Sway (7 page)

“That's what they want you to call them?” I asked skeptically. “Differently abled?”

“Well, it's just an accepted way to describe people with disabilities. Kind of like saying that just because they are different doesn't mean they aren't just as capable.”

“You think calling them differently abled makes
them
feel better, or makes you feel better?” I asked.

A harsh laugh emanated from the backseat and I glanced into my rearview to see Pete, a smile on his face—though not a happy smile, more like a sneer—as he waited for Bridget's answer. Before that moment, I hadn't even realized he was listening to us since he had been wearing his earbuds.

She bit her lip at the sound of Pete's laughter, and the cloud of sympathy and sadness I had seen in her eyes earlier returned. “I don't know,” was Bridget's answer. She said it in a quiet, thoughtful voice as her hand drifted up to nervously twirl a lock of wavy honey hair just behind her ear.

My comment had hurt her somehow, in a way that I couldn't understand. The sudden urge I had to touch her, to cover her hand with mine or rub her knee, surprised me.

When she turned and caught me watching her, she smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.

Their house was a modest two-story with wood siding and a chain-link fence that was rusted in a few places. They definitely weren't rich, maybe not even comfortable. I put the car in park as she unbuckled her seat belt and gathered her things from the floor of the car. Pete was already out of the car and halfway up the front walk.

“Thanks for the ride, Jesse,” Bridget said as she hesitated with one foot out the door, her hand on the door handle. “Maybe I'll see you next time you visit your grandfather. He seems like a nice guy.”

“Sure, yeah, like Attila the Hun,” I said.

I watched her until she was out of sight before pulling away.

*   *   *

Later that night when I got home, Dad was there and not alone. As I stood silently in the kitchen, I heard laughter coming from the living room, my father's throaty baritone and the high-pitched, breathy laugh of a woman. I heard the pop of wood against wood as he opened the sideboard where he stowed the liquor. I thought about leaving as quietly as I had entered and returning once they were otherwise occupied upstairs, but I was tired and I wanted nothing more than to go to bed. I tossed my keys on the counter to alert them to my presence and walked into the living room.

Dad was standing over the coffee table, pouring two glasses of Maker's Mark over ice with a slightly unsteady hand. He swayed slowly from side to side to keep his balance.

“Hey, Jesse,” he said, as if surprised to find me in my own house.

“Hey, Dad,” I said.

“Say hi to Angela,” he said as he squinted one eye at the glass he held and then tipped the bottle to add to it.

“Hello,” I said with a nod at the woman on the couch. She craned her neck to see me, her face lit up with a smile, her eyes wide with surprise and stupidity.

“This is my boy, Jesse,” Dad said in a tone that implied we shared something other than DNA.

“He's cute,” she said with a squeal. “Must take after his mother.” They both broke into laughter again and she threw her head back to reveal a full bosom bursting out of a dress that was designed for a body twenty years younger than her own.

She was cheaply made up, like most of the women Dad brought home, her black roots visible against her dyed blond hair from ten paces.

“Yeah, well, he's a moody little son of a bitch, but I'll tell you what, he takes after his old man when it comes to playing the guitar. Isn't that right, Jesse?”

I didn't answer, just eyed him coolly.

They didn't take any notice of the frigid air between us and I suppressed a sigh as I set my bag down on the floor and took off my jacket.

“Angela came to see the band play at the Inn tonight,” Dad said, as if I cared how he had met his latest conquest.

“Your dad was great,” she said as she reached for her drink on the coffee table. “Such a good show.”

“Yeah, we had a great set,” Dad said without any apparent modesty. “But you should hear this boy play. Man, he's got such a good ear, he could tell you the pitch of a belch. Isn't that right?” Dad asked me as Angela let out another belly laugh.

“If you say so,” I said.

“Hey, why don't you go get your guitar?” Dad asked me with a snap of his fingers. “Play us a little something.”

