Chapter 14 #2
I walk over to the field with all my gear in a duffle and get there around 3:00 pm.
I’m still kinda pissed that Devin won’t get me a car.
He’d be paying with Anton’s money, anyway, though of course he doesn’t know I know that.
Maybe I can just ask Anton directly, but I need to deliver for him first. There’s probably enough money in the safe to buy a car.
I walk past Javi’s Porche and feel a pang of embarrassment.
A part of me hates being around all these rich kids.
They make me feel small, and with their years of private schooling, stupid too.
But another part of me is enjoying casual access to expensive food and alcohol and fast cars.
The pickup game starts out pretty casual, just guys messing around and having fun. But once we actually start playing, the competition comes out. Rourke and Javi are crazy good, even better than they are at school games. I hold my own, but some of the other guys are struggling to keep up.
About halfway through, I see Mello sitting on the sidelines, looking frustrated. His ankle has a ways to go before it’s healed, so he can't join in. I call a timeout and jog over to him.
"How's it going, man?" I ask.
He shrugs. "It sucks just watching."
I nod. "I know. But you'll be back out there soon."
We're quiet for a minute, both of us watching the other guys practice tricks and shots.
"So what's up with you and Deja, anyway?" Mello asks suddenly.
I tense up. My relationship with her isn't something I want to discuss. "What do you mean?"
"I see the way you look at each other. And how she pushes your buttons. There's something going on."
I force a laugh, going for casual. "Yeah, we don't really get along. She’s just obsessed with being popular. It’s annoying.”
“What is all this, then?” Mello asks, gesturing with his hand. “We’re hanging out with Rich Douchebags of Briarwood for shits and giggles?”
“I’m just trying to get to know the guys on the A squad. My new teammates.”
“And here I was thinking us transfers were going to stick together.” It wasn’t said bitterly, but Mello’s tone is dry.
I felt a pang of guilt. I would have preferred to stick with Mello as well; we’ve known each other since middle school.
But he had no idea about my relationship with Anton or my real reason for trying to get closer to these guys.
“I’m still your friend, man,” I say. “But I’m probably the weakest guy out there. I need all the help I can get.”
I can see that Mello doesn’t buy my bullshit, but I can’t let him know what’s really going on.
“Come on, Keane,” Rourke calls out, “let’s go!”
We kick the ball back and forth. There's no real strategy to our game, just a bunch of guys messing around and trying to one-up each other. Rourke juggles the ball on his knees, showing off.
"Quit hot-dogging and pass the ball, Rourke!" Javi shouts.
Rourke smirks and lobs it over to Javi, who traps it neatly on his chest before dribbling it towards the goal. I run alongside trying to steal the ball, but Javi is too quick. He feints left, then fires the ball into the top corner of the goal.
"Yeah! Suck on that, Keane!" Javi gloats as we bump fists.
"Lucky shot," I say with a grin.
We play for another hour or so until the sunlight begins to fade.
My limbs feel loose and warm, the thrill of movement keeping me energized.
For a little while out here, running and yelling with my teammates, everything else faded away.
I almost forgot why I’m there till the game wraps up and Rourke comes over, slapping me on the back. His blond hair is dark with sweat.
“This was a good idea, Keane,” he says. “Sometimes I forget how much I love soccer until I get to play without Coach breathing down my neck.”
“I know what you mean,” I say. “It’s a great way to blow off steam.”
“Not the only way, though,” Rourke says. “Wanna come hang out at my place. Or do you have to get foster daddy’s permission?”
I don’t correct him. I don’t think there’s that big of a difference between a foster parent and a guardian, not in practice. “It’s cool as long as I’m home before curfew.”
“You have a curfew?” He seems amused. “Aren’t you a senior?”
“As long as you live under my roof…”
“I get it. Is that why it’s so hard to get Deja over to my place.”
I raise my hands in the universal gesture of, “I’m not touching that.”
“Doesn’t she like me?”
“You’ll have to ask Deja that.”
“Text her. See if she wants to come.” Reluctantly, I do as he asks. The response comes back almost immediately.
Deja: Sorry. I have plans. Have fun.
He shrugs when he sees the response, apparently not surprised.
I’m relieved, because if he was being friendly to me to get to Deja, I’d have been SOL.
Instead, he has me climb into his Tesla and ride with him to his house.
It only takes about fifteen minutes to get there.
Most of the expensive houses in town are in this area, more spread out from each other than less expensive houses, but still a cluster.
Rourke’s house, or should I say mansion, is one of the Big 4.
These are the largest and most expensive estates within a 200-mile radius.
All were built during the gilded age and would be tourist attractions, I’m sure, if the owners let the public get anywhere near them.
The other three are owned by families that have been in the area for generations—basically the local high society.
One of the men used to be mayor. How Rourke’s dad came to own the place I have no idea, but he only lives there on paper.
Rourke points me to one of the many bathrooms for a quick shower, handing me an ugly as fuck Burberry tracksuit with the tags still on. I’m free balling, but there’s no denying the thing is comfortable. I wander until I find Rourke on the third floor playing Xbox solo.
“Hungry?” he asks.
“I could eat.” I shrug. “But what I really am is thirsty. I’d kill for a Gatorade right now.”
He picks up what looks like a miniature TV remote and speaks into it, requesting drinks and a snack tray.
While we wait, I grab my duffle and pull out the reason Rourke asked me over in the first place.
I unroll my toiletry bag. Instead of lotions and aftershave the little pockets are stuffed with plants, pills, liquids, and powders.
I pull out papers, weed, hash oil and a grinder and get to work.
This lavish spread is a gift from Anton, or more like a starter kit.
It wasn’t my idea, but Anton’s position is that when people feel good around you, they tend to like you, and drugs make people feel very good.
A black woman around my mother’s age comes in carrying a tray.
It’s weird to get served Gatorade off a silver tray.
She also leaves behind a cutting board with cured meat, cheese, fruit, bread and crackers.
It’s not an actual meal, but I’m glad to have it.
I down the sports drink and finish rolling the joint.
We smoke, then eat. Javi shows up, then Christian and a couple of sophomore girls I don’t know.
More people trickle in as the hours go by.
Pretty soon I’m the candy man, distributing (selling) the shit Anton gave me. No charge for Rourke, of course.
Getting back into drug dealing might seem stupid, but guys like this have no interest in befriending NPCs like me unless we can benefit them in some way. Randomly handing out drugs would look suspicious but comping the host for access to his guests—that’s believable.
Around 11:30, I bid the partiers goodbye and take a ride share back to Devin’s.
The house is dark, and I wonder if Deja’s curled up in her bed or racing home to make curfew.
I wish this was a world where I could go straight up to her room and climb in bed with her, tuck her head under my chin, and squeeze her tight.
But instead I go to my room, discard the $1,000 track suit on the floor, and climb into bed.