Dodging Trains (4 page)

“Paislee,
I’m sorry, but the last months have been hell for me.”

“I wish you’d tell me what’s going on!” I shout, and he grabs my arm hard—as hard as he grabs people he hates at school—and jerks me close to him. He’s only sixteen, but he’s strong, and he keeps getting stronger.

Keyon used to be tiny. Now, he’s not. How tall will he be in the end? Tall is good on a guy, but it doesn’t work for him. Those muscles he’s developing don’t work for him either—Keyon is too strong. Over the last months, he’s been suspended from school several times. Anyone else would have been expelled for the blood he’s shed. If it weren’t for his lawyer dad…

“I’ve told you!” he shouts back. “I’ve had it with the assholes, okay? The BS, the bullying. It’s over. You know I’m not the only one they do it to either.”

“But they don’t anymore, Keyon. Now
you’re
the asshole.”

Golden eyes widen as he breathes hard in front of me. Keyon is still a good person—I know this—but he needs to reel in his power. I’m the only one at school who’s not afraid of him. I’m not, because he’s my friend, and because I’m there when his lips relax from their cruel set. They can smile and be soft. They’ve kissed me.

“They just need to stop, all right?”

“They
have
stopped. You’ve been on them for months, Keyon, and not only Aaron and Tyler. You even beat up their friends.”

He drops my arm, snorting. “Really? Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the way their fucking
posse
supports them while they torture people.”

“Yeah, but they’re just followers. They’re too scared of being reprimanded to take part in stuff. Posses don’t beat people up.”

Keyon dips his head, groaning with impatience. “I thought at least my girlfriend would have my back. You need to trust me; once I’m done teaching those jackasses manners, the school will be safe for everyone.”

We’re both silent as his statement sinks in. I’ve known his plan and his reasoning for a while now, and we have this discussion after particularly violent fights when he’s once again avoided the teachers. Today though, the first part of his outburst is new. And it’s what I get stuck on.

“I’m your girlfriend?” Our disagreement fizzles at this bigger issue.

He straightens next to me. Looks away so all I can see are messy locks and a shoulder that’s filling in with muscle.

“If you wanna.” Keyon sniffs like he doesn’t care, but he’s suddenly knotted up, arms tightening over his chest while he waits for my answer.

Wow. I could be a girlfriend. I’ve never been someone’s girlfriend. Like Melissa and Irina and the other popular girls. Just, I’d be the girlfriend of a bully.

Paislee, the bully girlfriend.

“Doesn’t matter to me. Either way, ya know.” He shrugs, but though his shoulders make the move, his body’s so tight, his heels might not even be on the ground. I zoom in on his feet to check. Sure enough, Keyon has tipped up on his toes, the way he used to do to seem taller when he was the shortest kid in school.

“You’re doing it again,” I say.

“What?” His heels meet the ground slowly—inconspicuously, he thinks.

“Cheater.” I smile and get a quick eye-roll in response.

“Yes or no?” he asks, suddenly brave and facing me. Keyon, my friend, who’s grown up at the speed of light. I was never one of the popular girls, and it certainly didn’t help that I started hanging out with “the fag.” My plummeting popularity is his fault, but I don’t regret it.

They’ve stopped calling me Fag Hag. They fear me because I’m the bully’s friend. The last time anyone called me names was six months ago.

“Why?” I ask, regretting my question immediately. I should have gone for a yes or a no.

His mouth pulls into a grin. From his posture, from the mischief growing on his face, I can tell he won’t shy away from embarrassing me.

“Because then I’ll get to touch your boobs. They’re getting all juicy.”

He snickers like a kid, and I am mortified. “Omigod, shut up! You’re so— Ah. How old are you anyway, Keyon, like, five? I’m going inside. Bye, for forever.”

I don’t know that it’s the last time I’m the one stomping off and leaving
him
behind.

KEYON

“D
ude!”
Jaden oomphs out. “I know you’re inspired and all and want to beat the shit out of Sanchez, but c’mon. Sparring
partners
, all right?” He rubs his face like a total pansy. “I’m helping you out here, man.”

“I’m helping
you
out,” I say, massaging my taped knuckles. “You need to toughen up if you want a shot in this business. Vegas, right? At some point?” I add the last part because MMA isn’t Jaden’s life and he’s nowhere as dedicated as me. He’s four years older and spends more time figuring out how to become an awesome stockbroker than on physically obliterating opponents. It’s ridiculous.

He could be right about that last strike though. It might’ve been a tad overboard. My new thing, to use a scale from one to ten to score my own moves, is an idiosyncrasy I don’t share with my teammates. Because consequences: can’t and don’t want to imagine them. But my last punch was a nine—I did hold back. If it were a fight, I’d have made that shit an eleven.

“Tie your hair, son,” coach Dawson says. There’s pride glimmering in his eyes. Since the first fallout with my father years back, Dawson has been a surrogate to me, though some might say a good dad wouldn’t want their son to get beaten the crap out of.

