said.
“Where’d you hear that?” said Brandon. Trish wasn’t one of the cool girls. She sat beside him on the log, her knees tucked up under her chin.
“It was all around the school.”
“Fuck,” said Brandon, but he wasn’t displeased.
“What was it like?”
“Decent.”
“What’d you do?”
“Not much. Went to a bar in Soho, me and Dewey.”
“That sounds pretty cool.”
“Yeah,” Brandon said. The bottles came around. Trish took a big hit off the Captain Morgan, didn’t touch the Coke. Some kid on the other side of her lit a match, lighting up Trish’s face. It struck Brandon that she was as good-looking as most of the cool girls, maybe all of them. When had that happened? She’d always been more or less a loser, lived in the apartments behind the Rite-Aid, worked at the cash register sometimes, like her mom, or stepmom or whatever it was.
The bottles came to him. He took a big chug of the Captain Morgan, just so he could talk to Trish a little better, even if she wasn’t one of the cool girls, felt a nice boing inside his head, made him sit up straight. He dropped the Coke. The bottle rolled down the bank and into the pond; not into, exactly, but on.
“Hey,” said a kid down the log, “it’s fuckin’ frozen.”
“Go for a walk,” said Frankie J.
“No way,” said the kid.
“It’s safe,” said Frankie J. “I was skating this morning.”
The kid shook his head.
“Five bucks if you do,” said Frankie J.
“No way.”
“Twenty.”
“Twenty?”
Frankie J took out a twenty, rolled it up in a ball, flipped it onto the ice maybe five feet from shore, just out of reach. Night, but the clouds caught all the lights of civilization and the pond gleamed under them. The balled-up twenty sat there, real clear. The kid got up, a freshman Brandon didn’t even know.
Don’t do it, you asshole,
Brandon thought. But he didn’t say it, and the kid took one cautious step onto the ice, then another, got both feet on the ice, bent down for the money and—
Splash.
Right through of course, losing his balance, a clumsy kid, and falling all the way in, even soaking his head somehow.
Laughter. The kid came up shivering, then shaking. More laughter. “Where’s the twenty?” said Frankie J. “You call that a walk? You owe me twenty.”
Brandon happened to see that Trish wasn’t laughing. He stopped.
A little later, standing by the big rock with Dewey, he said, “What do you think of Trish?”
“Trish Almeida? She’s a pig.” Dewey had the crack pipe in his hand. “Know who you should go after?” he said. “Whitney.”
“Whitney?” Brandon could see her, sitting around a little fire with a few other girls, just off the path. “I thought she went out with Frankie J.”
“They broke up.”
Whitney’s blond hair glowed in the night.
“Go talk to her.”
Brandon shook his head.
“What’s to lose?” said Dewey. “The girls think you’re good-looking.”
That was news to Brandon.
Dewey lit the pipe. “Try this.”
“No.”
Dewey took a deep drag, passed him the pipe. Brandon shook his head again, but the pipe got in his hand anyway, Dewey letting go. “One little hit and the magic word will come to you.”
Brandon took one little hit. “Wow,” he said, maybe not right away, but fairly soon. And, not long after: “Is that the magic word?”
Dewey was still laughing when Brandon wandered away toward Whitney’s fire. Whitney and some other girls, all cool, some of them seniors, sat in a circle; they had cups to drink from. Brandon thought of sitting too, but it was a long way down. The girls all looked up at him. No smiles, more like,
Yeah
?
“Hey, Whitney,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed.
“I know the magic word.”
At least her eyes didn’t narrow any more. The problem was saying
wow
at that moment might not seem as funny to Whitney and these cool girls as it had to Dewey. Another problem was he couldn’t think of anything else. Then, coming up fast
“Where’d you hear that?” said Brandon. Trish wasn’t one of the cool girls. She sat beside him on the log, her knees tucked up under her chin.
“It was all around the school.”
“Fuck,” said Brandon, but he wasn’t displeased.
“What was it like?”
“Decent.”
“What’d you do?”
“Not much. Went to a bar in Soho, me and Dewey.”
“That sounds pretty cool.”
“Yeah,” Brandon said. The bottles came around. Trish took a big hit off the Captain Morgan, didn’t touch the Coke. Some kid on the other side of her lit a match, lighting up Trish’s face. It struck Brandon that she was as good-looking as most of the cool girls, maybe all of them. When had that happened? She’d always been more or less a loser, lived in the apartments behind the Rite-Aid, worked at the cash register sometimes, like her mom, or stepmom or whatever it was.
The bottles came to him. He took a big chug of the Captain Morgan, just so he could talk to Trish a little better, even if she wasn’t one of the cool girls, felt a nice boing inside his head, made him sit up straight. He dropped the Coke. The bottle rolled down the bank and into the pond; not into, exactly, but on.
“Hey,” said a kid down the log, “it’s fuckin’ frozen.”
“Go for a walk,” said Frankie J.
“No way,” said the kid.
“It’s safe,” said Frankie J. “I was skating this morning.”
The kid shook his head.
“Five bucks if you do,” said Frankie J.
“No way.”
“Twenty.”
“Twenty?”
Frankie J took out a twenty, rolled it up in a ball, flipped it onto the ice maybe five feet from shore, just out of reach. Night, but the clouds caught all the lights of civilization and the pond gleamed under them. The balled-up twenty sat there, real clear. The kid got up, a freshman Brandon didn’t even know.
Don’t do it, you asshole,
Brandon thought. But he didn’t say it, and the kid took one cautious step onto the ice, then another, got both feet on the ice, bent down for the money and—
Splash.
Right through of course, losing his balance, a clumsy kid, and falling all the way in, even soaking his head somehow.
Laughter. The kid came up shivering, then shaking. More laughter. “Where’s the twenty?” said Frankie J. “You call that a walk? You owe me twenty.”
Brandon happened to see that Trish wasn’t laughing. He stopped.
A little later, standing by the big rock with Dewey, he said, “What do you think of Trish?”
“Trish Almeida? She’s a pig.” Dewey had the crack pipe in his hand. “Know who you should go after?” he said. “Whitney.”
“Whitney?” Brandon could see her, sitting around a little fire with a few other girls, just off the path. “I thought she went out with Frankie J.”
“They broke up.”
Whitney’s blond hair glowed in the night.
“Go talk to her.”
Brandon shook his head.
“What’s to lose?” said Dewey. “The girls think you’re good-looking.”
That was news to Brandon.
Dewey lit the pipe. “Try this.”
“No.”
Dewey took a deep drag, passed him the pipe. Brandon shook his head again, but the pipe got in his hand anyway, Dewey letting go. “One little hit and the magic word will come to you.”
Brandon took one little hit. “Wow,” he said, maybe not right away, but fairly soon. And, not long after: “Is that the magic word?”
Dewey was still laughing when Brandon wandered away toward Whitney’s fire. Whitney and some other girls, all cool, some of them seniors, sat in a circle; they had cups to drink from. Brandon thought of sitting too, but it was a long way down. The girls all looked up at him. No smiles, more like,
Yeah
?
“Hey, Whitney,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed.
“I know the magic word.”
At least her eyes didn’t narrow any more. The problem was saying
wow
at that moment might not seem as funny to Whitney and these cool girls as it had to Dewey. Another problem was he couldn’t think of anything else. Then, coming up fast
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