up the ending. We need to add in that I’m stepping down temporarily. Effective as of the launch.”

My whole body goes cold. “Dad. That’s three weeks away.”

He looks at me. He doesn’t launch into an immediate argument, and maybe that’s what sends a chill down my spine. Instead, he simply shakes his head gravely. “I know,” he says quietly. “Can you take over for me?”

“I’m in school. I have classes.”

He lets out a breath. “Blake. I know. I
know.
But—please. Do this for me.”

My hands are cold.

I have always known that there would come a time when my will would get pitted directly against his. When all the misdirection, all the tricks I’ve employed, will not be enough to keep him at bay. I just had hoped I would have more time.

“Dad.” I glance away from him, over to Tina. It doesn’t last long; my gaze is drawn back to his. My hands are shaking. I want him to be proud of me, and I’ve finally come to the point where I either have to lose myself completely or disappoint him. “I don’t want to take over.”

He lets out a breath and rubs a palm against his forehead. “Yeah,” he says. “I know. I kinda figured that one out when you thought it would be more fun to go waste time at a fucking university than stay here. But, Blake…” His hand drops and he looks at me. “If you really wanted to leave, you’d have gone more than forty miles. Right now, you fucking bastard, I really, really need you.”

He doesn’t explain why. I have no doubt that he’d probably choke before telling me the truth. But I’ve been watching him fossilize slowly in his office over the last year. I’ve worried about him. I don’t want to fail him.

I can say no to his brashest commands. But this?

I can’t, Dad. I have a problem.
But now, both he and Tina are watching. It’s been better, a little bit, these last few weeks. I know it has. I’m sure it has. I just need more time.

But Dad would only beg if he was on the verge of breaking down.
I have a problem,
I want to scream. But I swallow those words.

“Fine,” I hear myself say. My voice sounds very, very far away. “Promise me it’s only temporary. Because I can’t do for long.”

I can make it a month, I tell myself. Six weeks.

I’m already running in my head. Even though I’m standing here, I want to get my shoes and get out the door. At least if I do, I’ll disappear
my
way.

But Dad lets out a long breath. “I promise,” he says. “I’ll talk to the Board. And Blake—thanks, asshole.”

I’m still standing in place when the conversation ends. It’s only in my head that I’m reduced to rubble. Tina is looking at me. I press my hands firmly together.