Dawson’s still waiting for someone to come along and do that to me. Thinks I need to get jacked down some notches before I go pro. I don’t agree, and I certainly won’t facilitate it. I’ve been close a few times, but I’m happy to say I’ve always disappointed.

“It’s not long enough for a hairband, man. Plus, I’m cutting it. Butchering it down to the roots,” I say.

Dawson is short and wiry with silver hair that looks like it’s been sprinkled with powdered sugar. No way I’ll admit this in public, but I dig him. Might sorta love him, actually.

“Sure. You’re cutting it before tomorrow then?” he asks, a smirk lifting his lipless mouth and deepening the creases in his cheeks.

For years now, Dawson has worked me. It’s crazy how my chaos has subsided thanks to this sport and him. I changed from a panicked teenager with no control over my past into a man with a focus, a goal, and control over mind and body.

“Count on it,” I fib. “You’ll see my scalp.”

I’m Dawson’s rising star—his wife’s words, not his, because Dawson is a man of measured praise. My future looks bright thanks to the man, which I get mushy-eyed over again. That’s not good only two months from the most decisive fight of my life when I need more single-minded focus than ever.

Dawson’s cell chirps a 70s tune from his pocket. He fishes it out, flicks it open—yep, flip-phone—and his reply is the only word he doesn’t enunciate with an accent. “Yapp?” Over the years, I’ve become used to Dawson’s Polish flair, to the point of acting as the unofficial translator at the gym.

The furrow between his brows smoothens as he listens to whoever’s on the line. It makes him look happy even though he isn’t smiling. I grab my water and eye Jaden. Extend my middle finger to him around the plastic cup because it’ll piss him off and fire him up for the next round.

“It’s the new mayor.” For some reason Dawson finds positive traits in my father that I’ve never noticed. Dad and I didn’t see eye to eye for a while there, but we’ve ironed out our differences for the sake of Ma. Yeah, things are okay between us now. Doesn’t mean he rocks my world.

“Can’t talk—I’m busy,” I mutter, pumping my chin in Jaden’s direction. My fists lift on their own, tightening and getting ready to work. Jaden does the girliest move I’ve ever witnessed on a mat. Dude fucking sticks his tongue out at me. I whip in Dawson’s direction and mouth,
See that?

Clearly, Dawson did not see that. “Here, your father,” he says as if he’s bad of hearing too, and on a sigh, I grab the phone.

“Hey, Dad.” I sound final like we have nothing to talk about.

“Hi, son. Your mother and I would appreciate it if you attended the mayoral inauguration next week,” he says in the suave tone he uses on political opponents. And on his followers. On whoever.

“Straight to the point, huh? Good job,” I clip out. Dawson doesn’t catch all nuances in the English language, and now he smiles and lifts a thumbs-up before strolling over to Jaden.

I watch him lift Jaden’s arm and position his torso in a twist that could turn deadly if my friend timed the strike right. He won’t. Most people don’t. Sanchez does. Hate that guy. He’s fast, deadly, and I’m going to destroy him.

“Well, it would mean a lot to your mother. To have you here would be—”

“Right, I understand,” I bite him off. Back when I needed him, it was all about appearances and playing things down. Shoving things under carpets. Smoothing over his son’s faux pas, while I fixed things myself in school.

I figured shit out and had the whole damn school dance to my pipe by the time my dad fled with my mother and me. It was in the nick of time too. I guess I should be thankful for that.

“I can’t make it. Say ‘hi’ to all the cool people of Rigita ’kay?” I say, and that’s when the bitterness blows free. Those assholes are adults now. God, I hope they have the worst lives. Muted shuffling ensues on the phone, and then my mom’s on.

“Keyon, darling. How are you? I don’t think your phone is working again. I told Dad to call Dawson, because his phone is much better than yours. New phones aren’t always the best, you know.” My mother is too innocent to grasp that I don’t necessarily pick up my father’s calls. Hers are fine. I don’t need a bulletproof vest to talk to my gentle, softhearted mom.

“I’m good, Ma. I’ll check my phone, but I can’t make it to Rigita for the inauguration. There’s the Mexico fight, remember?”

“Darling, please. Can’t Dawson come with you? We’d love to have him too.” Ma knows better than to demand my presence, but that slow, cotton-candy sweetness in her voice always makes me rummage for solutions she might like.

“I think we have a… Honey?” she calls to Dad. “In the basement, that’s a gym, right? Next to the wine cellar?”

“Yes. It’s not fully equipped, but it’ll be in tip-top shape by the time he arrives,” my father promises loud enough for me to hear.

“The gym is empty,” Mom says, honest as always while Dad groans. “We don’t have anything in it yet”—she specifies in case I didn’t grasp what “empty” entails—“but it’s there, and it’s spacious. We have a five-person shower room too, and a new stack of the thick, oversized towels you like. Why don’t you let us know what you need, Keyon-baby, and we’ll get it installed?”

“Sure, Ma.” Joking, I throw out to Dawson, “You want to shut down your gym and come along to Rigita for my dad’s inauguration as a mayor? I need you to train me while I’m there.” Four faces turn to me from different sides of the gym, expressions blank as they take in my inanity.

