Chapter 29. Ethan #2
Santana calls after them. "None of you need to worry about advancing. I've already visualized the entire bracket. I win by knockout in the second round, and then I win again in the semifinal by submission, and in the final I win by… actually, I haven't decided yet. I'm accepting suggestions."
"Disqualification," Jack offers.
Then the hallway goes quiet for thirty seconds. We hear boys running again, and Jack is back in our doorway. He's carrying a bag of Doritos, a Snickers, and a can of Coke.
"How the fuck did you get all that?" Liam asks, mesmerized by the snacks.
"Patterson! He's the man!"
Jack throws Liam a Snickers bar. It's Liam's favorite candy bar, and Jack probably knows it.
"Fuck yeah, man, thank you," he says, already unwrapping it.
He takes a bite, grunts in pleasure, and offers me some. I shake my head with a smile. He eats the rest gladly, and he probably knows I'm much happier to see him eat than to have a piece myself.
Thirty minutes go by fast. Right at the thirty-minute mark, I check my watch and tap Liam's knee.
"Time. Griff's room."
Liam groans from where he's sprawled on the bed, still holding his Snickers wrapper. "Five more minutes."
"Now, baby."
He rolls off the bed dramatically.
The hallway is already filling. Jack emerges from 202 with Doritos dust on his fingers and the can of Coke tucked under his arm like a football.
Santana follows, still talking to no one in particular.
Dan and Cedric come out of 200 mid-argument about something that sounds like it involves a push-up bet.
Tyler exits 206, and he seems to be in the worst mood he's ever been in.
Reed follows three steps behind, somehow in an even worse mood.
We file into room 212. Griff's room is identical to ours. Santos is sitting in the chair by the window, scrolling through her phone, and she gives us a nod as we crowd in.
"Sit," he says.
We arrange ourselves around the room. Jack claims the floor immediately, back against the wall, legs stretched out.
Liam drops beside him. Tyler takes the far edge of the spare bed, and Reed, after a moment of calculation, leans against the wall by the door, as far from Tyler as possible.
Dan sits on the floor near the desk. Cedric perches on the desk itself, feet dangling.
Santana ends up cross-legged on the carpet between the two beds. I sit next to Liam.
Griff stands at the center of it all, arms folded, surveying us.
"Good," he says. "Everyone's here. Everyone's alive. We're off to a strong start."
"Low bar," Santos says, perfectly straight-faced, and we laugh. She doesn't seem to register that she's made a joke, so she keeps her expression locked.
"Tomorrow's schedule. Weigh-ins at eight a.m. at Westlake's gymnasium, which means everybody will be up at six-thirty.
First bouts start at ten. I'll go over the bracket tonight once it's posted.
For now, I want you rested, hydrated, and calm.
" His eyes sweep the room, lingering on Jack. "Calm, Jack."
"I am calm! I'm the calmest person here! I'm as calm as someone can be…"
"You've been talking nonstop for three hours," Griff interrupts.
We laugh.
Griff exhales through his nose. "My life choices led me here," he murmurs, and we laugh again.
Then he uncrosses his arms, getting a little softer.
"Now," he says. "Dinner. I'm ordering takeout."
The room goes still.
Takeout. This belongs to a different world, not ours.
"I'm sorry," Jack says slowly. "Did you just say takeout?"
"I did."
"Like… from a restaurant?"
"That's generally how takeout works, Perry."
"Ordered by you. For us."
Griff looks amused. "Is Chinese okay with everybody?"
Nobody speaks.
The silence is so complete I can hear the air conditioning cycling. Eight faces stare at Griff with expressions ranging from Jack's open-mouthed shock to Reed's narrow-eyed suspicion, as if this might be some elaborate psychological test designed to evaluate our response to unexpected kindness.
Liam is the first to break.
"Chinese," he repeats. "Like, with lo mein?"
"With whatever you want. There's a place that delivers. I've got a menu." Griff pulls a folded paper from his back pocket, a takeout menu with photos of food. He holds it up. "Pick what you want. I'm ordering in fifteen minutes."
The dam breaks.
Jack lunges for the menu so fast he nearly takes Griff's hand off. "General Tso's. I need General Tso's chicken. I haven't had General Tso's in… how long have I been locked up? That long. I need it. Griff, I need it."
"Orange chicken," Cedric says, suddenly on his feet, crowding in over Jack's shoulder to see the menu. "And fried rice. And egg rolls. Are there egg rolls?"
"There are always egg rolls, dumbass. It's a Chinese restaurant," Dan says, also standing now.
The menu passes from hand to hand. Santana studies it as if he's going to take a test on it. Tyler looks at it for a second before passing it along.
Liam bounces beside me, his earlier anxiety forgotten. "Can I get dumplings?" he asks, looking at Griff, then at me, then back at Griff, as if he needs permission from both authority figures in his life. "And lo mein? And maybe a spring roll?"
"Order whatever you want," Griff says, shrugging.
For kids who eat what they're given, when they're given it, in portions determined by someone else's budget, this is like winning the lottery.
Griff looks proud too, softer than usual as he watches how happy we are. He's a good man.
Santos calls in the order from her phone, reading off a list that Griff compiled on the back of his schedule printout. The total is staggering, enough food for a small banquet, and I suspect Griff is paying for at least part of this out of his own pocket, though I'll never ask and he'll never say.
The food arrives thirty-seven minutes later. A delivery kid in a Honda Civic pulls into the parking lot, and Patterson meets him downstairs, returning with six plastic bags so heavy they've stretched the handles into white filaments.
The smell hits the hallway—soy sauce, ginger, hot oil—and we all cheer when he gets there.
We spread it out everywhere. The desk becomes a serving station, white containers lined up with their cardboard lids flipped back, steam rising in fragrant columns.
General Tso's, orange chicken, beef with broccoli, lo mein in a container the size of a small bucket, fried rice studded with egg and peas, egg rolls stacked like golden logs, dumplings glistening with oil, wonton soup in foam cups, spring rolls, crab rangoon.
More food than eight people should reasonably consume, which means it's exactly the right amount for eight boys.
"This is the greatest night of my life," Jack announces through a mouthful of General Tso's. "I'm not being dramatic. I'm being factual. This chicken is better than freedom."
"No, it's the fried rice," Cedric says, eyes closed, chopsticks frozen midair. "The fried rice is doing something to me spiritually."
"I told you," Santana says, jabbing a dumpling toward Cedric. "The universe provides. Scorpio season. I called it."
Liam is eating like a happy little puppy. He's got a container of dumplings in his lap and a spring roll in his hand, and he's alternating between them. That's all I care about.
"Thank you, sir," I say.
If Harry were here, he'd definitely say I'm licking his boots. But Liam follows.
"Yeah, thank you, sir."
"Thanks, Griff," Jack joins in, and then everybody mutters their thanks.
Griff accepts it with a single nod. Then he clears his throat, which tells me he's as close to tears as he gets.
"Eat up," Griff says, composure restored. "Then back to your rooms. Lights out at ten. No exceptions."
He pauses, his eyes sweeping the room in that way that makes every person feel individually addressed.
"And gentlemen, tomorrow, whatever happens, you represent this program. You represent yourselves. Win or lose, you walk in there with your heads up, and you walk out the same way. That's all I ask."
Nobody makes a joke. Nobody deflects. We just nod, all of us.
"Out," Griff says. "All of you. Ten o'clock."