This Town Called Nowhere

Chapter 13: Research

13

Instead of dropping off at my house, Derek stops at Tony Rutledge's residence by the border of Blue Ridge Valley, which is only a block from their house.

Tony Rutledge lives in an asymmetrical Cape Cod house that has windows flanking the front door and dormer windows on the upper floors. I remembered seeing him on their front yard months ago, fixing his motorcycle when Dad drove me to Derek's for some project we've to work on. 

"Good luck!" Derek yells from the car and drives on. It's strange how he said I don't need any luck in a competition then tells me good luck for a group research.

I don't think I'll be able to say this so soon, but I think I really need some sort of luck. Even before Tony Rutledge opens the door, I can already hear shouts and loud voices on the 2nd floor. With a loud grin on his face, Tony greets me and invites me inside.

"Thought you wouldn't let go of your ego," he laughs en route to the stairs, then shouts, "Brady, gimme my 20, bro! Our pops is here!" I cross my eyebrows and turn to him. He laughs, patting my back.

I can't believe these guys made a bet on me. But then, what did I expect? They're a bunch of a-holes who do nothing except be a-holes.

When Tony opens the door to his room, the loud noises escalate, then die down when all of them turns to me. A multiplayer video game is playing on-screen. Three beanbags are set in front of the TV, 2 of them are already occupied. A mountain of chips and drinks are piled on his bed along with their bags. Tony jumps over the vacant beanbag and bounces to a seat. He takes a 20-dollar bill from football player Brad Daniell's hand, stands up, and walks to me. Grinning, he holds up the bill and boasts them up to my face.

"Thanks for this, bro," he grins and holds his fist up to my chest. When I don't react, he shifts his feet beside me. "The group," he introduces, then leaves me standing as he goes back to the beanbag.

I nod. I run my eyes at the group. Brad Daniell on the middle, Tony Rutledge on the left side, Harry Stevens on the right. This group looks like a sports club on the outside, and a complete project failure inside. Nevertheless, we have a representative for football, baseball, and motorsports.

"Hey." A girl's voice reaches my ears and I turn to look.

Don't forget gymnastics. Brenda Haynes stands in front of me. I catch her gaze but her eyes look elsewhere whenever I do. Sparing her the intimidation, I avert my stares to the boys. She's the only one here I can do some real work with, and I'm not letting her run like the girl she is back to Miss Houston and beg for a group exchange.

"I was thinking about property rights, what do you think?" she says. My eyes turn to her, when she looks away, I glance away. A second later, I feel her gaze on me again.

In a low voice, I answer, "I'd prefer a cost-benefit analysis of the state market."

"OK," she mumbles, then glances at the others in front of the TV. "What do they think?"

"It doesn't matter what they think. They're in it for the final product and nothing more. Do you think they'll get their asses off those bags and shit us help?" I don't intend to joke, but she chuckles. I am urged to turn my head but I stop myself. If I do, she will stop. If she will stop, I will forget why I'm urged to turn. Her laughter goes on softly. I smile inside.

I let her laughter die down before I open my mouth to speak. "Let's get to it," I say and head to Tony's desk.

On top of the table, Brenda's computer is showing a blog about property rights. Quickly, she runs pass me, closes the application, opens another Google engine, and enters Wycliffe cost-benefit analysis 2019.

She presses enter and a series of files and websites welcome our eyes. "Check that," I point to a PDF file and she opens it in another tab.

A couple of minutes later, I'm already on my Mac, writing the first draft of the research, Brenda's getting information on the Internet, and the rest of the group are taking their own time devouring junk foods and killing each other off virtually.

On the middle of typing, Dad calls and I pick it up. I tell him I won't make it to dinner, and in turn, he tells me he'll leave some leftovers in the fridge. When he asks me by what means I'll get home, I go silent. Derek dropped me here since I didn't have my own car. And I don't want to owe Tony Rutledge anything for driving me home.

"I don't know, Dad." This time, he goes silent. He tells me to hold on, Mom's muffled voice comes on, then Dad's.

"Why don't you have a sleepover at Derek's?" he says after a while. "I'll call the Masons."

I'm caught off guard, I cross my eyebrows in surprise. "And Mom agreed?"

"Uh, no," he mutters and I chuckle. "But I'll deal with her. Just stay safe, OK, Neil?"

"OK, Dad. Thanks."

I put the phone down and turn back to the computer. Now, I'm all by myself here on Tony's desk. Brenda's called it a day an hour ago. The rest are drunk from colas and virtual murder. It's already 8. Two hours before bedtime, and I decide to spend it on our research.

Stretching my arms over the Mac, I hear my backbone crack. I play with the lollipop Artemis gave in my mouth as I type. I've put on my earbuds to penetrate their noise off my ears, but it still manage to come through.

My phone rings and Derek's voice greets me when I let the call through. "Am I gonna get you or you'll walk?" he asks immediately.

I pause for a minute, and contemplate on my answer.

"Helloooo? Neil?"

Looking back at the bodies sprawled on to the floor, I say, "I'll walk. Besides, I also need some fresh air, these people here are reeking dead."

Derek laughs on the line. "I'll think they didn't hear you."

"No, really, they're dead." He goes silent. I laugh. "They died of virtual homicide and Coke overdose."

"What the fuck, dude?!" he curses and I grin. "I thought you've become a criminal!" I laugh. As if my mother will let me become one. I've imagine, a criminal born to both lawyers, that would be pretty ironic.

I return to my work after I end the call. Glancing at my watch, I mind the time. Thirty minutes until 10. I'm finishing the 12th page when a shuffle comes from behind me, a hand grasps the desk, and Tony Rutledge's voice strikes my ears.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

Without turning, I reply to him, "Research."

"Stop this. Didn't I tell you we'll do it?" he glares at me. Looking up to him, I keep my placid face on, glance at the others, then to him. "You're doing it alright," I scowl at him and turns back to his desk.

Provoked, he snaps the swivel to his face. Now I'm looking at him as he glares at me. His red hair is messy from hours of playing video games, his freckles are prominent on his face. He stands solid in front of me. I keep my face impassive.

"Get out of my house. I can't work with you, O'Donnell," he spats, his stare dark and hard on me.

As if he's working, I want to spat back to his face, but I make my feet. We're standing face to face, glaring eye to eye. "Ditto, Tony," I simper and his lips flatten to a grim line.

"Get out."

I am. I grab my stuff off his desk and shove them inside my bag. Walking to the door, I pass him, hitting his shoulder slightly.

Out of the door, I hear his footsteps after me, then comes my name from his mouth. "A little advice, if you're gonna keep this up, you're never gonna get the girl." I stop and turn to him. He smirks. "She doesn't like school and whatever it is you normally do . . . Armstrong."