One Shot Away (27 page)

“Come on, Diggy,” someone calls. “We got school tomorrow.”

Everyone laughs.

Diggy coughs. “I could make up a lot of reasons and excuses, but I'm not. I did something stupid, without thinking.”

“More than stupid,” says Pancakes.

“Let Diggy speak,” says Greco.

Diggy's mouth goes dry. He finds Trevor in the circle of wrestlers, sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees, his face dark. “Trevor, I'm sorry.”

Quiet. Faces turn to Greco. His jaw is grinding.

“And, I'm leaving the team. I don't deserve to be here. Pancakes is right, it was more than stupid. I shouldn't have taken Trevor's dog.” All eyes are on him. A chill shakes his shoulders. “My brother was the wrestler in the family. Trevor, I'm sorry. I didn't think …”

Trevor lowers his head.

Greco's eyes narrow, zeroing in. “You're quitting?”

“Look,” Diggy says, hoping the tears in his eyes don't fall, “I'm sorry about the whole thing. Coach, I'm sorry.”

“That's not what I asked you. Are you quitting?”

“I have to,” says Diggy. “You know I have to.”

“Then get out of my gym.”

A few guys say, “Whoa.”

Diggy hesitates, surprised.

“Get out!” says Greco.

T
REVOR IS SANDWICHED INTO HIS USUAL SPOT IN HIS ROOM,
next to the window, with the blinds open, watching the courtyard and parking lot. On his desk is an oval bottle of brandy, two glasses, and two condoms in black wrappers. The brandy was his father's, a bottle that Trevor remembered seeing above the refrigerator all his life. Three condoms were passed to him on the bus today. He wasted one when he tried it on. He can't imagine wearing it and actually having sex, but he's determined to lose his virginity. “You actually had a hooker in your room?” demanded Jimmy.

“Yeah, but nothing happened.”

“Nothing!” shouted Bones.

“She kissed me.”

“Oh, God! How did you mess that up?”

“I told her I was seventeen.”

“Lame, yo, lame,” cried Bones with laughter.

Trevor pours a bit of brandy and tastes it. It burns his throat, then warms his stomach. He drops to the floor, does twenty quick pushups, then poses in the mirror. He's jacked. He sniffs under his arms. He shaved the few whiskers on his chin and showered, but the room is hot and he's already sweaty. He applies more deodorant and slaps his cheeks with blue aftershave in a clear bottle. Also his father's.

He goes back to the window, pours another drop of brandy, and waits. Molly is usually in and out of the motel three or four times on Friday nights. Trevor knows what each trip means. But he's decided to see her anyway. Five twenty-dollar bills are folded in his front pocket. That should be enough. He figures he'll just say, “Hey, do you want to have a drink with me?”

He listens to the whoosh of trucks, the television in the next room; then a car door slams. Molly's on her cell in front of a raised shrub garden London put in. She's wearing heels and a long black coat with the collar flipped like a spy in a movie. Trevor charges to the door, tripping over Whizzer, fumbling with the lock.

“Hey!” he calls, crossing the lot.

She holds up one finger, signaling him to hold on. “Okay, okay, okay,” she says into the phone. “Just calm your pits.” She closes the phone and smiles. “Some people should be on medication. Do you know what I mean?”

His heart starts like drums in a jungle. “Can you come in?”

She looks down the walk, then follows him inside. “Listen, about that last time, I didn't know you actually lived here, lived here!” she says. “You know?”

“Would you like a drink?” he asks.

“Do you have a beer? I'm dying for a beer. You ever get like that when only a beer will do it?”

“I have brandy.”

“Brandy,” she laughs. “My grandfather drank brandy.”

“I have water.”

“If you're drinking brandy, I'll have one,” she says.

She pets Whizzer's neck as he sniffs up her legs. “This is the missing dog?”

“He wasn't missing, he was stolen.” He hands her an inch of the gold liquid in a milk glass and considers telling her the story.

“I lost a cat once named Kurt. I used to be into Nirvana. You ever hear of them?”

He nods. He can smell her. What is it? Sex?

She sits at his desk chair and sets the brandy inches from the condoms. He should have put them away. He swallows.

“So, you're in high school and you wrestle,” she says, remembering. “And your name is …”

“Trevor,” he says. “And you're Molly.”

“That's just a name I use. My real name is Elizabeth. My friends call me Bethy.” She opens the buttons on her coat, revealing a tight red dress with black tropical flowers. She crosses her bare legs. Her high heel hangs off her foot. “Did you always, like, live in motels?”

“No.”

“You never know where you're going till you get there. That's my motto.” She smiles, showing two dimples. “I heard that in an old cartoon. I think that cat Sylvester sang it, or something, but think about it—it's true right?” She smiles. She swings around in the chair. Her sleeve sends the condoms to the floor. Whizzer picks one up and carries it into the bathroom.

“I'll be right back.” Trevor pulls the condom from the puppy's mouth in the bathroom. There's a tooth puncture right in the middle.

“Is this what you're learning in school?” She's paging through a book on Indians of the Northeast. A gift from London. A peace offering. It's thick and expensive looking. He pushes the busted condom into his pocket and snatches the other one off the floor.

“No, just something …”

She closes the book. “I didn't like high school. Too many cliques. Too many people smiling in your face, if you know what I mean.” She spins back, facing him. “I was six weeks from graduation, passing everything except computer science. I didn't have a computer, so I took the stupid class thinking I'm going to learn about them, but everyone was like these techno nerds. But that's, like, in another time zone now.”

“One class wouldn't stop you from graduating.”

“I got involved with a guy who had a major malfunction in the brain department. I just finished three years' probation because of him, which was the biggest pain in my ass.”

