Friendswood (19 page)

L
ATE TO BIOLOGY,
Dex walked with Wendy, who worked as an aide in the principal's office. Construction paper helmets with glittered numbers for each of the players had been arranged in an
F
on the wall next to the giant blue mustang painted there. Some of the helmets lay smashed and wrinkled on the floor, where people stepped on them on their way to class. Wendy told him that someone had left an anonymous note in all caps addressed to Noelle, the super-Christian student council president; Principal Johnson; and “others.” The note said “JUDGE NOT, LEST YOU BE JUDGED. ONLY GOD KNOWS THE TRUTH.”

Later, the janitor's closet had been left open, and a cat had got in there. Dex watched the janitor go inside and look around but come out empty-handed. Waiting outside Binnie Priller's drama classroom for a conference with his Spanish teacher, Dex watched two girls practice a mock sword fight with cardboard tubes. They were wearing poofy, sequined skirts. Down the corridor, he spotted Coach Salem walking purposefully and blank faced into the principal's office, followed by the counselor, Ms. Ryan, who walked tentatively behind him in her long loose skirt. Dex wondered if there would be more punishment for Trace, Cully, and Brad, if the coach or the principal had found out what happened that day. Of course, they wouldn't want to lose Cully for the whole season, and maybe not even Brad, so they could choose, maybe, to downplay the rumors, to pretend they hadn't heard. Trace, Bishop, Cully, and Brad
had only been suspended for two weeks—because, officially, the principal knew about the drinking and the truancy, and nothing else. But he'd seen Principal Johnson come out to the coach's office in the gatehouse last week, which he'd never witnessed before, and there were so many rumors about Willa at that party, even guys who'd been there didn't know what was true.

On the Wednesday when they'd all come back, Cully's eyes had a wariness to them, and he seemed hunched over. Trace and Brad walked down the halls together, cutting a swath in the crowd—a tic in Trace's strut, which seemed put on, and Brad's face so empty it seemed comically blank. Some of Dex's friends said they didn't blame them for being drunk and taking advantage—a girl was a girl was a girl. But, Dex said, “I heard she wasn't even awake.” Whenever he passed one of the three in the hallway, he made it a point not to say hello.

After class, Angela and Sharon and another girl he didn't know were standing outside the gym, talking loudly, and as he got his books out of his locker, Sharon said, “This is all just a setup. Brad and Cully, these are quality guys, good guys. They don't have to force themselves on a girl.” She slammed shut her locker.

D
EX AND
W
EEKS WERE DRIVING ARO
UND,
past the old Quaker church, past the intersection of competing gas stations, where one of their friend's older brothers worked, flabby and moving slackly when there was a problem with one of the pumps or when a lady wanted full service.

“You know Stewart used to work for Rue Banes,” Weeks told him. “Dumped chemicals into the creek late at night, and sometimes they got on his skin or his clothes. His brother thinks it made him stupid.”

“Huh,” said Dex. “But maybe he was stupid to begin with.”

“Yeah, it's hard to say.”

They were supposed to be looking for a party over in Eagle Heights, but Weeks was looking for Heather's car at the Dairy Queen, at the laundromat parking lot, even though it was early for that.

“She's probably at home, washing her hair or doing homework, Weeks,” said Dex. “What makes you think she likes you again? Oh, yeah, she asked you to dance once. Were there any other males within spitting distance?”

“Shut up.”

Weeks was hurting. He hadn't been with a girl since last year when they all went to the community center for a teen night, and the girl he liked, Heather, happened to be trying to make her boyfriend jealous.

Weeks fiddled with the dial of the radio, tried to tune in the decent station. “I need a real sound system in this thing.” A pop song shimmied out. “Yes!” There was a huge red zit right at the end of his nose, like something in a cartoon. “Let me ask you. You still like Willa? After all that?”

The post-work traffic passed them in the other lane, one person after another, driving, looking pissed off. “Yeah.”

“I don't know.” He shuddered, but Dex didn't think he really meant it.

“After all that skeeviness.”

“Shut up.”

“I heard something today.” Weeks puckered his lips and blew out a sigh. “You know Bishop always has practically a pharmacy in his pocket. He put a roofie in her drink. Snow saw him do it. He thought the drink was for Bishop at first, that he was trying to make one of his special cocktails for himself. To make sure he got good and fucked up.”

“Does Willa know that?”

Weeks threw up one hand. “Hell if I know. I'm pretty sure it's true though.”

“What are you saying?”

The lights ahead seemed to stab at Dex's eyes, scramble up the scene they were driving toward.

“She was drugged, buddy.”

Bishop seemed to always have Xanax, one of the drugs Dex recognized because he'd picked up the prescription for his mom. He'd never heard of him having roofies. The road rose up in a blur of red and white lights.

“Whoa,” said Weeks. “Fuck.” He swerved his truck into the Safeway parking lot, just avoided hitting a light pole. “Goddamn Jeep!”