Until Dawson’s skinny cheeks draw up, wrinkle after wrinkle fanning upward on both sides of his mouth.

“For a week?” he asks, and I nod. He bobs his head back at me, saying, “I can leave Darrell in charge. My wife always asks me to take her up north. She thinks it will remind her of Poland.”

On the plane, I consider the way I left Rigita at sixteen. If it weren’t for me, my family and I might have stayed in that little town, but the school board gave my parents an ultimatum in the end. If I screwed up again, I’d be expelled.

At the time, Rigita had one private school, and the odds of me getting in with my grades and track record weren’t good, so my father accepted a position in a law firm a few counties over.

I’d been ready, so ready for the move. The only person I’d missed from Rigita was Paislee. I still can’t stand to think of how she cried when I told her I was moving. “What am I supposed to do now?” she’d asked, voice cracking.

“Yes, please—I’ll take some,” Dawson says to the flight attendant. She pours him a thimble-full of coffee, and he nods rapidly in thanks. “You sure you don’t want any, Keyon?” he inquires.

I hold a hand up, shaking my head. I’ve got a few sports drinks I’ve been chugging, repairing the liquid loss from a particularly hard morning workout before we took off to the airport. Coffee is the last thing I need.

“You haven’t been back to Rigita since you moved?” he asks.

“No, I hated it there,” I say.

“How come?”

“Douchebags in school, you know. I got them good though, once I started taking kickboxing classes.”

Dawson chortles a little. “Makes sense.”

I smile. “I might look up a friend I had. We’ll see about the time available. When’s your wife flying in?”

“Saturday. She wouldn’t want to impose on work.”

“But we’ll be working on the weekend too, Coach,” I say, teasing him like he teases me.

He bumps my shoulder. “She doesn’t know that.”

“Eh,” I say. “I’ll count my own sit-ups while you’re out sightseeing.”

“She’ll like that plan.”

Rigita.
My chest feels congested just by being here again. I mean—Jesus, this is not a good place for me. Dawson’s in the passenger seat of my rented ride, and he’s letting out pleased exclamations in hushed tones over the beautiful scenery leading into town.

All I see are clouds hanging over us. The place is fucking gloomy to me. I couldn’t care less about the fresh snow layering treetops and roofs of pristine wooden houses when we enter the downtown area. The ground is a blanket of twinkling white, and I can’t for the life of me appreciate it.

Icy air penetrates the car through the small vents, and I crank the heat and mentally go through my list of workout clothes. Do I have enough to stay warm
and
work up a sweat while running?

While I lived here, I’d bike to the gym. It was cold at times, but I kept my body temperature up. Sometimes because I couldn’t get there fast enough, sometimes due to a recent run-in with the school bullies.

Fag. Gay. Cocksucker.
I block out the name-calling; it happened a long time ago.

It started during my first week in a new school. Aaron’s girlfriend flirted with me in the cafeteria. I was a shy kid, but she was funny and asked me questions that were easy to answer. She swapped yogurts with me when she’d taken the last strawberry one and I got stuck with peach. I shouldn’t have said, “How gentlemanly of you” and made her answer, “Anything for a fair boy.”

As she admired my hair, touching it with porcelain fingers, everything rushed downhill: Aaron grabbed my collar from behind, and my under-the-radar times at school ended with a
wham
.

“Very pink house,” Dawson observes on a signature bob of his head.

“Yeah,” I agree. “Rigita prides itself on offering a mayoral mansion, and I guess Dad accepted. The former mayor was re-elected a million times, so that’s all everyone remembers, Cyril Thompson living there.”

“I see.” Dawson gathers stuff from the backseat while I park. One of the enormous oak doors swings open at the top of the stairs, and there she is, the exotic specimen Dad found while vacationing in the Dominican Republic. The prettiest and gentlest woman in the world, whom no one can compare to: my mother.

“Ah it’s great to see you,” I say, hugging her on the stairs. She’s so little she disappears in my arms.

“My baby boy!” she squeals, trying to rock me in our hug. “You need to come
see
us! You have grown so much!”

She makes me laugh. “I’m here now, aren’t I? And I’m pretty sure grown men don’t keep getting taller.”

“So buff though, like, burly-buff. My handsome boy.” I’m exactly how I was the last time we met up, but I’m not here to insist on details. I shrug and stare past her at my father.

He’s in the doorway, arms hanging and eyes glossy. At six-foot-three, he’s who passed down my stature. My coloring, tan skin, and dark hair, comes from Ma’s side.

“Keyon. Thanks for coming.” Despite our disagreements, I can tell he’s genuinely happy. “Come on in—your rooms are ready upstairs. Let me get your bags.” He makes to descend for the car, but Dawson cuts in, “No-no, Mayor, I’ve got it.”

“Mr. Dawson!” Dad’s grin broadens at the sight of Coach. “I see you take good care of my son.”

“I try, sir. He doesn’t always listen though.”

“So nothing new under the sun, you’re saying?” Dad allows, smiling.