Betting Blind (7 page)

I held up my hands. It was kind of strange to hear her curse. “Whoa, sorry. That’s kind of crazy they did that.”

She shrugged. “It’s a whole culture. There are music parents, and math parents, and sports parents . . . My parents did the music thing, because that’s what I was good at. There’s this one guy? An ex–piano prodigy? He lives in New York now, and he has a Steinway suspended from his ceiling by chains, like the sword of Damocles.”

“That’s pretty weird,” I said.

“Yeah, well, he’s onto something.” She crouched and fiddled with some dials on the sound system.

“So they made you play even though you didn’t want to?”

“It’s complicated.” She paused. “I did want to. I mean, I
do
want to. I like playing. It’s just—I’m not as good as I should be by this point. They really only let me play solo with Microsoft because my dad’s the boss.”

“Who cares? I mean, so what if you’re not a prodigy? I saw you play, and you kick ass. Not that many people kick that much ass at the violin.”

“You’d be surprised,” she said. “That was true when I was six. But a lot of people play as well as I do now.”

I looked around for a place to sit. There were no chairs, so I dropped to the floor and leaned against her bed. “Isn’t the violin like a group instrument? Shouldn’t it be a good thing that other people can play like you?”

She gave me a funny look. “Yeah, I guess.” She turned back to her cabinet. “Okay. This is Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. Do you know it?” I shook my head. She put it on and scooted back until she was sitting next to me.

I closed my eyes and looked very serious. The music was fine—if you can stand classical music. “Very powerful,” I murmured.

She hit me.

I opened my eyes and smiled at her. “Incredible violins.”

“Be quiet and listen!”

I listened. And you know what? I just don’t like classical.

When it finished, she said, “Well?”

“No offense, but it sounded like a rip-off of the
Star Wars
soundtrack. I’m totally winning this bet.”

She shook her head, smiling. “It’s not a bet. It’s a contest.”

“Contests are a form of bet,” I told her. “My turn. This is old-school, but maybe the best rap of all time.” I pulled out my phone, connected it to the sound, and put on “Dear Mama” by Tupac.

We listened quietly while Pac laid out what it’s really like growing up in the ghetto with no dad. You can hear in his voice that he’s for real; he went through this stuff and feels strong about it.

I looked at Irina to see if she liked it, and she was staring out the window, looking sad. I skipped ahead to some Velvet Underground, which was calmer and smoother.

“Why did you turn it off?” demanded Irina.

“Because I’m not trying to make you depressed.” The Underground’s steady beat pumped through the room.

“It’s okay to feel sad about something that
is
sad.”

I grabbed her hand and pulled her up. “Yeah, but that wasn’t really what I was going for. Come on, let’s dance.”

“I can’t dance to this.”

“Sure you can. You’re a musician—you can dance to anything.” I pulled her close and started kidding around, swaying with her, but suddenly it wasn’t a joke. Her hands tightened around my back and she looked up, and I could see straight through her eyes. She was sweet and excited. I was about to kiss her, but she took a breath and moved back a little. She set her hands around my waist, and we both lightened up, and yeah, she could dance.

“You have rhythm,” I said in her ear.

“So do you,” she said. Then, after a minute, “So, why do you like that Tupac song so much?” She was trying to put it light, but it was a serious question.

“I don’t know, he’s got passion.”

“Can you relate to what he’s talking about?”

“What, about having no dad?” I’d told her it was just me and my mom, but I was hoping she wouldn’t ask any more about it.

“No, just . . . the way he lives.”

I thought about how far away from her house I had to park. “A little bit. I mean, I don’t live like
this
.” I looked around her room and pulled her closer. “Why? You think I’m ghetto?”

“Not ghetto. Just maybe you’ve seen a few more things than I have.”

I started rapping in her ear.

I’m a poor hoodlum

Wrong side of the tracks

Like a rich Russian breezy

Cuz she damn stacked.

She started laughing, and then there was a cough, and we ripped apart like somebody had sliced a knife between us. Irina’s dad was standing in her doorway, staring at us. And if he could have shot me dead with one of those badass Russian machine guns, I guarantee he would have. He seemed even taller up close. I’m six foot two, and the dude was looking down.

