In the tumultuous landscape of early 2000s high school, Kit Dodger, more commonly known as Dodger, navigates the corridors as a junior on the fringes of social acceptance. Behind her nondescript facade lies a clandestine operation: she runs a covert...
"For a fee, I'm happy to be your back door man." — Dirty Deeds Done Dirty Cheap, AC/DC
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It's a grey day on Smithton Circle. Bleak.
The street isn't much to write home about. Massive cookie-cutter houses lined up in perfectly curated rows. Squares of pristine lawns sprung from the most expensive grass seeds money can buy. The latest models of the best cars shine like massive jewels in freshly paved driveways.
Like I said—bleak.
The rain held off all day and well into the evening, so it's just my luck the moment I settle myself against the grainy trunk of one of the street's massive Weeping Willows, the downpour they called for all day starts.
It's not so bad. It's just water. Plus, the thick pellets of rain that fall to the ground, bursting like overripe grapes on the interlocking stone pavement—another one of Smithton's dog whistles—help conceal me even more. I can watch the scene about to unfold without fear of being recognized. Not that I was worried. No one notices me. Not anymore.
Whatever. I shake off the dark thoughts that come with my self-imposed invisibility and wait. It doesn't take long for my hired stooge to enter my sight line. The kid—a freshman—is tall. Long arms and even longer legs. He'd be a perfect baller if it weren't for his complete lack of coordination and love of Magic: The Gathering.
The kid couldn't be trying any harder in a pair of last season's Vans, an old Iron Maiden t-shirt over a long-sleeve black tee and a pair of faded black jeans.
The rain's really coming down now. He'll be soaked through in no time. No matter. The exchange shouldn't take more than a few minutes.
He walks up to the big double doors of 24 Smithton Circle and presses the doorbell. A woman answers. Slim, in jeans and a sweater, she exchanges pleasantries with my man before calling up and away. Must be my mark's mom. Soon enough, the man of the hour shows. Varsity Wide Receiver at Redlands High, Dylan Baker. Go, Devils! (Insert sarcasm wherever you'd like.)
He eyes the kid up and down. A look of confusion fights a look of disgust. Finally, he shakes his head while saying something as he goes to slam the door. Only, he finds his way impeded by the size thirteens before him.
I've got to give it to the kid; he's shown more gumption than I expected. That, or he's really hard up for cash. From what I understand, those Magic cards don't come cheap. The kid presses the door open with one hand as he whips out a blue Nokia—the chunky phone practically swallowed by his big hand. He lifts the brick up to Dylan's face, pointing with one slim, elegant finger to an image on the screen.
I smile when I see the fear rush into Baker's eyes. His face blanches, and at the same time, his ears turn a beautiful shade of beet red. I have never been more thankful for my 20/20 vision. He grabs for the phone, but again, my man surprises me, and clearly, Baker, as he pulls his long frame out of jock's reach. He even wags a finger at him.
He's getting a bit cocky now. Baker says something, his voice rising and lowering as he looks around to ensure they are alone. My eyes flick down to his hands, which open and close repeatedly into fists at his side.
This is why I came down here. Generally speaking, I expect my...associates to be capable of handling whatever their task may be on their own. But, when dealing with Redlands socs, I like to keep an eye on things, just in case we run into one of the old 'dump and thumps'—you know, jocks in this town figure they're untouchable, there's not much standing in the way of them taking out their anger on a lowly freshman just trying to make a buck.
Fortunately, Baker seems to exert a massive amount of control over himself. The niner hands him an envelope and offers him a hand. How civil. Baker rips the paper from his hand, flips him the bird and slams the door in his face.
The kid jumps down from the steps that lead back onto the driveway and into the street with more swagger in his step than when he first arrived.
My phone buzzes against my leg. I pull it out and read the text.
"The pics are gone. Delete what you have, you fucking scumbag. If I ever find out who you are, I will destroy you."
I sigh. There's no pleasure in handling others' dirty deeds, but there is good money.
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