Bottom Feeder (8 page)

Even if I did, Maddy is not my
type.

“
She has to trust you. I
need you to pretend to like her so she doesn’t throw a fit that you
are driving her. Maddy was looking forward to driving
alone.”

I sit down before my knees buckle.
“And how should I go about doing that, Mr. Carrington?”

“
Hell, son, I don’t know.
What do you normally do to let a girl know you’re interested? Throw
some charm at her. Take her to dinner. A movie. Go for ice cream.
Go to church.
Something
. I don’t care how you do it. Just get her in public, let the
town see you out so it doesn’t appear that I set this up. I
understand she’s not your type. But just like there are rumors
about me, son, this town has rumors about you, too. Maddy is a
bottom feeder, I know, but from what I hear you aren’t exactly
choosy when it comes to who you get in the bedroom.”

I grimace. Now my face is definitely
mimicking his. Damn. I knew all those girls were going to come back
and bite me on the ass.

“
Look, it’s only for a
couple of days. How you act after she’s away from me is not my
business. I don’t care if you love her, drop her, or one night
stand her as long as she’s not my problem.”

Cordell rolls his chair to a writing
table on the back wall, punching another code into a keypad. He
slides a drawer open, removes a stack of money and tosses it to
me.

“
Five grand,” he says.
“I’ll be fair and say this doesn’t count as part of your ten. Use
this to take your new girl out, Jackson. Her name is Maddy. Not
much to look at or talk to, but just think of it as sort of a . .
.” he pauses to tap his chin with his right index finger.
“
Mission
for the
greater good. You know, taking one for the team.” He laughs. I
squirm.

“
Whatever you need me to
do,” I say reluctantly. I grab the money from the desk and shove it
in my pocket.

“
One last thing,” Cordell
says. “This conversation never happened. Understand? I will explain
to Maddy that you were planning a trip to New York City and asked
to accompany her so she doesn’t travel alone.”

“
Yes, sir.”

“
Keep the things you heard
today well-guarded—
as if your life
depended on it
. And believe me, son, it
does.”

The money weighs heavily in my pocket,
like a ship anchor holding down a canoe. I walk to the Civic, my
legs feeling as if they are treading quicksand.

What the hell have I gotten myself
into?

Maddy

Jackson should be gracing the covers
of fashion magazines or, you know, playing the lead role in my
fantasies. He should not be talking about “business” with Daddy. I
have to find a way to stop this. If not for his sake, for
Violet’s.

“
Hey, skank.”

I park my bike beside Dixon’s Bronco.
“Hey, Panties,” I retort, sticking my tongue out.

“
You better be glad I love
you,” Dixon points his finger, “Otherwise I’d have to cut you for
that.”

The story of how Dixon and I became
friends also explains his nickname, Panties. I guess now is a good
time for a flashback.

Picture this: fifth grade gym,
resident toolbox Tommy Crenshaw decides to pants Dixon, mid-serve,
during a volleyball match. Embarrassing enough, right? The entire
class, including Coach Gaines, points and laughs at Dixon’s cotton
granny panties dotted with tiny purple flowers. Turns out he ran
out of clean underwear and Mrs. Jarrett forced him to wear a pair
of his sister’s instead.

Anyway. Dixon stood frozen with tears
streaming down his face. I ran to shield his body from the class,
shaking his shoulders to snap out of his trance. Because, I mean,
his pants were hugging his ankles.

We became inseparable. The first time
I walked into Dixon’s house with his dad yelling, “I will not wear
women’s underwear, I am going commando!” told me the panty incident
was not an uncommon occurrence in the Jarrett household

“
Ooookay Panties, whatever
you say.” Dixon reaches into his duffle bag and chucks a shoe in my
direction. I duck as it thuds against his truck. “Missed
me.”

“
Next time, Maddy . . .
next time,” he threatens with his best
Scarface
imitation.

I turn around and a pair of socks
smacks me in the forehead.

Dixon raises a suspicious eyebrow when
immediate revenge tactics are not applied. My smile is a silent
promise of payback.

“
What have you been up to
since I left this morning?” he asks, hoisting my bicycle inside the
back of the Bronco.

“
Nada. Jackson arrived as
I was leaving.” I try sounding nonchalant.

“
Ew.” He makes a disgusted
face and climbs into the truck. “Jackson, again?”

“
The one and only.” I make
an effort to leap into the passenger seat of his ogre of a truck.
It’s a sad sight, really.

“
You like him,
huh?”

Of course I do. “No. Why would you say
that?”

“
You just bit your lip.
You, sweetness, are not a lip biter.” He rumbles the Bronco to life
and backs over the cracked pavement. “You know better, Maddy. Libby
still uses a picture with his eyes gouged out as a
bookmark.”

Yes, and that is not weird at
all.

“
Why is he talking to
Cordell?” Dixon continues. “Another ‘business’ deal for The Don?”
He often refers to my father as The Don. As in mafia boss. As
in
The Godfather
.

I am uncomfortable talking about him,
even if the conversation is something as simple as the weather. If
given the opportunity I’m sure he would try to control that,
too.

“
Are you staying for the
entire show tomorrow night?”

Dixon plays Brick
in
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
at the local theatre. Tomorrow night is the last
performance of the season. The house is always packed for the final
show since the director, Mr. Lipinksi, does something
unconventional. Last season
Dracula
was uprooted to a seedy side of Memphis where he
became a pacifist recluse after a nasty hoarding incident. It was
pretty classic. Tomorrow night’s show has been transformed into a
hip-hop musical, with some characters in drag. It’s hilarious and
controversial. But Lipinski makes it work.

“
Of course. I’m the
certified minion, remember?”

