Betting Blind (8 page)

I’d been at Claremont High for a month, and it was pretty much killing me. We were on a quarter system, which I wasn’t used to. The teachers actually kept track of who did their homework, corrected it, and threw pop quizzes at us all the time. So it didn’t take them long to figure out I was stupid. I kept my head down and stayed pretty well under the radar, though.

Then a couple days after my mom’s almost-bender, I was in English, the class I hated most, with Mueller, the teacher I hated most. She was straight Nazi, but wrapped in sugar, all blond hair and designer dresses. She was one of those teachers who can hear the smallest whisper and see through notes.

Mueller had just passed out copies of some play called
The Robbers
. It was written like two hundred years ago, so I knew it was bad. She was looking around the class, everybody trying not to meet her eyes so she wouldn’t pick them.

She landed on me. “Gabe? You may take the role of Franz.”

“No, thanks,” I said.

A bunch of people laughed.

Mueller said, “Excuse me?”

I stared past her at the shiny Smart Board, where her writing was in perfect rows. “No, thanks.”

Ms. Mueller rested her hand on her desk. “Would you care to explain yourself?”

I shook my head. Last time I read out loud was in fifth grade, and Mackenzie Carter started laughing and said I was stupid, so I had to kick her brother’s ass. Most teachers, you tell them no a few times, they get the message and stop asking.

“And if I told you that you’ll lose all your participation points for the day?”

I shrugged. People weren’t giggling anymore; there was just this heavy, tense quiet. Forrest, in the seat next to me, gave me a weird look. My face was on fire. At my old school, this would have been no big deal, but here it was like,
Call the cops, a guy won’t read out loud
.

“Gabriel, I’ll give you one more chance to explain your failure to cooperate.” Ms. Mueller’s voice was very cold and she had a glint in her eyes. I realized she
liked
doing this.

Forrest suddenly cut in, kind of loud and obnoxious. “Schiller was more of a political revolutionary than an artist. Why do we even have to read him?”

Ms. Mueller’s eyes jumped to him. “I’ll answer that in a minute.” She looked back at me.

“My dad says the teachers at this school are trying to politically indoctrinate us,” Forrest said.

Ms. Mueller made a disgusted sound. “That’s ridiculous.”

He leaned forward in his seat. “Look, what was Schiller’s agenda? His
real
political agenda? And what’s so great about
The Robbers
, anyway? I mean, we don’t have that much time in class. We could be reading Milton or Chaucer. Or if you really want Sturm und Drang, why aren’t we reading Goethe?”

“You’re wrong, Forrest!” snapped Ms. Mueller. “Schiller was nearly as influential as Goethe, and in my opinion, the better artist. And I don’t know where you’re getting your ideas about his politics. Read his biography. His work is a reaction against a personal experience in Karl Eugen’s academy.”

Forrest let air through his nose, as good as saying
bullshit
. “It was a lot more than that. I don’t think we should be reading this. But I’ll be Franz if you want.”

Ms. Mueller looked from Forrest to me and back again. Forrest’s dad had two buildings named after him—the new gym and the theater complex. But she couldn’t let me off the hook completely. “Zero participation points today, Gabe. Forrest, you may be Franz. Eric, you may play Karl. The narrator I’ve divided into eight parts . . .”

I gave Forrest a look to let him know I appreciated it.

He grinned. He liked to mess with teachers. He knew more than most of them did, anyway. He didn’t have to jump in like that, using his dad, though. I owed him.

After school that day, Matt asked me and Forrest and Kyle if we wanted to come over and watch the Broncos-Chargers game. Kyle was a Denver fan, and Matt was from San Diego, so it would be a nice tight match with some good yelling and trash talk.

We headed there straight from school. Matt had an awesome media room with a sick flat screen and recliners for everybody, although we all sat on the floor to be closer to the TV. His dad was obviously a sports freak, because there were signed jerseys on the wall and a glass case full of scorecards and a beat-up football signed by Walter Payton.

Matt’s mom, this tiny Japanese lady, brought us a ton of food: sandwiches and cookies and bowls of rice crackers. The Broncos were destroying the Chargers, and it was funny to watch Matt, because whenever the Chargers took a hit, he had a personality change. His mouth did this thing, showing his teeth like he was going to bite someone, and he cussed and slapped the floor.

Of course we egged him on.

“Sorry about your team,” Kyle said. “They’re getting taken behind the woodshed.”

Whump
.
Matt hit the floor. We all shook with laughter.

“Yeah, man,” Kyle went on. “Look how their running back just coughed up the ball. Weak.”

Whump
.

Then Kyle showed his teeth and mumbled cusses and smacked the floor just like Matt, and we started cracking up. A commercial came on, which was probably a good thing, because Matt looked like he might kill someone. Kyle turned to me. “Did you already get the stuff for this weekend?” He was talking about when his parents went to Sonoma.

I shook my head. “I’m supposed to meet my guy on Wednesday.”

“I got these Overlake friends. They want to know if you can hook them up, too.”

Forrest glanced at him. “You talking about Jesse?”

“Yeah,” said Kyle, “he’s having a party at his lake house, and they want as much e
as they can get.”

Without a word, Matt got up and left the room.

We watched him disappear, and then Forrest said in a lower voice, “You know Olivia Gemelli? She was rolling at Morton’s party, and she asked if she could get some more for her and those theater girls.”

“I don’t know.” I glanced at the open door to the stairs. “I don’t know any of those people.” The thing with dope is, when you start dealing with strangers, it’s only a matter of time before you get caught.

