"If I'm curt with you, it's because time is a factor. I think fast, I talk fast, and I need you guys to act fast if you wanna get out of it. So, pretty please, with sugar on top, clean the fucking car."
— The Wolf, Pulp Fiction
"Did you hear about Dylan Baker?"
"I just got a text from Lane!"
"Is it wrong that I'm not sad about it?"
I weave my way between the oversized desks in Ms. Larkson's Tuesday morning AP Calculus. My backpack hangs off one shoulder, swinging back and forth as I nimbly make my way to my seat at the back of the room—the far left corner by the window, to be exact. It's the perfect spot. Far enough away from the keeners and math dweebs who eagerly sit front row like they're at an Usher concert. It also places me on the opposite side of the room from Riley Kramer—head cheerleader, Queen of the Benjamins, and my former BFF.
While I generally do my best to remain a phantom, the hushed sound of Dylan Baker's name makes its way to me. I turn my head slightly in the direction from where it came, biting back a smirk as I do. A group of kids two rows from the front sit hunched together, excitedly discussing Dylan's misfortune.
Sometimes, this work makes me feel like God damn Robin Hood.
I slump into my seat, letting my backpack hit the ground with a thud.
"What the hell have you got in there? A dumbbell? A dead baby? Oh my God, Dodger, please tell me there's not a dead baby in your bag."
"I wish I could." I deadpan as I turn my attention to the guy on my right.
Calvin Johnson sits at the desk next to mine. He's the closest thing to a friend I have in this godforsaken place. He's the only person who knows I run the Dirty Deeds website. Of course, I pay him handsomely for his help and silence. Over the last year, our working relationship has evolved into something akin to a friendship.
"That is dark, my friend. Truly." He replies as he pulls the massive Grade 11 AP Calculus textbook from his bag. He places it in the top right corner of his desk, lining it up at a perfect 45-degree angle. He pulls out three perfectly sharpened number 2 pencils and lines them up equidistant from each other. He stops momentarily, assesses his work, and, satisfied, lays out three sheets of graph paper, fanned out from the desk's centre to its left edge.
He gives me a rueful smile when he catches me watching.
I offer a gentle smile in return. Somedays, Calvin's OCD compulsions control him more than others.
"I can't believe it. I really can't! This is going to ruin homecoming."
I roll my eyes at the not-so-hushed wail coming from the opposite side of the room. Taylor Stevens sits next to Riley; her long, dark hair cascades down her back. She wears a baby pink Paul Frank T; the monkey stretched across her stuffed bra. Heaving a dramatic sigh, she looks pleadingly at Riley.
"I mean, people expect me to show up with a star football player. Not some benched loser on academic probation!"
Leave it to Taylor to make someone else's misfortune all about her.
"Is that really what you're upset about?" Riley asks, her soft voice floating across the room. I doubt I'm the only one straining to hear the conversation between the two girls. It was big news when Dylan dumped Madison Parker for his long-riding side-piece Taylor. I'll give it to the girl; she worked her ass off to move up from third-rank Benjamin to anointed sidekick. I suppose fucking Dylan for months on end in the back of his Jeep Wrangler was worth it. What unfortunate timing this must be for her.
Taylor's eyes bore into Riley as if she just revealed her mother was an alien.
"I mean, I'm devastated for the team, Riley—aren't you? Losing Dylan could blow their chances at taking state."
Rolling my eyes again, I turn back to Calvin, who sits slack-jawed. He's not even attempting to hide that he's listening in.
"You'd think she'd be a bit more concerned that her boyfriend has shown such antisocial tendencies. I mean, the guy bullied a kid into stealing keys so he could steal test answers. That's sociopathic." He says to me in what he thinks is a whisper. The only problem is that Calvin suffers from what I like to call voice modulation problems. He has no concept of how to whisper. So his words make their way around the room. Kids stare, shocked that he'd say what they were thinking with Riley and Taylor in the room.
Taylor turns in her seat. Her t-shirt twists enough, showing a flash of silver. I guess she got the traditional Benjamin belly piercing. What a lemming.
"Who even are you?" Taylor asks, her hazel eyes flashing with disgust.
"Um, Calvin," Calvin responds.
"Okay, well, Um, Calvin—you don't know anything about it. They don't even have any proof, so why don't you, I don't know, mind your own business? Neek."
"I'm sorry—" I interject as Calvin ducks his head to rearrange his desk. His fingers shake as he picks his pencils up and returns them to their ideal spots. "Perhaps Calvin, and I don't know, the rest of us, wouldn't have made it our business if your boyfriend hadn't spent the past two years impacting the bell curve by cheating.
"Besides, what more proof do you need than your boyfriend copping to it? He literally told Principal Sterling he stole the answer sheets."
"I'm so sorry," Taylor responds, her eyes ice cold. "I don't speak skank, so you'll forgive me for not deigning to respond." She flashes me a sinister smile.
Her words set me on edge. My nervous system goes into overdrive. Don't do it. Don't do it. Don't do it.
"Really, I'm surprised your mom never taught you."
I did it.
A ripple of laughter makes its way across the room. Taylor's eyes shine with rage.
"You know what, skank?"
I don't, though. And thanks to Ms. Larkson's impeccable timing, I never find out.
"Settle down. Settle down." Ms. Larkson says as she bursts through the door. "Sorry, I'm late..."