“I sold it,” I said dully. “I don't play anymore.”

Dad sobered some at that, his upper lip curling in a snarl. “You what?”

“I sold it,” I said.

“That guitar was worth more than that damn car you drive,” he said.

“I sold it to pay for groceries,” I said, which shut him up long enough for me to make an exit and head for my room.

I docked my iPod and turned up the volume to let Mozart's Piano Concerto no. 21 fill the empty space, then flopped onto my mattress. I reached under the bed to pull out the guitar case and lay it gently on the quilt.

Though I had not played my guitar since my mother's death, I knew I would never be able to get rid of it. At one time, it had been almost a part of me. Now it lay there like an amputated appendage, a traitor to its body.

The rosewood was like satin under my hand as I trailed my finger along the length of the sounding board, the subtle ridges of the strings, and the gentle rise of the frets. After months with no practice, my fingertips had softened, now more sensitive than they had been in years. Though I longed for the physical sensation of the instrument in my arms, the vibration of a perfectly formed note reverberating from the guitar's body into mine, I didn't even so much as let one of the strings squeak under the slide of my skin.

Over the past few months, I had visited with the guitar many times, had felt its yearning for me to hold it and play it. Though an antique and worth more cash than my car, it was an instrument that was meant to be played. Several times I had contemplated throwing it across the room, imagined the splinter of wood, the death groans of the strings against the fret board, like the shuddering respirations that signify dying. The courage to destroy it always subsided quickly. There was not enough emotion to inspire the destruction of my oldest friend.

 

EIGHT

Commodities pass through my hands like water—term papers, drugs, fake IDs—but they don't hold value the way information does. Real wealth is measured in secrets, the secrets of other people, and my own. Secrets are power. Every time someone paid me cash for something, they also unwittingly paid me with their secret. I owned them.

It's easy to become drunk on that kind of power. Gathering and keeping information about people is a business, and an art form. If you exploit secrets too often, people stop giving them to you. Knowing when to use information is just as important as having it.

Joey and I were in the library over lunch break when Gray Dabson finally sniffed me out. I had successfully avoided him for most of the week but he was determined.

Gray Dabson was a tall, lanky kid—student council president, decent basketball player, straight-A student, and editor of the yearbook. The most remarkable thing about him was his freakishly large Adam's apple. As he helped himself to a seat across from me at the scarred wood table in the back of the library, I wondered if he was sensitive to the fact that people couldn't help but look at his neck instead of his face while speaking to him.

“Jesse,” Gray said as he held out a hand in greeting. I eyed his hand for half a second before taking it for a brief shake and wondered what his angle was.

“What can I do for you?” I asked. Joey was listening intently from several seats away though she never took her eyes off the book that lay open on the table in front of her.

“The other council officers and I have decided to hold a car wash this year to fund student activities.” He paused after delivering this news, as if waiting for me to commend the originality of their idea.

“I guess the whole bake sale idea is overdone,” I said dryly.

“Exactly,” Gray said with a nod. “We felt the same way. The senior class fund-raiser made over seven hundred dollars last year and we really need to top that number.”

“What did they do last year to raise money?” I asked, though I'm unsure why I asked, because I didn't really care.

“It was a bake sale–car wash combo,” he said. “People could shop for baked goods while they got their car washed.”

“Ah.” Mind-numbing.

“Logistically, it was a nightmare,” he continued, obviously immune to my lack of interest, “and there were a lot of expenses. John Williams was president of the council then and his dad ended up underwriting all the expenses so they could keep one hundred percent of the profits, which is a little unfair. We can't possibly hope to net that amount of money if we have to cover our own expenses.”

“So, what does any of this have to do with me?” I asked.

“I had the idea that if we had the cheerleaders out washing the cars, we might get more people to show up. I'm not saying I think they should dress suggestively,” he added quickly with a glance in Joey's direction. “But the cheerleaders are outgoing, have a lot of school spirit. It could help our cause.”