“They’re cool,” said Kyle. “I’ve known Jesse since we were four. If you want, I’ll handle it.”

“How much is he looking for?” I asked after a pause.

“He said as much as possible.”

I thought about that. Tim would be happy. He’d texted me a couple times in the past week, wanting to know if I needed more. “What about Olivia?” I asked Forrest. “How much does she need?”

“She didn’t say. You want me to ask her?”

I had a class with Olivia. She was cute and funny. “Yeah, that’s cool. But don’t say my name, okay?” I was doing math in my head. If this Jesse was for real, I could probably make a few grand, easy.

“That stuff was good. I’ve had a bunch of people ask about it.” Kyle started ticking off a list of names. “Pete, that lacrosse dude, Kelly Brian and his friends, Theresa Gaines, and that one skinny chick with the pink hair, what’s her name? She has art with you.”

“Huh,” I said. “Let me talk to my friend, and I’ll see.”

A car commercial came on, showing a sweet Lexus. I couldn’t afford a Lex unless I sold dope for like a year, but it did give me some ideas. I could get a decent used car for a lot less than a Lex. And it was time to lose the junk heap. It was getting embarrassing.

“I’m sure I can hook it up,” I said more firmly.

“Cool,” said Kyle. “I’ll let Jesse know.”

Then Matt was back with a six-pack of sodas under his arm, and the game came on again. Broncos were running the show.

My phone buzzed, and I checked the text. Irina.

?

We already had a text code. A question mark meant
What are you doing?

I texted:
Watching fbl

She came back:
What teams?

Chargers v Broncos
, I typed. I had a feeling I knew what was coming next.

Bet you lunch Chargers win.

I laughed out loud. Ever since I told her a contest was a bet, she’d been making bets about random things. She was a born competitor, and I had a plan for upping the stakes.

Kyle glanced at my phone. “Irina?”

I nodded and texted her:
You’re on.

Don’t try to cheat. I’m checking the score.

“You’re into that girl,” said Kyle, watching me.

“She’s good people.”

Forrest looked at me then. “And she’s a fine-ass
meeeeeeep
.”

I smiled. “Well, yeah.”

“I still can’t believe you had the balls to get her number,” said Kyle.

“Speaking of balls, you should have seen him in English.” Forrest’s eyes flicked back to the TV. “Ripping on Mueller.”

I was hoping he’d leave that alone. “I just didn’t feel like being Franz the Panzer Man,” I said. “Whoa, check that pass.”

But it didn’t work. Kyle turned to me. “You screwed with Mueller? What’d you do?”

Forrest said, “She wanted him to read some play, and he was like, ‘No, thanks.’ Sounded like a CEO saying no to coffee.”

Kyle cracked up. “Sweet!”

Matt was so busy watching the game, I’m not sure he even heard. But I could feel Forrest’s eyes on me from the side. He was a smart guy, maybe the smartest guy I knew. He’d figure it out. I wondered if he’d decide he couldn’t be friends with a loser.

I threw a rice cracker in the air and caught it with my mouth. Then Kyle had to do it, too, and pretty soon it turned into a contest. A cracker landed on the ground just as Matt’s hand was coming down, and it got smashed, and we all lost it laughing. In the end, the Broncos won, and Forrest made up a song about the Chargers getting trampled like little girls in a bullfight. It was so twisted that even Matt had to laugh.

CHAPTER SEVEN

J
ust like I knew he would be, Tim was thrilled about the new customers. He met me at Red Robin himself instead of sending Missy. When I showed up, he was already in a booth, sucking on a Coke. He was a small dude with a scraggly goatee and eyes the light green of beach glass, and he was wearing the same ratty “Coors” T-shirt he always did.

He stood to give me a guy-hug, and I noticed he was moving kind of jerky. His arms were thinner than I remembered, and seriously cut. “Ordered you a shake.” He nodded at a drink on the table. “You always used to get those, huh?”

I smiled. Back when they were first dating, his dad and my mom would give us kids twenty bucks to get out of the house and camp in Mickey D’s for a couple hours. “Yeah, and you got the McMuffins. Those were nasty.”

Tim nodded. “Oh yeah. I don’t like those anymore. So how you been, man? How you like it up there?”

“Can’t complain. I made some friends.” I was about to tell him about Kyle and Forrest and Matt, but I saw his eyes darting and I realized he wasn’t really interested.

“That’s good; that’s good.” Tim lowered his voice. “I’ve got what we talked about, and I put in some extra. We don’t want to have to be doing these runs all the time, so I just thought I’d pad you a little. Seems like you got good demand over there. We can settle accounts at the end of the month.”

I frowned. “Naw, I don’t want to be having a bunch extra. That’s how people get busted.”

“It’s not much. Come on. It’s a pain in the ass to drive all the way out here.”

“Yeah, but what if I don’t get rid of it?”

“You will. Look how fast you been moving product.”

I drew on my shake. He had a point. I knew I could get rid of it if I wanted to. And the cash was official. I’d already got some new threads and kicks.

“There’s a backpack under the table,” Tim said. “After I leave, stick around and finish your drink, then take it with you. Cool?”

“Cool.” I wished he would slow down, ask how I was really doing, act like we’d actually lived together for a few months instead of making this straight business. But Tim was older than me, and I guess he just thought of me as his sister’s friend.

That Friday in visual arts, one of the office runners brought me a slip calling me to the counselor’s office. I’d been half-asleep, thinking about Irina, but when Mrs. McVeigh dropped the thing on my desk, I jerked up. I’d unloaded a bunch of Tim’s backpack the day before, and I looked at the candy-pink paper and thought about running for the parking lot.