Straight Punch (9 page)

“I guess. Unless it's that herbal shit.”

Chapter Thirteen

For someone so
out there
, Pretty Boy was surprisingly
in here
when it came to tea.

Our pantry had a whole shelf with just boxes of tea. “Chamomile, mint, red hibiscus…” I rattled off the names to Pretty Boy as I moved boxes out of the way so I could get to the boxes behind them. “Sleepy Time, licorice…”

“What about Red Rose?” Pretty Boy asked. “It's the only tea I drink.”

I found a box of Red Rose tea at the very back of the shelf. I estimated it was about ten years old, but Pretty Boy didn't need to know that. Besides, maybe tea improved with age—like wine.

Pretty Boy was fussy about teacups too. A mug, he said, wasn't right for tea. He wanted a cup with a matching saucer.
Luckily, we had some of those. When I gave him a choice of two, he couldn't tell I was teasing.

“Delicious,” he said as he sipped the tea.

I'd made myself a cup of licorice tea. “So I was in Chinatown with Cyrus yesterday and we ran into Jasmine,” I told Pretty Boy.

“Cyrus? I thought you dumped that pretentious jerk-off. I'd put my money on you and Randy. He's smarter than he looks.”

I ignored that comment. “Cyrus and I have been having some problems. But hey, thanks for your opinion.” I hoped that would shut him down. “Did you know she works mopping floors in Chinatown?”

“Of course I know. Everybody knows.”

“She told me how her aunt got hold of the inheritance money,” I said.

Pretty Boy took another sip of tea. “The aunt didn't just get hold of it. She gambled it away. She's hooked on blackjack. Unfortunately, she isn't any good at it.”

“You're kidding,” I said. I'd heard about gambling addictions, but I'd never known anyone who had one.

“I wish I was.”

After that, we just sat there for a while. Then Pretty Boy went to the sink and washed out his teacup. “If we were different sorts of people, Tessa Something-or-Other, we could sit here all night and shoot the breeze, but you and I have got ourselves a meet and greet with some bare walls on de Maisonneuve. You coming or what?”

My plan was just to keep Pretty Boy company, but something about the rattle of the cans in his backpack, and the quiet streets with only the streetlamps for light, brought back the old urge to tag. In fact, I was starting to think I'd never really lost the urge—just buried it temporarily.

Pretty Boy must've known what was going through my mind. “I don't care what Miss Lebrun thinks. A piece of canvas doesn't do it for me. The streets…” He looked around him, then up at the stars. “They're alive.”

De Maisonneuve Boulevard was so quiet, it felt eerie. We were nearing the part of the street that was mostly industrial. Except for one new condo, everything else was a business—a car wash, a plumbing-supply center and a handful of auto-body shops.

Pretty Boy and I spotted the bare concrete wall at the same moment. The last time I'd been in the area, I'd noticed a huge black tag on this wall. Someone must've paid to have it removed. I couldn't blame them. That tag was butt ugly. I didn't believe in tagging for the sake of tagging. In my opinion, a good tag was a work of art. I knew Pretty Boy shared my philosophy. Too bad the rest of the world didn't feel that way.

He looked at me and grinned. “What do you say we leave our mark right here? Only we make it so beautiful, no one'll make an emergency call to Graffiti MD.” Graffiti MD was the name of a local cleaning service that specialized in removing tags and graffiti. Over the summer, I'd seen their trucks making the rounds.

I stepped closer to the curb. “You go ahead,” I told Pretty Boy. “I'll watch for cops.”

Pretty Boy stuck out his butt and did his little dance, complete with clucking sounds.

“I'm not chicken,” I told him. “I'm just being careful.”

Pretty Boy kept clucking. “You're chicken,” he said. “You're afraid. I can smell it. You reek of fear, Tessa Something-or-Other.”

“Fuck you, Pretty Boy.”

Pretty Boy grinned again. “That's more like it. Come on, let's do this.” I think he knew before I did that I was about to start tagging again.

