If You Wrong Us (2 page)

This is how Travis Kent spends his mornings.

It was so much better when I didn’t know about him. Now I can’t get his face out of my head. When I go to bed at night? Travis Kent. When I wake up in the morning? Travis Kent. Even when I’m with my girlfriend … Travis Kent.

Shudder.

But in less than twenty-four hours, that will all change. Travis Kent will be extracted from my life forever.

I shift around in my seat, trying to get comfortable. It’s impossible because I’m stuffed into this desk-and-chair combo—much like Rosie is, sitting next to me jammed into her two-sizes-too-small bedazzled jeans. It’s tight and confining. I don’t know who designs the desks for high schools, but they need to seriously rethink the dollhouse dimensions. Though I shouldn’t complain; at least we
have
a place to sit. Many of the classrooms don’t. Ever since Roosevelt High School closed its doors two years ago, Central got most of the overflow—and that’s exactly what it is. Our already-crowded school is now leaking students. The principal even had to extend the time between bells due to the gridlock in the corridors.

Apparently this is what happens when your city goes bankrupt: businesses and schools close their doors; unemployment goes up; the police force suffers massive cutbacks; people get desperate; crime rises.

It’s every man for himself.

So I guess you could say I’ll be doing everyone a favor by decreasing the headcount tonight.

These days, the only part of Detroit that doesn’t look like a dystopian wasteland is Mexicantown—a place people used to wrinkle their noses at but were happy to visit on a Friday night for margaritas and enchiladas. Now, we’re the ones holding the damn city together.

“Johnny Vega.” Mrs. Skye’s shrill voice echoes in the room. “What does Manifest Destiny mean?”

“Uh,” I say, searching my brain for the question she just asked. “Manifest Destiny?”

I’m still not used to the whole student-teacher protocol. I never used to be the type of kid teachers called on in class. They would avoid me even more than they avoided the loner kids on the verge of going Columbine at any minute. Most teachers around here believe it’s best to just let the dumb jocks skate by—especially the dumb Mexican jocks. That’s a double violation, after all.

But that was before Becca came into my life and before I started caring about school (and using words like “encroaching” and “dystopian”). Before I realized that there may be more to life than ball. Truth be told, I’ve always cared. I just didn’t think school was my
thing
. But once I started showing an interest, teachers like Mrs. Skye ate it up.

She desperately wants to be that determined white teacher who makes a different for us poor minority folk—like that movie
Freedom Writers
or some shit.

Let’s face it, I probably need it. This is one of the “basic” courses—in other words, for idiots, stoners, or slackers. Travis doesn’t fit in; he’s only here because he makes a habit of taking extended vacations.

“Yes, Mr. Vega.” Skye interrupts my wandering thoughts. “Tell me what Manifest Destiny means to you.”

It was a way for America to justify destroying the way of life for Mexicans and Native Americans and steal our land.

It’s the first thought that comes into my head, but now—thankfully—I take a minute to think
before
I speak.

Mrs. Skye stares at me. Waiting. She flicks her pen against her thigh as she paces in front of the room. Yeah, she’s impatient that I need a second to gather my thoughts, yet Travis is allowed to use the hour as naptime every day. I’ve come a long way in the last year, but the politics of high school is something I’ll never get.

“Manifest Destiny is an idea or belief that Americans should expand across North America and promote democracy.” I alter my answer because I have the feeling our teacher was all for the expansion. With her immaculate clothes and shiny shoes, Mrs. Skye is the type to believe that anything is possible in our great country and to downplay the negative—even when the city is collapsing all around her.

“Good,” she says, moving on. “Cody, was that a good or bad thing?”

And I’m back to tuning out again.

I’ll need to find extra time to study the material for our test in two days. Not that it’s difficult, obviously, but I’ve been checking out for the past week and I can’t leave anything to chance. Becca says we can’t have any hiccups; it has to be business as usual. For me, that means a decent grade on the test. Still, I find myself ignoring Mrs. Skye and staring out the window, watching the last of the falling leaves. I wonder if next year I’ll be watching them from a college classroom or a jail cell.

It’s completely impossible to concentrate, today of all days. I’m on edge. Teeth-grinding, stomach-churning, fingers-
tingling edge. And here Travis sleeps, with no idea what he’s in for. He’ll go about his day as usual. Chemistry, study hall, lunch, gym, English, finishing with Spanish—a language he’ll never master, by the way. The guy can’t roll an
R
to save his life.

I know all of this because I’ve been watching him for almost ten months. Obsessing over him, really. Ever since Becca told me what happened and what he did. Ever since I said yes to her plan.

A pen drops on the floor and the desk behind me rattles. I don’t have to stalk Travis to know he’s a restless sleeper—it’s pretty common knowledge in our class. Sometimes I wonder if it’s guilt or bad dreams that affect his sleep in this way. Or is it simply because he spends too much time jacked up on oversized cans of Monster and Starbucks mochas (with extra whipped cream)?

Oh yeah, I’ve been watching his calorie intake as well. If I go through with tonight’s festivities, I’ll have to carry good ol’ Trav a few blocks. I’m pretty strong, but Travis is surprisingly solid for a guy barely over five-five.

The fact that I know all of this is sick and wrong. I do know that; I’m not so far gone I don’t understand the moral dilemma we’re in. But I’m doing it for Becca … and Mom.

Though I’m not sure Mom would’ve approved of Becca if she were still here. She always warned me about hanging out with the wrong crowd, bad influences, or
those people
who didn’t help you meet your life’s goals.
We can’t let anything get in the way of your dreams, Johnny,
she would say. Funny how her threats always seemed to be disguised as motivation.