“
You could’ve been in the
show. You only had to sing for Lipinski and
you
would have played Maggie instead
of Laney Minks. That girl is a dreadful, atrocious
beast.”

I roll my eyes. “What eighteen year
old says things like, ‘dreadful, atrocious beast?’”

“
This one.”

The remainder of our drive into
Savannah is a one-Dixon show ranting about how awful Laney acts,
and how he resents me for having to spend so much time with
her.

“
I’ll see you after
rehearsal!” I shout, slamming his door.

“
Don’t slam my
door!”

Slamming his door is only the
beginning of my revenge for the glob of butter in my dance shoes
this morning.

My job at Just Dance began a couple of
years ago when Ms. Peavy, the owner, asked me to work as an
assistant. I was her student but hated performing. Now I work with
her seven to twelve year olds who want to hone their skills. I also
give private ballroom and hip-hop lessons in my free time for extra
money.

Today’s session, one of my last, is
bittersweet. The more I think about how much I do not want to go to
New York makes it more bitter than sweet.

I change into my uniform of black
capri leggings, black tank top with Just Dance written in silver
block letters on the front, and lightweight sneakers designed
especially for dancers.

I call the class to order by turning
on a hip-hop mix. The rhythmic beats get the group excited to
begin. The kids could perform the routines in their sleep, so this
practice is strictly for polishing. After three hours and countless
bathroom and water breaks, I switch the music to Chopin’s Nocturnes
to bring the class to an end.

I gather cleaning supplies after
everyone has left and clean my way through the studio. Some might
say I have obsessive-compulsive disorder because of my fanatical
cleaning binges. Cleaning helps me relieve stress. I tend to grasp
on to any activity that is all about controlling an outcome. If it
calms me to have my clothes folded to look like a display table at
Gap or if the floors are vacuumed daily because the sound of the
vacuum clears my thoughts doesn’t mean I have a disorder. It means
I need some semblance of control.

When the studio is spotless I turn up
the music, turn off the lights, open the blinds and kick off my
shoes.

I hate performing, but I
love to dance. Nothing can replace the freedom of dancing. Ballet,
jazz, tap, hip-hop, salsa, krumping and break dancing are my
escape.
Especially
krumping and breaking, where no structure or reason to any of
the moves exists. I move where the beat leads me to move. The
feeling is unlike anything else.

My audition for the performing arts
school was a mixed piece called Metaphor that combined breaking
with belly dancing with ballet with pop-locking, and a little bit
of krumping. If Daddy knew the entire audition was freestyle, he
would have been furious.

“
Never go into anything
unprepared, Maddy. Never. You will fail in the long
run.”

Not to sound conceited,
but I really
can
dance well. Whether or not I am good enough to be accepted
into the school on my own, I’ll never know. Daddy’s money goes a
long way . . . from Georgia to New York City,
apparently.

Someone begins applauding behind me. I
turn to face my spectator, fearing the worst.

“
Wow! You are amazing,”
Jackson says. I exhale with relief as he steps further into the
studio. “You should teach me sometime.”

“
Thanks.” I back away
casually as he steps closer. “I’d be glad to teach you. Can you
dance?”

He shakes his head. “Not a
bit.”

I try ignoring the frantic pounding of
my heart. I chalk the reaction up to the surprise of someone
sneaking up on me, not the nearness of Jackson Monroe. I’m not that
pathetic. Right? “What can I do for you?”

Jackson shuffles his feet. “You
mentioned working here. Since my house is close by, I thought I’d
stop in.”

“
Oh,” is all the
intelligence my mouth can handle. Genius.

My cell phone rings. “Excuse me for a
second.”

“
Hey, Daddy.” I walk back
to the main floor and mouth
just a
minute
to Jackson.

I sit with my legs stretched in front
of me. Jackson mimics my position. He studies my face. I bend to
touch my head to my knees and stretch out the kinks from hours of
dancing. Not because his shameless staring is making me nervous.
Pffft. Not at all.

Daddy is explaining that Jackson will
drive me to New York City. Something about a planned trip and
requesting my father’s permission to “escort” me. Yeah,
right.

I rise from my stretch to raise an
eyebrow at Jackson, who is smiling like someone with a secret to
tell. I bend for another stretch while Daddy goes on to say I will
spend a week in Fayetteville, the town connected to Fort
Bragg.

“
I’ll be in Korea for
forty-five days. If you stay in Fayetteville, Jackson will not have
to drive down to Savannah then back up to New York. It’ll be best
for you. Make me happy and do this, won’t you?”

“
Daddy . . .”

“
Don’t argue with me, you
ungrateful child! You’ll do as I say and will damn well like it.
You got me? Selfish, bottom feeding brat.”

I was only going to ask when we were
leaving. “Yes, Daddy.”

“
You didn’t want to go
with me?” Jackson questions after I end the call.

I push myself up from the floor.
Jackson follows and places a hand on the wall behind me, a smile
playing at the corners of his mouth.

I let out a nervous chuckle. “I’m not
sure you want to stand so close right now. I’ve been dancing for
hours in this studio without air cond . . .”

Did he just sniff the air? What is he
doing?

He drops his hand and shrugs. “You
smell like coconut. Kind of reminds me of summer.”

Of course I blush, which amuses him,
which embarrasses me, which amuses him more. A vicious
cycle.

“
Thank you . . . I
think?”

“
I wanted to talk to you,”
he begins after one last, low chuckle. Can a chuckle be sexy? No.
Stop thinking he’s sexy. “I think we should. . .”

“
Maddy! Where are you?”
Dixon calls out from the front of the studio. “Lipinski needs
you.”