The Crew

Untitled Part 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

Sarah was waiting for me at the assigned spot. We darted through the gymnasium, echoing sounds of basketballs bouncing, kids running, shoes screeching all over the place on the hardwood floor, the smell of sweat and body odor, though much more clean-smelling than a show. She led me out through the rear exit to the parking lot. She'd taken my hand and our palms were sweaty, her fingers tickling mine as we breezed past the world. Her Toyota truck was waiting.

As we drove up the straightaway lined with white river rock, Mr. Watson appeared. I couldn't resist; I turned and gazed over Sarah's shoulder. He'd visibly slowed his pace since we rounded the turn from the gym. He stopped dead in his tracks, looking at the truck as we drove off, an intense expression of disgust on his face.

I realized that everything Mr. Bryce had said earlier was tragically true. Those eyes of Mr. Watson's pierced me. We're gonna get you, you little sonofabitch, you can count on that. And when we do, it's not going to be pretty is what those eyes said. Dread made me feel like fingers pulling an arrow back, notched into a bow. But where was that arrow aimed? Anxious thoughts stirred, dredged up from the murky bottom of my mind. I turned my head trying to shut out the thought as Sarah gunned us across campus to the dirt path, past the gate and onto Foothill Road.

We reached Sarah's house in quick time. Her parents, like she had promised, weren't home. I followed to her room and we sat down on the bed.

"So what's been going on between us, Sarah?"

Glancing down at her hands, as she tended to do, she said, "I've been thinking the last few days. I feel...mixed up."

Mixed up? How? What did she mean by mixed-up? Was that code for: I don't want to be with you anymore? There was a loud creak in the hull of the ship. If it turned out to be the case, that creak would expand to become a crack. Water would rush in. The ship would sink. I would sink. Please, Sarah. Have mercy.

"Tell me about it. I haven't heard from you. Cannonball got pissed at me when I spilled the beans about 'us.' I'm sure you heard about the motel party and all that craziness. I flipped out at Laura's; that's a whole other story."

I skipped the part about Cannon saying everything was fine. Now, I realized, might be a good time to bring up last summer.

But then Sarah wrapped her arm around my elbow, squeezing, trying to make me feel better. "I know. I heard about you telling Cannon, about the insane motel party; the cops." She stopped, gazing at me. "Laura told me today. Why'd you tell Cannon? I thought you weren't ready to choose?"

Because I'd been on heroin, I wanted to say. But I didn't speak. Laura had left that part out, thank God.

Shrugging, I said, "I choose you, Sarah."

Squeezing my arm with her fingers—sharp nails digging into my skin—she beamed. "You made the right choice, babe."

When she said this the feeling was like pumping a fat shot of heroin into my arm again. The plunger was pushed down and the liquid transferred from the needle into my vein, my body, circulating, driving mass pleasure. If I could have paused that moment, put it into freeze-frame, I could have existed there for eternity. I got her and Cannon. I had my cake and could eat it, too.

Right?

What about last summer?

Focus, Dog.