“You're saying she's skeevy because Bishop Geitner drugged her, and that gave those shitheads permission,” Dex said.

“Shit! Did you just see what almost happened? We nearly ate it because of that Jeep!” Weeks pounded the steering wheel, breathed slowly and loudly, a hand on his chest. After a moment, he turned to Dex. “I'm saying it's a sad thing. A real sad thing. She shouldn't have let herself get mixed up with Holbrook in the first place. But in all those texts, they don't say she was drugged.”

“What texts?”

“Well, they're mostly in code. From Bishop and Brad.”

They drove around for another hour, but they never saw Heather's car, and they never found the party.

It was a time when, if he could have, he'd talk to his dad. He tried calling him that night when he got home, but there was no answer, and the next morning, his mom said he'd written that he was out on a rig. Dex didn't want to be part of the lying about Willa. He knew they'd tricked her somehow, or Cully had brainwashed her into going to the Lawbournes' in the first place. And then they'd drugged her. How many people knew about that besides Weeks and him?

That afternoon, Dex drove out to Casa Texas, the place his dad had taken him solo, no Layla, the last time he'd been in town. They'd eaten tacos and his dad had let Dex sneak occasional sips from his beer bottle. The restaurant was a little way out of town on Farm Road 1, but it was worth it, for the food and the friendliness, his dad said.

Somehow, his dad had known the owner and a couple of the waitresses, and the hostess had seated them right next to the small dance hall, though the stage was empty, next to the scuffed wood floor.

“Best tacos this side of Mexico, my friend,” said his dad.

The whole night they talked about the food and the mechanics of oil drills, and three times, someone came over to say hello. First, an older, chubby woman named Carlita, who held his dad's face in both of her hands and then kissed him. Then, a busboy named Juan, who wore a bow tie and an old-fashioned, slicked-back haircut, and joked with his dad in Spanish. And then the owner, Fred Holgine, slammed two shots of whiskey on the table and sat down with them for a bit. “Your dad,” said Mr. Holgine, “he's my friend. You need anything? You're my friend.”

Dex hadn't been back to Casa Texas since the spring, but he had a craving for tacos, and thought his dad would be amused to hear he'd gone there on his own—they'd have something to talk about on the phone for once.

He sat near the front, by the plate glass window with the
Casa
letters painted into jalapeño pepper shapes. He looked out the window at the parking lot and the small yard of modest trees. What was it his mom always said?
Don't worry about tomorrow. It always comes.

The chicken tacos were good—served with lime and chorizo and a delicious spice he didn't know. There was a cute waitress in a short black skirt and white blouse, who set the tables behind him. Her black hair was in pigtails.

When he was almost finished, Mr. Holgine appeared at his table. “You're Mac's son, aren't you?”

“Yeah, I am. We met.” Dex held out his hand, but Mr. Holgine didn't seem to notice. “How were the tacos? Good?”

“Yeah.”

“This one's on me. Don't worry about it. Always remember, your dad's my friend.” Bright-colored piñatas swayed from the ceiling—hot-pink
horses with purple yarn manes, lime-green dogs with stupid grins. The music was cheerful and yearning. He wanted to stay there. And Mr. Holgine, standing there, smiling, seemed to want to chat, but Dex didn't know how to take him up on that.

“How's your dad doing anyway? He's out on that rig?”

“Yeah, he is. Until the fifteenth.”

“He works hard, that man.” Mr. Holgine scratched his forehead. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“You got any interest in a job? Because one of my busboys just quit, and we can always use good people.” Mr. Holgine must have seen maturity in him, or wanted to do his dad a favor by extending a hand to his son. His dad had seemed to love this man, with his neatly pressed colorful shirt, the shark tooth he wore on a chain around his neck, but Dex had other responsibilities.

“I've got my job as a trainer for the football team.” He felt loyal to the Mustangs, to Friendswood, and felt he should still do his part.

“Oh, yes, of course.”

Dex didn't want to seem ungrateful. “I appreciate you taking an interest.”

Mr. Holgine smiled widely, clapped him on the back. “You come back, Dex. Anytime.”

T
HE NEXT DA
Y AFTER SCHOOL,
the trailer smelled of hamburgers grilling because it was Layla's night to cook.

On the stained couch, playing cards splayed next to his mother's magazine, open to a page that said “How the Stars Lose Weight!” and “Halloween Babies.”

Dex sat in front of the computer, moving the cursor through emerald
woods as he searched for the evil dwarf. Layla was behind him, holding a greasy spatula.

“Mom and her were screaming, and it got real nasty,” she said. “It was embarrassing. I haven't seen her that worked up in a long time.”

Dex shrugged and onscreen entered a menacing meadow, where he might be attacked from all sides. Layla's voice went on behind him. She liked to analyze a thing, look at it from a few different places, and then still keep her opinion in reserve. He was afraid she might be smarter than him, even though she was only thirteen. He was going to ignore her as long as he could.