We took the spray cans out of Pretty Boy's backpack. A train came by and then a lone cyclist. Otherwise we had the street to ourselves.

We started at opposite ends of the wall. I surveyed my side, mapping things out in my head, choosing the best spot for my trademark sign. Maybe tonight I'd do it on an angle, just to shake things up.

Pretty Boy didn't work with a plan. I could already hear the whoosh of spray paint as he began applying the color. “You doing your usual?” Pretty Boy's voice echoed in the dark.

“Uh-huh.”

“Why don't you try something different—for a change?” he asked.

“It's my trademark, my signature,” I told him. “Like butterfly people are for you.”

“Who said I was doing a butterfly person?”

“You mean you're not?”

“I'm not. Artists need to change things up. Keep it fresh. Otherwise they get lazy.”

“What about Salvador Dali and his melting clocks?” I knew Salvador Dalí was one of Pretty Boy's idols, even if he'd painted on canvas.

“He painted lots of other stuff besides melting clocks.”

So I decided to try working Pretty Boy-style. Without a plan. I wouldn't even use black spray paint the way I'd always done. I reached for one of Pretty Boy's cans. I didn't even know what color it was until I looked at the plastic top. Forest green.

I pressed down on the nozzle, and this time, I let the jet of paint lead me. It didn't take long for me to see where I was going. I was painting a path through a forest of tall, spiky pine trees. And then, just like that, my path changed direction, leading me around a concrete corner so that I found myself on the other side of the wall. The concept was cool—if I said so myself.

I worked quickly, intensely, practically without thinking. I added branches to the pine trees and, overhead, a pair of red boxing gloves, hanging in the air like a moon.

I'd lost track of time before while I was tagging, but this was different. This time, I was following the paint and the path. I liked how it felt: free.

But when I stepped back to see from a distance what I'd done, I only saw flaws. The spots where the paint was too thick and dribbling down the concrete, or where it was too thin and wispy. The thumb on one of the boxing gloves was too fat. Maybe I needed some black after all.

I looked over at Pretty Boy's side. I remembered the first time I'd met him—before I knew what his name was—and how he must've felt me watching him then too.

He hadn't painted a butterfly person. But he'd stayed on theme. Pretty Boy's side of the wall had been taken over by a giant, bulbous larva. Butterflies, caterpillars, larvae—the connection was obvious. But what made Pretty Boy's larva special was that it was melting.

“I like it,” I told him.

Pretty Boy liked mine too, though his reaction was more low-key. “Nice,” he said. “I like how you used two sides of the wall.”

We could hear the rumble of a car coming down Wilson Avenue. Was it the cops? I could feel my heartbeat quickening. Why had I let Pretty Boy talk me into this? My mom would kill me if I got caught tagging again! I'd get kicked out of New Directions and end up a high-school dropout. And what if I got sent to youth court?

We tossed the cans into Pretty Boy's backpack. Then he put his arm through mine, bringing me in close. Soon we were strolling down the sidewalk along de Maisonneuve. If it weren't for Pretty Boy's feather boa, we might've been any couple out for a late-night walk.

The rumble got louder as the car approached us. It wasn't a cop car. It was a souped-up old black Mustang with silver hubcaps that gleamed in the dark. “Shit,” Pretty Boy muttered when the car slowed down.

There were three guys inside.

“D'you know them?” I whispered.

“You could say that.”

The guy sitting in the front passenger seat rolled down his window and stuck his head out. “Hey, Percy,” he said, “we've been driving around looking for you all night. How come you're not picking up your phone?”

The guy was bigger than Pretty Boy, but he had his fine features and the same lilt when he spoke. So this was one of the brothers Jasmine had told me about.

“I turned my phone off because I wanted to be left alone,” Pretty Boy said.

Now the guy sitting in the backseat rolled down his window and joined the conversation. He looked so much like the brother in the passenger seat, I wondered if they were twins. “You got yourself a lady, Pretty Boy? I thought you didn't swing that way.”