She tucks her hair behind her ears, then picks absently at a pimple, or a boil, on her neck. Trevor sees something in her eyes, some disappointment.

“I have some money,” he says.

“You do,” she laughs. “Is that what this is about?” She sits next to him on the bed. “I thought you were going to be my new friend, not my new boyfriend.” She stares into his eyes.

He clears his throat, wishing he could kiss her right now. Kiss her and hold her and have her hold him. He tries to slide toward her, but the mattress seems to be gripping him.

“You got that tough guy thing going on,” she whispers near his ear.

Trevor is unable to breathe. “You're pretty too.” He leans in to kiss her. Their lips touch, then she tightens and pulls away.

“I don't know. You're a sweet kid. All the guys I'm with are like major losers.” She makes an L with her thumb and forefinger and places it on her forehead. He bends forward, trying to hide his erection that's completely aching hard. “You're not a virgin, are you?”

He can't tell her yes.

“You are, aren't you?”

He nods.

“Tre-vor,” she exhales, then groans. “I don't know.” She continues picking her neck. It begins to bleed. “You might think I'd be doing you a favor, but your first time, it's supposed to be something.” She wags her head, thinking. “I hate the word ‘special,' but it's supposed to be special. My first time was with my cousin. He lived with us and was going into the Marines the next day. I was his going-away present.”

“He raped you?”

“I didn't call the police or anything.” Blood drips down her neck onto her shoulder. “My mother wouldn't let me.”

“What about your father?”

“He was never around. He drives a rig, cross-country.”

“You're bleeding,” he says.

She smears the run of blood with her fingers, then looks at them. “It bleeds all the time. You have a Band-Aid?”

He finds a washcloth and a Band-Aid and turns on the overhead light. She holds her hair to the side. He dabs at the blood. There's a miniature volcano in her neck, about the width of a pencil eraser. He dabs at the hole, but it's not really bleeding anymore.

“I'm going to the doctor,” she says. “Real soon.”

Her arms are bruised from her wrist to the crook of her elbow. He's seen black-and-blues like these during a slide show in his high school D.A.R.E. class.

He tears opens the Band-Aid and places the bandage on her neck. He tries to think of something reassuring to say, but nothing comes. He moves from the bed to the desk chair.

Molly, or Elizabeth, stares at the floor where the condom had been. The silence in the room is awful.

“Come 'ere,” she says, extending her hand.

He takes it. With her other hand, she unbuttons her dress, revealing a red bra. She opens a front clasp on the bra and her breasts seem to pop. They are round, full, and whiter than the rest of her, with small, tight rose-colored nipples. Completely beautiful. “Touch them. They're real,” she says. “Go ahead, I've been told they're my best feature.”

He doesn't move. Can't. He's glued to the desk chair. “You don't have to do this,” he says.

“You don't have to tell me what I don't have to do.” She gives a little snort and shakes her chest at him. She guides his fingertips across her nipple.

He pulls away. “I'm sorry,” he says.

“For what? You didn't do anything.” She buttons her dress.

“Do I owe you anything?” he asks.

“No, dummy, you're my new friend.” She puts on her coat. She gives him a mischievous smile and opens the door. “I have people to see.”

J
IMMY WAKES TO AN EXPLOSION THAT SHAKES THE HOUSE.
H
IS
mother screams and he springs from bed. Men in black, wearing vests with POLICE in bright yellow letters, yell, “Police, police with a search warrant!” They point their guns at him. “Get down,” they yell, “down!” Jimmy is frozen. “Down! Down!”

His mother is sprawled on the floor. A policeman kneels and cuffs her wrists behind her back. Jimmy is grabbed and spun around. A gun barrel presses into the side of his temple. “Nothing funny, wrestler boy,” one of them says. Jimmy feels warmth running along his legs. He's pissing himself. He's pushed to his knees, then stomach. Handcuffs click around his wrists. He rolls on his side, squirms, and pulls his wrists apart, trying to free himself. Pain tears up his arms as the cuffs cut into him.

Trish turns her face to his. “Just do what they say.” Her eyes are full of tears. A cop kneels next to him. He presses his closed fist against Jimmy's cheek and whispers, “Calm down, or I'll calm you down.”

Jimmy huffs and cranes his neck to see the man's face. It's Detective Barnes. “You didn't have to do this,” says Jimmy.

“Didn't I give you every chance in the world?” he asks.

Jimmy hates him, because it didn't have to be done this way. There had to be a better way.

A policeman yells, “Clear,” then, “Clear back here,” from the kitchen.

Detective Barnes and a policeman lift Trish by her elbows and walk her backwards toward the couch. Then Jimmy's placed next to his mother. The wet pajama pants stick to him. His guts are churning. No matter how hard he breathes, he can't get enough air. What cannot happen is happening.

Ricky emerges from his alcove and a policeman scoops him up in his arms and whisks him out the front door. Trish lowers her face and makes tiny sounds like a baby getting ready to cry.

The front door is flat on the floor. Hinges hang from the doorframe. The brass doorknob has rolled into the kitchen. Hard chunks of the wall are splattered on the brown rug. The Springsteen T-shirt is on the floor, the glass cracked in two places. It's over, thinks Jimmy. Wrestling, his chance of going to college, his life the way he knew it, over.

His mother whimpers again.

And it's Pops's fault.

Policemen drag Pops from his bedroom. Blood runs from his nose across his lips. He's leaning forward, cuffed from behind. He looks weak in his T-shirt and plaid boxer shorts, legs white and hairless.

Jimmy doesn't feel anything for him. Why couldn't he understand that no one owes him?