Crushed (9 page)

I sigh and stare into the thick gray mass surrounding us. “Boredom.”

He stops wrestling with the wood. “You didn’t hang out with Ellie? Alex said he saw her leaving your dorm.” 

I close my eyes and let out a guttural response. 

From somewhere to my distant right, Paige laughs. She steps out of the trees like a ghost, trailed by Brady’s Yellow-T-Shirt-Girl, aka Saylor.

 Huh. After the way Paige laid into us about hanging out with underclassmen, I’m surprised Saylor’s here. Wonder what Brady did to make that happen?

Paige runs over to Reid, pecks him on the cheek, and flips us off behind her back. Classic Paige. Reid claims she’s a saint in front of the adults and a sinner in the bedroom. That she likes all kinds of kinky shit. I don’t find it hard to believe. 

“Where’s Calista?” Alex asks casually. A little too casually. Like he’s only asking because she’s missing. Which she isn’t. She hardly ever comes out to watch us skate. 

Paige stares at the two of us and makes a funny little ‘o’ shape with her mouth. As in ‘Oh shit, what do I say?’ “She’s, ummm, doing homework.”

The earth rolls a little beneath my feet, and I rock forward. “I feel like awful.”

“Well, you should. You downed half a bottle of vodka,” Brady says. He smiles at Saylor and kicks his board over, an easy but impressive looking move. He stands with one hand on his board and the other shoved into his pocket. Practiced disinterest on his face.

Ahhh…so, he hooked up with Saylor last night. Makes sense. He’s been lusting after her since the first day of school when we spied her on The Beach. 

I collapse onto a parking curb and mess with my shoelaces. My stomach heaves again, and I spew all over the concrete. The humidity intensifies the sour smell and I move further down the curb, away from it.

“Damn, Fletch. Drink much?” Paige chastises.

“I don’t feel well.”

“Thanks for the update, Captain Obvious.”

The other guys skate past me, but my body and head just aren’t in the mood. I’m not sure if it’s the humidity, or anxiety, or just a hangover. Not that it matters. I flick at my laces, my projectile puke having missed my foot by a few inches, and consider telling Brady about Calista’s visit. 

As if he read my mind, Brady drops to the curb next to me and pushes his hand deep into his pocket before emerging with a bag full of goodies. 

“You in?”

After the last twenty-four hours, I most definitely am. “Where’d you get all that?”

The stuff we bought earlier in the week is all but gone — Alex decided to sell off most of the Xanax and half the weed to other students. Funny how he didn’t offer to share the profits with me, considering I bank rolled the initial haul.

“Who do you think?” He jerks his head toward Alex. I hold out my hand and Brady flips a pipe into it before tossing me the baggie. “This will help with the nausea.”

I pack the pipe and light it. The dry buds sizzle and snap. A long drag on the pipe turns them red. The air in my lungs burns, but I hold my breath, letting the magic work its way through my body before exhaling. An instant heavy relaxation rushes through my system and kicks out all the angst of earlier.

“Damn, what is this?”

Brady takes the pipe from me and lights his own bowl. “Humboldt, baby. Pure Humboldt Gold. Good, huh?”

I snatch the pipe back and inhale again. Once I release the air, the burning turns into a delicious warmth. Gravity pushes down on me, a million pounds per inch, and forces me backward on the wet ground. 

“Fuck yeah.”

“Dude, watch out.” Reid speeds past me in a blur of wheels and noise. “You messed up all ready?” His voice calls from somewhere not in front of me.

“Mmmm…” My mouth’s not working.

“Jesus, Fletch. You’re turning into an addict,” Alex says. 

Ha. He wants to talk standards? Or moral and ethics? How about not hitting on a girl your buddy has hooked up with? I scream. Or at least try because all that comes out is a ridiculous laugh.

Whatever. I hop up on my feet. Yeah, now I feel awesome. I flash Brady a thumb’s up and hit my board with my foot, flipping it into the air before catching it. Who said pot dulls the reflexes?

“Hey, Sasha,” I say using Alex’s Russian nickname. He’s standing close enough for me to see amusement cross his face. I suspect, even though he’s Alex now, there’s a piece of him that longs to still be Sasha. 

“Yeah?”

“Who’s on lookout?” 

Reid moves into my line of vision. “No one. Couldn’t find a freshman to do it.”