“Irina, it’s time for your friend to go home,” he said. I was surprised that he didn’t have an accent.

She was red. She grabbed the remote and turned off the music. “Okay,” she said. “Um, Dad, this is Gabe.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” I said.

His eyes went up and down me. I stood very straight. Damn, I was glad I was wearing new clothes. He didn’t say anything, not a word. Finally he turned and walked away.

Irina looked like she wanted to evaporate.

“Hey, I wouldn’t want me dancing with my daughter, either,” I told her.

“Yeah, he’s protective.” There was an edgy sound in her voice. “Sorry he didn’t say hi or anything.”

I put away my phone and slung my backpack over my shoulder. “I think I won that round.”

“No, that was incomplete. We only did one song each. Well, you did one and a half.”

“Yeah, but you liked it so much, you danced to it.”

“I was just being nice. You can’t dance to Velvet Underground.” Her words were teasing, but I could tell she was still upset about her dad. It
was
kind of rude, not even saying hi, like I was a total piece of junk. I wondered how she’d feel if she knew her mom was all up in my grill with the family and report card questions.

Irina walked me downstairs and out the door, and she waved as I walked down the driveway. I couldn’t stop thinking about that moment when our bodies were touching. I should have kissed her.

CHAPTER SIX

W
hen I got home from Irina’s, all the lights were out except the TV, which was flickering in the living room, with loud rat-tat-tat-tats of gunfire.

Uh-oh. When my mom was depressed, she watched war movies. She said it put things in perspective. She always picked the gory ones, with close-ups of people getting their legs and faces blown off.

Sure enough, the DVD case for
Saving Private Ryan
was sitting on the coffee table. Mom was wearing the bathrobe she called “Old Ugly,” sipping on something clear out of a jelly glass, and she looked to be near the bottom of a bag of potato chips. Mom cared a lot about her weight. She didn’t touch chips unless things were
really
bad.

“Hey, Mom,” I said.

“Hi, Gabe.” Her voice sounded thick.

Crap.
Bastard did something, I knew it. I went to sit next to her. “You okay?”

She nodded, eyes fixed on some dude dragging his thrashed body up a beach. She took a long swig of her drink. I knew how this would play out. She’d keep drinking until she was wasted, and then she’d cry on and off for the rest of the night, smoke enough packs to rot out at least one lung, and go through her photo albums, which would make her cry even harder.
Look how pretty I used to be,
she would say. Even worse, she didn’t have anywhere to be tomorrow, so there was a good chance it would drag on into the next morning.

“Let’s go to dinner,” I said. “I want to take you out.”

Mom’s eyes flicked off the screen. “Oh, Gabe. You’re sweet.”

“I’m serious. We’ll go somewhere nice.”

She frowned, and I read her mind. “I have some money. I’ve been working.”

“Really? Where?”

“Mowing lawns. People around here pay a lot.” I was hoping she wouldn’t realize grass didn’t grow in Seattle this time of year.

Mom smiled so proudly that I felt horrible. “That’s what you’ve been doing after school.”

No, actually, I’d been kicking it with Kyle and Forrest and Matt, listening to music, and sometimes pretending to study when they did. Either that or texting back and forth with Irina.

I nodded. “Yeah. So let’s go eat French food.”

Mom thought anything French was classy. “Well . . .”

I picked up the remote and turned off the movie. “Mom!”

She put down her drink and gave me a watery smile. “Well, all right.”

I jammed to my room to get some cash out of my closet and texted Kyle to ask about a good French place. He knew about that kind of thing.
Sans Souci,
he texted right back.

Mom met me downstairs rocking pre-Phil clothes—a puffy shirt and one of her tree-hugger skirts—which I was glad to see. I drove her car, because she wasn’t too steady on her feet, and we were there in twenty minutes.

Mom cheered right up when she saw the place. “Hoh hoh fee fee,” she whispered to me. It was small, with round tables and a lady singing in French on a stage. She was lipping the mic like it might kiss her back, but the music was pretty good.

The waiter looked at us like maybe we’d missed the turnoff for Mickey D’s. “May I help you?”

Mom said back, just as snobby, “Table for two.”