What Mom didn’t know is that trouble is not always so obvious. Not when it comes in a pretty package like one Becca Waters. Long and lithe Becca, with her flowing red curls and angelic face. Trust me, she’s enough to turn the strongest of men into drooling idiots. I had no idea what I was up against when she started tutoring me last year. She was so broken then, and my connection to her was almost immediate. What’s that expression:
like recognizes like
? Well, we recognized each other all right, and it wasn’t long after that I vowed to do whatever it took to put her back together again. Sadly, it’s officially come to that.

After school, we’ll wait while Travis meets up with his other gamer friends. They’ll talk smack about leveling up and a bunch of crap only those fools understand. Of course, Becca gets it. She’s tried explaining their little subculture to me, but I’m so not interested. Though I would love to see her kick some of these douche-canoes’ asses, Becca prefers to use her mad skills IRL—which is exactly how she found out about Travis in the first place.

Tonight, Travis will go to the gaming tournament. After, his life will change forever.

So will mine. Everything I’ve worked for will be in jeopardy. My only hope is to pray I make it out of this shitstorm unscathed. But it won’t be easy. To get out of it, I may have to leave Becca.

And I’m just not sure I can do that. No matter the cost. Right now, our plan is the only thing that makes sense. One action to right the wrong and give us a new life.

Like Mom always used to say, “Two birds, one stone, my love. Two birds, one stone.”

2

O
NE
Y
EAR
E
ARLIER
B
ECCA

Y
ou make the rules,” I told her.

They were four little words. Four very telling words that pretty much summed up my sixteen-year relationship with my twin sister, Brit. Four words that would play on an endless loop in my mind in the months that followed because they would become my final concession. And also the last words I said looking into her eyes—those green and almond-shaped pools of mystery that went all glossy when she was up to something.

She most definitely was.

That autumn day had started out like any other. I braided my hair in a long tail to keep it out of my face and dressed in a freshly starched pale blue button-down, khaki skirt, and Dad’s tweed coat—the one he was wearing when he found out he’d been accepted to Princeton’s graduate program. I considered it a uniform of sorts. Or armor, depending on the day. But that was a secret I’d never divulge.

“I swear to God, Bee,” Brit said from her perch at the vanity table in our bedroom. “I’m going to burn that damn thing. What do you think—wearing that is going to bring you luck? Like it’s some kind of good omand or something?”

“Omen,” I corrected her, even though it still wasn’t the right word. My twin was incredibly obtuse at times. Still, I always knew what she was trying to say. A fact that frightened me to my very core.

“Whatever.” She dismissed me with a flip of her wrist. “Is that why you wear it? Hoping the good juju will rub off ?”

“No,” I snapped, insulted. I most certainly was not superstitious. Far from it—I didn’t believe in luck. Most people got what they deserved based on their work ethic and decision-making capabilities. It was as simple as that. “I like the history of the coat. That’s all. Plus, it’s warm and goes with everything. Why do you find that so offensive?”

“Well, maybe I wouldn’t”—Brit laughed—“
if
Dad ever
went
to Princeton. But since he got Mom knocked up and never made it to the Ivy League, I’d say anything you’d associate with that smelly coat is bunk. And it makes you look like a freak.”

As if that ever bothered me before.

What Brit failed to understand is that while she had clout among the masses at our crowded and neglected high school, I also carried weight inside those walls. Albeit my status was strictly reserved for kids in the Accelerated Student Program (ASP)—a small group of students enrolled in specialized courses since we had already surpassed most mainstream classes, especially in math and science. It was the only group in school that really mattered, in my opinion. Because the tide would eventually turn, and the people my sister worked so hard to impress would all be answering to us in the future. So being called a freak was hardly a concern.

And that bothered the hell out of my sister.

Downstairs at the breakfast table, my mother’s assessment of my wardrobe was in line with Brit’s, but she at least faked it. Mom had once been a girl just like Brit and they had a bond I never quite understood.

“Morning, girls,” Mom said without looking in my direction. “Don’t you two look nice today.” She ran her hand down my sister’s long wavy hair, which was perfectly tousled to give the impression she was relaxed and carefree. In reality, it took Brit over an hour to make it look that way.

I ignored them like I usually did, sat at the table, and began reading my physics material for the following week. Dad peeked out from his newspaper—the archaic, paper variety—to give me his signature wink. The one that said,
we are superior to their kind
.

Brit slurped her coffee, staring at me over her cup as I ate my granola and continued to read. It was her way of telling me to hurry up. We had things to discuss before school—more like, she had orders to hand down. Orders I didn’t want to hear. So I took my time, until she kicked me under the table.

I went to the refrigerator and grabbed the lunches (plural) that I’d made the night before. If I didn’t, Brit would end up stealing half of mine, so I now made two. Lunch money was just the latest luxury to go in our slide toward the poverty line. Of course, Brit said, “It’s okay, Dad. We can brownbag it. It’s healthier anyway.” Meanwhile, she was the one with her hands in his wallet—or pants pocket, or seat cushion, or dresser—slowly building up her beer funds for the weekend.

“Are you ready for tonight?” she asked when we got into my car. The car I’d paid for with my tutoring money. Not that she cared. The passenger side was full of dirt on the dashboard where she constantly propped her feet, and fingerprinted windows from her grimy digits drawing in the condensation. I’d given up on cleaning her side and strangely found comfort watching her sit there in her own filth each day.

“I’m ready,” I told her, having already agreed to her plan to get rid of my secret boyfriend. A guy, she said, who wasn’t worth shit.

“Just act normal.” She reapplied her lip gloss. “It’ll all be over soon enough.”