“Awesome.” I take a few running steps, slap my board down and hop on. The damp air rushes over my skin as I cut through the fog. I’m flying but everything around me moves in slow motion. 

“I’m going to have detention all year at this rate,” I yell into the air, at no one and everyone.

My board hits something, the curb maybe, and for a moment my body soars weightless through the air. The next second, I’m lying in the shrubs, which isn’t entirely uncomfortable. The Fog rushes by, gobbling up everything in its path. My hand reaches out to grab it, but there’s nothing there. Just mist and vapor.

Shit. I totally forgot about detention. And Alex didn’t bother to remind me when he saw me at Reid and Brady’s. That fucker. He purposely didn’t say anything.

Paige stands over me. Damn, she’s hot. My eyes follow the curves of her tight top and my mouth forms a big goofy smile. Jesus, why can’t I stop grinning like an idiot?

“Hey.” My lips are frozen. I can’t relax them.

“Do you need help?”

I’m sitting in a bush. Which is pretty frickin’ hilarious. I laugh and try to climb out, but can’t. “Naw. I’m fine.”

Paige raises her eyebrow. “Yeah, looks like it.”

What does Paige want? My mind spins around every possible reason as to why she’s standing over me while I lay in a shrub. 

More regurgitated lunch forces its way up my throat as I remember last night and how Calista sprinted from my room. I swallow hard, pleading with myself to not puke again. It’s a valiant struggle, and I win.

Relieved, I perform my most awesome move ever: a jump to my feet. 

“What’s up?”

Unimpressed, Paige narrows her eyes. The way she stands, with her shoulders squared, she’s ready to rip my head off. Maybe she and Alex could take turns. 

“What happened with Calista?”

That’s a good question. I have no idea. “Tell her I’m sorry. Will you tell her that?”

Paige tilts her head, her eyes staring up into mine, searching for something. I look away.

“You really mean that, don’t you? ” She doesn’t wait for my answer. “You like like her, don’t you?”

What the hell. I’ve messed up everything else today. I scuff the toe of my shoe on the ground. “Don’t tell anyone, but yeah, I really like her. Like crazy, madly like her.”

Paige tosses her head back and her velvety laugh rings out across the parking lot. “Oh I won’t tell anyone, because no one would believe me if I did.”

12 

Six extra weekends of detention. Seven, if you count the one I have to make up. That’s what I get for missing the first one. Six more Saturdays of raking leaves or washing dishes or whatever else Mr. Tolst, the headmaster, thinks up. Six Saturdays when my friends get to hang out or sleep in or whatever, and I get to do nothing but clean gutters and play campus whipping boy for sadistic maintenance guys.

Fan-fucking-tastic. Thank you, Alex
. 

“Do you understand the severity of your situation, Mr. Colson?” The Headmaster’s two watery eyes appraise me. “This could affect your college options.”

Before I can answer, a heavy hand raps on the door. The decrepit Headmaster bellows, “Come in.”

I don’t bother to turn my head. Whoever’s here doesn’t care about me. 

“Mr. Tolst, how are you?” I recognize the voice — Dad. I snap my head around and find myself staring at my dad’s imposing six-foot-three frame. He fills the doorway, effectively blocking the hallway behind him.

“Will Colson! Come in! Come in!” 

This is not a happy coincidence, and I suspect it isn’t a coincidence at all. 

Dad reaches around me and extends his hand across the desk. The relic clasps it with both of his. 

With Dad here, the cramped office is more so. The suffocating smell of dust hangs on everything, and stacks of papers and books line the floor. 

“Why are you here, Fletcher?” Dad asks as he folds himself in the chair next to mine.

“Going to school. What are you doing here?” 

Mr. Tolst clears his throat. “Fletcher, you will speak to your father with respect, do you understand? Otherwise, I may be forced to extend our agreement for a few extra weeks.” He raises his eyebrows over the rim of his glasses.

“I’m sorry.” 

Mr. Tolst rearranges himself in his oversized leather chair. He stares at me again, pursing his lips and makes these weird “ummm” sounds. 

It’s rude to stare back, so I concentrate on a spider web decorating the upper shelf of the bookcase behind Mr. Tolst, and pretend my stomach is one-hundred percent under my control.

“Tell your father what you did,” the Headmaster prompts.

I focus on a darkened spot on the desk, just next to the calendar. “I missed detention.”

Dad clears his throat — the thing he does when he wants to sound serious. “And what did you have detention for?”