Pretty Boy pulled me in a little closer. We were speed-walking now. The old me would've had trouble keeping up.

The car pulled in so close to the sidewalk, the front tire skimmed the curb. “You have to come with us, Percy,” the passenger-seat brother said. His voice, which had been playful before, now sounded serious—and impatient.

“I don't
have
to do anything, Rufus,” Pretty Boy said.

“We could drive your girlfriend home. Then we got something special for you,” Rufus said.

“I don't want your something special.” I felt the muscles in Pretty Boy's arm pop up. I hoped he wasn't planning to punch anyone out.

“It's top-quality Jamaican ganja, mahhn.” The backseat brother's imitation of a Rastafarian was terrible.

“You know I'm done with that shit, Anthony,” Pretty Boy said.

“You're never done with that shit,” Anthony called out.

“I'm telling you, I'm done.” Pretty Boy was shouting. “I don't want to go to juvie again. Now back off, will ya?” The muscles in Pretty Boy's arms were twitching now.

“Let him walk his girlfriend home,” I heard Anthony say in the backseat. “Maybe he's finally gonna get himself laid. We gotta scope out the neighborhood anyhow.” Then he shouted, “Just make sure you answer your phone next time we call, little brother! You help us out, and we got some top-quality ganja with your name on it. You smoke a little o' that and you'll quit whining about juvie.”

“Let's go,” I heard the driver tell Rufus and Anthony. They rolled up their windows, and the tires squealed as the car took off.

That's when Pretty Boy did something I'd never heard him do. He sighed. A deep, really relieved sigh. I hadn't realized till then how much his brothers freaked him out.

Chapter Fourteen

The grade tens hadn't only looked after refreshments. They'd also turned a white bedsheet into a colorful banner and hung it outside the school. Technically, the banner should have been classified as décor, which wasn't their responsibility, but Pretty Boy and I decided not to mention it. “Nobody knows better than us,” I told Pretty Boy while struggling to keep a straight face, “how important it is to encourage creativity in troubled teens.”

But at four o'clock on the day of our open house, the banner had to come down. Someone—we were pretty sure who—had telephoned the borough office to complain. Apparently, a school had to have a permit to display a banner, and we hadn't applied for one. So much for creativity.

I needed to put some finishing touches on our fourth canvas. I hauled it to the classroom, not expecting to find Randy and Di huddled at the back of the room. Di was blowing her nose. Ruger was sitting on the floor next to her, his dark eyes alert and focused on his owner.

It was too late for me to turn around. They'd already seen me, and they couldn't have missed the canvas, which was halfway into the room.

Ruger's ears pricked up when Randy sprung from his chair. I'd never get over how much quicker Randy was with movement than with words.

“Let me help with that, Tessa,” he said, taking hold of one end of the canvas and lifting it through the air as if it were made of feathers.

“I didn't realize you were in here. I could go work someplace else.” To be honest, I had no idea where else to go. The kitchen wasn't big enough, and there was no way I could drag the canvas downstairs to the gym.

Randy shot a look at Di as if he was clearing things with her.

Di took a fresh Kleenex from her handbag and blew her nose again. “It's okay,” she said. “I don't have any secrets from Tessa.” Ruger flopped down on the floor, frog-style, without lifting his eyes off Di.

I set up at the front of the room, and Randy went back to his chair. I tried not to listen in on the conversation. Only it was hard not to. They didn't even bother trying to lower their voices.

“I'm just telling you what”—Randy struggled to get his sentence out—“what I know about Sal and what I know about guys.”

“You don't understand. It's not like that with me and Sal. He loves me. I know he does.” I could tell Di was trying to convince herself.

Afterward, I wondered why Randy didn't just give up then. Why not let Di go on believing that Sal loved her? He must've thought he really needed to make his point. He must've thought
it could help Di—even if it hurt her right then.