“And?” I pressed.

He cleared his throat and said at a discreet volume, “I approached Heather Black about it since she's the captain of the squad. She told me to go to hell. I thought you might have some influence, some pull with Heather.”

My gaze wandered down the table to fix on Joey, who was now watching us curiously. When she caught my gaze, she mouthed a word meant only for me. The movement of her mouth was so exaggerated, it was impossible to tell what she was saying.

“What the hell are you saying?” I asked her.

Gray frowned in confusion and looked back and forth between us, as if watching a tennis match. Joey just shook her head and dropped her gaze back to her book. Gray cleared his throat again and dived back in. “So, do you think you could talk to her about it? Heather, I mean.”

“Wasted energy,” I said. “Even if I can convince her, she won't be enthusiastic about it and you'll end up owing more than you'll make back.”

His face fell and his Adam's apple jumped as he drew in a breath and blew out a dejected sigh. I let the silence tick by for ten beats as I worked things out in my head. Then I let another five seconds of silence pass before saying, “But maybe I can help you in another way.”

“Really?” he asked, his voice an unnaturally high pitch. “Like how?”

“In fact,” I said, warming up to the idea, “I can guarantee that your event will be popular and you'll make more money than you know what to do with.” I paused and let it sink in for a moment.

“How are you going to do that, exactly?” he asked.

“My methods are confidential,” I said. “Take it or leave it.”

“Fine, okay. As long as I have your guarantee,” he said with a nervous smile that faded quickly when I looked him directly in the eye with a disapproving stare. I let him squirm for a minute before shifting my gaze.

“My fee will be twenty percent of the gross income,” I said, “and you'll be responsible for any expenses incurred.”

“Twenty percent!” he said with a squeak, and his Adam's apple bobbed crazily. “That seems … excessive,” he said, flashing an apologetic smile. “I mean, you do understand the money is going to support the student council and fund some of the amenities we offer for the whole student body? The prom, homecoming, senior class trip—all of these are partially covered by the funds we raise at the car wash. I was thinking … well, I guess I thought … maybe you'd like to donate your services?”

“I don't understand the question,” I said, ignoring unintelligible mutterings from Joey's end of the table.

“I mean, you could volunteer your time,” Gray said.

What a douche. At this point, I was mostly just baffled by the idea that this guy had managed to win any kind of elected position. I could only assume no one else wanted the job.

“Listen, Gray,” I said, speaking slowly so I wouldn't have to repeat myself. “That twenty percent, that's my incentive. I do a better job for you, for your event, if I've got a serious financial incentive at stake. That's your insurance policy. I would think that a guy like you, a guy who knows his way around a management position, would understand that.”

“Of course, yeah. I can totally see that,” he said, sounding more uncertain than ever. “Just as long as I have your guarantee that we'll make the money we need. This event is supposed to cover the expenses for homecoming. You know, decorations, band, all of that.”

“What did I just say?” I asked sharply. “You'll make more money than you know what to do with. My percentage isn't going to change that. So, look, twenty percent off the top and you'll owe me a favor.” I threw in the favor as a last-minute consideration. No telling when it would come in handy.

“Sure, Jesse,” he said, eager as a Labrador now. “What's the favor?”

“I don't know yet,” I said. “I'll let you know when I do.”

I stood and gathered my things, and Gray took the hint to leave. Joey didn't say good-bye, just gave me a punch on the shoulder as she left for her next class.

*   *   *

Ken was waiting for me when I got to my locker, a throng of goofy freshman girls giggling and batting their eyelashes at him.

“Hey, Sway,” Ken said as I approached.

His adoring throng broke up and started to move away as Ken leaned into the locker next to mine to talk to me. “You got anything for me yet?”

I emptied my messenger bag into the top shelf of my locker to stall for time as I thought about what I would tell him. “I talked to her once. She's a total nerd. Seems like she spends most of her time doing volunteer work.”