When we were seated, she spread her napkin in her lap and picked up the menu. “Oh no, Gabe. It’s too expensive.” But she was smiling. Mom loved to blow cash.

“Like that ever stopped you before.”

“You’re such a sweetheart. All right. But I’m getting the chicken Marseille.” It was one of the cheaper things on the menu.

“Get something good!”

“No, I really want chicken Marseille.”

I got the same thing, and we both had some bubbly water, because Mom said she didn’t need any more alcohol. We shared a salad with cheese and pears.

Mom looked around at the paintings on the walls and the waiters in their suits. “This is beautiful. Thank you, Gabe.”

“So, what did Phil do?” I asked.

Mom got a funny look. “‘In the majority of cases, conscience is an elastic and very flexible article.’ I found that today. It’s Charles Dickens.”

“He didn’t tell his wife?” I guessed.

She nodded.

“Mom, you have to stop believing him when he says he’ll do it. How many times has he said he would and then he didn’t?”

“I know; I know. He just needs to get his courage up. He’s staying with her out of guilt.” Mom lowered her voice, playing with her fork. “They don’t even sleep together. But she’s so crazy, he’s worried she’ll hurt herself if he leaves.”

I looked at my poor stupid mom. “You really believe he doesn’t sleep with his wife?”

Mom’s face got stiff. She picked up her sparkling water. “Yes, I do.”

“Mom, Phil is a liar. He lies to his wife, so why wouldn’t he lie to you?”

“Because we have a different relationship than they do!”

I should have stopped there, but I didn’t. “Yeah, you do have a different relationship. She gets to live with him and use up his paychecks, and you just get to—” It was so bad I couldn’t finish the sentence. “Mom, I can pay our rent. I’ll work extra. You don’t have to be with him.” My brain was jumping ahead: How much would I have to sell to make rent? I’d have to expand to harder stuff, but that was okay.

“Gabe, thank you, but I want to be with him,” said Mom.

I got mad. Because it was easier for me when I could think of her as the victim. But the truth, which she kept shoving in my face, was that it was completely 100 percent her own stupid fault.

“Fine.” I pushed away my chicken, which I’d only taken a few bites of. Thirty-dollar chicken.

“Don’t be mad, Gabe.”

“I am mad. This whole thing is fucking stupid, and you keep doing it.”

Mom set down her fork and took a deep breath
.
“You don’t understand what love is.”

I glared at her. “What you guys are doing isn’t love.”

She glared back. “I think I know when I love somebody.”

“Well, he doesn’t love you,” I shot at her. “Love is an
action
, not a feeling.” Where did I get that? I didn’t know, but it stopped her in her tracks.

She closed her eyes for a second. Then she opened them and said, “Thank you, Gabe, for your teenage wisdom.” She started sniffling.

“Aw, Mom, cut it out. Don’t cry. I take it back. Phil’s a gem. He’s a freaking diamond, and he’s going to marry you, and we’ll all live happily ever after, okay?”

Mom brushed away her tears. “I’m sorry. I know I’m being an idiot. I know Phil is . . . I know what he is, okay?”

I watched her hopefully.

She took a tissue out of her purse. “He’s everything I thought I never wanted in a guy. But I need to grow up, Gabe. You’re almost out of high school. Don’t you think it’s time?” She gave me a shaky smile.

“Growing up means dating a toolbox?
Cheating
with him?”

She patted the tissue under her eyes. “That’s the tough part. But you’re not giving him credit for how responsible he is. He’s providing for us in a way nobody ever has before. And he’s smart.” Mom idolized smart. It was her weak point.

“Smart, yeah, right,” I said. “That guy is fuller of bull—”

“Enough.” She cut me off. “He
is
smart. And I know you’re right about some of the other things, but that doesn’t change how I feel. Let’s not talk about it anymore, okay?”

“Okay,” I agreed. I actually did feel better, just hearing her say she knew I was right. If she wanted to go jumping off a roof, I couldn’t stop her, but at least we both knew it was a hundred-foot drop.

She pushed my plate back toward me and said in a momish voice, “Eat.”

I ate. My food wasn’t worth thirty dollars, but I’d pay more than that to keep her from going on a bender. Mom was sober by the time we got home, and went to bed instead of getting into the photo albums.