“You don't know Sal like I do.” I was surprised when Randy's voice broke. I hadn't expected him to get so emotional. “If you think I'm a dog around the ladies”—Ruger looked up when he heard the word
dog—
“and I'm not saying I'm not, Sal…Sal's way worse. There's something else I got to tell you. Sal's got…he's got somebody else.” Randy fell silent. He'd said what he had to.

Di was tearing up. Ruger's brindled ears went back, attentive.

Di made gulping sounds. “How do you know?” she asked Randy.

“I've seen them together.”

“So big deal. You saw Sal with some other chick. He hangs out with lots of chicks.”

“They were…doing more than hanging out.” Randy paused, and this time, I didn't think it was because he was having trouble finding his words. “Sal got that other chick pregnant too.”

“No way! You're lying!” Di was shouting now. A low rumble came from Ruger.

Randy ignored the dog. He went over to Di and put his hand on her shoulder. “I'm not lying. You just don't want to hear it.”

Next thing I knew, Di was crumpled like some wad of paper on the floor. Ruger was licking her face and whimpering. Di tried pushing him away, but the dog wouldn't go. I'd never heard anyone sob the way Di was sobbing now. It was if she was trying to swallow back her tears so no one would hear her. But that only made her choke.

Randy shifted from one foot to another. “Take it easy, Di,” he kept saying. Only that made things worse.

I couldn't paint—I couldn't even pretend to paint. Not with Di sobbing like that. I just wasn't sure I knew her well enough to intervene.

In the end, I went over for Randy as much as for Di. He looked trapped—like a butterfly between two panes of glass.

“You said what you needed to,” I told him, swatting his arm. “Now get lost, will you?”

Randy flew for the door. Before he reached it, he turned and started sputtering an apology. “Look, I'm sorry, Di. But you needed to know.”

I put my arm around Di's shoulders. “Everything'll be okay,” I said, not because I thought so but because I couldn't think of what else to say.

“He hasn't called me in three weeks,” Di blurted out between sobs. “Randy says Sal's got some other chick pregnant too. How could he do that to me? To us?”

I wanted to say Sal was an irresponsible jerk, that she was better off without him, that he'd have made a terrible father, but I knew that wasn't what Di wanted to hear. So I came up with something else. “It's not about Sal anymore. It's about you, Di, and what you decide to do about”—I paused to find the right word—“your future.”

“I'm not getting an abortion, if that's what you mean.” Di's eyes were shining. I thought the shine came from a combination of tears and willpower.

“I didn't mean that,” I said. “But having a baby when you're sixteen—well, it's gotta be hard.”

“I'll be seventeen by the time the baby comes.” Talking about the baby seemed to calm her down.

I looked at Di's belly. Even though she still wasn't showing, it was pretty amazing to imagine there was a baby growing in there. A baby with tiny fingers and toes, a baby that would grow up to be as big as any of us. I wondered if it would look like Di. “I bet it'll be a beautiful baby,” I whispered.

It was one thing for Di to go on with the pregnancy, but I wondered if she was planning to keep the baby and raise it herself. I knew there were a lot of families that wanted to adopt babies. Maybe Di would find one of those families for her baby. But I worried that if I raised the possibility, Di might punch me.

Di seemed to know what I was thinking. She caressed her belly gently, as if she was caressing the baby inside. “I'm not giving my baby away either,” she said.

“I never said you should.”

“I could never do that.” Di's eyes pooled up with tears. “That's what my parents did. That's how I ended up in foster care.”

“You're in the foster system?” It probably wasn't the best question, but it popped out. She'd never mentioned it before. Maybe that was why Di cried the way she did. Maybe a kid in the foster system learned to make as little noise as possible.

“Yeah,” Di said. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I'm not looking at you like anything.”

“Let me tell you something, Tessa. The foster home I live in sucks. But it's a big improvement over the ones I was in before. You know what I've learned?” Di sounded angry.

I shook my head.

“I learned you gotta make your own family.” Di turned to look around the classroom, then out at the hallway. “This place. The people in it. You're my family.”