“Fighting.”

Mr. Tolst elaborates. “Fletcher and another student came to blows in the dining hall.”

Dad wrinkles his face. “That doesn’t sound like you. What happened?”

I pick at the loose piece of skin next to my nail. “Nothing. Alex was being an—” I stop and change my word choice. “He was being condescending to the girls at our table.”

“Mr. Tolst,” Dad says.

“Conrad, Will. How many times have I asked you to call me Conrad?”

 “You’ll always be Mr. Tolst to me.” Dad laughs. “I’d like to speak to Fletch alone. Do you mind if I come back in, say, an hour for our meeting?”

“I have plans at four.”

“We’ll be done by then.” Dad stands and shakes hands with Mr. Tolst. I do the same, as I’ve been taught and follow Dad out into the empty hallway. No one except Mr. Tolst hangs out in the admin building on the weekends.

“Did Mr. Tolst call you?” I ask. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s called my parents over some asinine thing I did. Like that time, sophomore year, Brady and I got really fucked up and thought it would be funny to test the strength of super glue. For the record, it can in fact hold a coffee mug, toaster, and girl’s underwear to a door. But this is the first time I’ve had my parents show up at a disciplinary meeting. Typically, unless the situation is severe, it’s only the students and Mr. Tolst or Mr. Cranston.

Dad takes long strides down the hallway, toward the front doors. “No. Actually, I was surprised to see you. I came up to go over donor projects with Tolst.” Dad chairs the alumni giving project for Harker. “But I suspect, knowing the old man, he probably called you in when he knew I’d be showing up.”

“Figures,” I say.

Dad gives me a side-eyed glance. “Yeah, he’s always been a little underhanded.”

Before I came to Harker, when I was an eighth-grader, Dad brought me up here to tour the school — his and mom’s alma mater. They both wanted nothing more than for me to go to Harker. And I wanted to come here. Badly. 

The whole time, Dad told me stories about things he and his friends used to do. At the time, I thought they sounded so scandalous, but now, I think he left out most of the good parts. Still, they were the blueprints of my own high school career.

“So, what’s going on? Fighting. Missing detention. That doesn’t sound like you.” He leans in closer to me and wrinkles his nose. “God, you smell awful. Like you spent the night in a bar smoking pot. Lucky Tolst can’t smell anything anymore. When I was here, he could sniff out smokers from across campus. I got my fair share of detentions because of it.”

My dad snorts appreciatively, like he admires the fact I’m rebelling. I think, in the normal world, most kids would panic if their parents suspected them of drinking and smoking pot. But for us — my friends and me — these aren’t rebellions. It’s a right of passage. Our parents want us to do these things. 

It makes us normal. 

Sure, they say they don’t, but really, when it comes right down to it, they do. Because through us, they re-live their own past glories. Through us, they’re young again, and life’s possibilities spread out before them.

Except, everything’s been planned out for us. 

We live in this tunnel we entered at birth and are shoved through until death. My path is easy: do what’s expected. Get good grades, dabble in drugs, sleep with too many girls, graduate, go to college, do more of the same, take a job from a friend of my parents. Get a house and wife and kids.

Just like they did. Like they do.

It’s expected. 

It’s easy.

Dad and I reach the Quad. A few kids stand around talking, but I don’t know any of them. On the weekends, most of us hang out on upper campus at The Beach, only coming down here during mealtimes. Dad motions to a bench, and I sit down. He, of course, stands. It’s this alpha male thing of his, I think. I’ve watched him at work, during meetings. He paces around the room, firing questions at his employees who line the boardroom table. It’s intimidating, I guess. 

Mom told me it’s why he’s successful. She conveniently leaves out the part where Grandfather gave Dad all the seed money for his company and stocked the board of directors with seasoned businessmen. Without them, I doubt Dad’s business would have made it.

Whatever. In the official version of the story, Dad created a multi-billion company from nothing out of his dorm room at Princeton. 

No one expects me to do the same. All I have to do is show up and not make an ass of myself. Simply move through the motions and someday, it’s all mine.

“Alex called Calista a whore. That’s what happened.”

The corners of Dad’s lips pull up in amusement. “So you punched him?”

“More or less.”

“You look like shit. Seems he got a few good hits on you.”

“Yeah.” I hang my head, hiding my face behind my ‘blond mop’ as Dad calls my hair.