“Christ, D., I’ve been waiting three years for you to move your ass. Why’d you stop?”
She takes a toke before she answers. “You were rough. I didn’t like it.”
“You’ve never liked it, D.,” he reminds her. “So who’s been giving you lessons? Not Tony. You never learned anything from him except not to like it. I can’t claim to have taught you anything but how to suck and you only learned that to get out of balling as often as you can.” He laughs. “Spill it, D.”
The Mutant fumbles for her clothing. “I’ve got homework still to do. You gonna give me a ride home?”
Resting his head on his arm, J.C. watches her dressing. “Sure. D., what’s the big deal? Not Samson?”
Yanking up her jeans, she smiles at him. Stung by his put-downs and made incautious by the smoke, she strikes back. “You’re so hot for me to screw him, I’m beginning to wonder if you’re queer for him.”
J.C. laughs derisively but there is real anger in the rigidity of his reptilian grin. He swings his feet to the floor. He tosses her a brown-paper bag, with her b.c. and a baggie of dope in it.
“What a wench you are. I just don’t like that sanctimonious musclehead. He needs taking down. Nothing would make me happier than for the Almighty Samson to take my seconds.”
The smoke makes magical frost on the window of her brain but through the opaque swirl is a prickly glitter like the razor-edged light of a bright deep-frozen January day. The shitheel. The prick. Her chains in her suddenly clumsy fingers seem to burn and stick to her skin as if with cold.
Casually, J.C. hooks his fingers around the chain at her waist and tugs at it. He grabs her crotch and digs his fingers into her through her clothes. “Be too bad if instead of a dead rat some bad shit turned up in Samson’s locker. Or yours.” He makes a flushing toilet rumble. “Goodbye states, hello county slammer.”
It costs her hugely to look him in the eye but she does and she laughs crazily. Concluding she is too kited to waste any more effort at intimidation, J.C. releases her. He puts the roach between her fingers and she finishes it while he dresses. It helps a lot to calm her.
“It’s good shit.” He chucks her under the chin and kisses her lightly. “You know I’ll always take care of you, D.”
His right foot has a mind of its own, moving to the brake, gently weighing it down. The wheel slips to the right through his fingers and Sam stretches across the bench seat to yank down on the door handle and push it open. He refuses to look at her, though. She is wearing her brocade headrag and her face is pinched with the cold. She doesn’t look at him either as she flings herself and her burdens into the cab. She stares straight ahead and he doesn’t say anything until they are halfway to the high school.
“Where’d you go to last night?”
She could say home or to the old bags, or even I got a ride with Grey but instead she thrusts out her small chin and says, “None of your fucking business—”
“Yes it is,” he interrupts her, furious at himself for becoming angry when he was going to play it cool. “Yes it is.”
Her fists curl and she shouts at him. “I didn’t do anything!”
He takes his eyes from the road again to stare at her defiant face. Her eyes are a little red, as if from bawling. Or a good dose of smoke. He can almost smell it on her. And smell Chapin too. Not that he needs to. Wearily, he turns his attention back to driving.
“Liar.”
“You don’t own me.”
It’s as good as a confession.
He nods, turning the truck from the access road into the parking lot. “Right. I don’t want to own you either. I don’t want anything to do with you. I give up. I’ll pick you up and take you home until you find yourself another ride but that’s it.”
Ripped, she scrabbles for the straps of her gear.
“I don’t understand why you want to get stupid with that prick. The way he talks about you. Don’t you have any self-respect?”
“Oh bullshit.” Her voice is clotted. “You don’t give a shit about my self-respect. You can stop putting yourself out. I can take care of myself.”
She is out of the truck as soon as he stops it.
He rolls down the window.
“You’re welcome,” he yells sarcastically.
She drops her bags, extends her middle digits in a double eagle without bothering to turn around to face him, and then snatches up her gear and hustles into the school, passing Rick on the pathway.
“ ‘Good morning to you,’” Rick falsettoes. “ ‘Good morning to you. We’re all in our places with sunshiny faces.’”
“Shine your face,” Sam mutters.
“Shine my ass,” Rick counters. “Why don’t you just run over the wench? I’ll testify it was self-defense. You’ll get off.”
“Just shut up.”
“Oh sure. What’d you suppose she’s like when she’s on the rag? Probably never is. I don’t think she’s actually female, you know. I bet she got something like a garbage disposal up there, only the blades are like Freddy’s fingernails—”
“Rick, shut up, I mean it.”
Rick makes a whirring noise. “Ooops, sor-ree,” he squeals, “was that your dick?” He laughs maniacally.
“You’re sick,” Sam observes, reaching past Rick to push the doorbar.
“You’re sicker.” Rick’s suddenly serious again. “I mean it, man.”
Sam drops a heavy arm over his shoulders.
“No,” he assures him. “I’m cured.”
“Right,” Rick agrees. “And I’m Larry Bird.”
The gym is already open. Coach gestures Sam into his office and closes the door. The floor is visible through the glass that forms most of the wall between the gym and the office. Indicating the chair facing his desk, Coach puts Sam’s back to the