She continues to prattle on, but I don't hear a word she says. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull the Sidekick out and flip it open to see a text from Bitch Face. Taylor.
Watch your back, biotch.
Mercifully, AP Calc is the only class I have with Taylor. I spend the rest of my day dodging her and the rest of the Benjamins. I can't believe I was dumb enough to respond. If I want to stay invisible, I can't afford to bring attention to myself. Now I'm in Taylor's crosshairs. Whatever. I'll deal with that when I need to.
When the bell rings, signalling the end of fifth period, I grab my bag and head to the art wing, specifically, the darkroom. I give the door three loud knocks and wait. I can hear muffled voices, one that grows as it approaches the door.
The kid who opens it is a junior I've seen before. He wears a long, thin scarf artfully strewn around his neck. The sound of thrashing guitars assaults my ears.
"Wazzup?"
"Kyle around?"
"Naw, he just stepped out, said he'd be back in twenty. You looking to use the darkroom? Plenty of space if you don't mind listening to Korn on repeat. I'm really into Korn right now."
"Yeah, I'm good. Look, can you see to it Kyle gets this?" I ask. I pull out an envelope from my back pocket. A black wax seal with a wolf's head stamped into it keeps its contents hidden. The kid's eyes widen with understanding.
"Where'd you get this?"
"No clue. It was in my locker this afternoon. Saw Kyle's name on it, figured I ought to bring it to him—'cause, you know—."
"Big Brother is watching." He finishes.
Big Brother—that's the moniker I should have gone with. After all, the more deeds I do, the more secrets I amass. And I keep receipts. It's a necessity in this line of work. Should anyone ever figure out who I am, I'm guaranteed mutually assured destruction.
"Exactly," I agree, "though my understanding is the Wolf doesn't just go after people, so to speak. His business isn't revenge. He's a fixer. It's just most people's dirty deeds revolve around payback. This—" I say, gesturing at nothing in particular while meaning Dylan, "does feel like a happy accident. At least, that's what I assume."
He nods at me knowingly.
Normally, I'd have someone else handle the pay, but everyone's too busy discussing Dylan's downfall. Now that he can't play football, the team is in disarray. No one's paying me any mind.
He takes the envelope and wiggles it at me.
"Don't worry, I'll make sure he gets this. I don't want the Wolf coming for me, not after what he's done to Dylan. I still can't believe that. I mean, why would he turn himself in? What do you think the Wolf had on him?
"I imagine irrefutable proof. I mean, I would assume the answers weren't just lying around, right? Most likely, they were kept in a private file online. Suppose you can hack into the server or gain administrator access. In that case, you can easily retrieve a list of log in dates and IPs. So, if that's how the information was retrieved, and you were dumb enough to print from a school printer...it would be pretty easy to see who accessed the test answers and when."
"You know a lot about the internet."
I shrug.
"I've got a lot of time on my hands. Anyway, thanks for passing that on to Kyle. I've gotta run."
I give the kid a cursory nod and head off toward my locker. The hallways are thinning out. Most kids have run out to catch their bus or are in the thick of whatever after-school activity they're into. Not me, though. I don't take part in school activities. Not anymore. Instead, I head out the front doors and down the steps, heading toward the street to walk home.
As I stand outside the massive red brick structure this town calls a high school, I watch the kids still milling about. Some run to catch buses they've already missed—mostly Niners and sophomores. The juniors and seniors? They don't take the bus. At least not the ones that live in Bridgeview proper. Naw, those kids get Beemers and Benz's on their sweet sixteens. They barrel out of the school zone, tires screeching, music blasting, drop tops down. The pricier the car, the higher they rank among The Benjamins—the popular kids. That's what everyone calls them. Because they're always packing hundreds—get it?
The Benjamins run this place. Not that amazing a feat when you consider their parents run this shit-hole town. They pump it—this school—full of money, and in doing so, they call the shots that best set their precious babies up for success. No matter if little Jessica, Michael and Amber are tiny sociopaths. However, in this case, it's more the Nicks and Dylans of the world you have to look out for because at Redlands High if Dylan Baker is the Grand Duke of Douchedom, Nick Butler is its reigning King.
I do my best to push the thought of Nick from my mind. Yet, it seems like just the idea of him is enough to invoke his presence, as the screech of tires on asphalt assaults my senses. Against my better judgment, I turn to see him burning rubber in his 2002 Trans Am. Just before exiting the school's lot, he brings the car to a screeching halt. His dogs—Brandon Carlile and Michael Cunningham—hang out the windows, pulling faces and catcalling freshman girls.
I force myself to relax my face. Generally speaking, when Nick Butler is around, it has this habit of taking on a glare of absolute disgust. It never serves me well. Though I try my hardest to blend into the background, Nick, like a bloodhound with a scent, always seems to find me in a crowd.
His head turns in the driver's seat, his blue eyes locking on my hazel ones. He narrows his gaze as a snake-like grin overtakes his face. He says something to the boy sitting shotgun—Brandon—who laughs as he turns to watch me, too.
I'm halfway down the path that cuts through the parking lot leading to the sidewalk. There's nowhere to go; if I turn back, it will be obvious I'm running. Because most kids have already left, there's no lineup of cars to honk at Nick as he puts the Trans Am in park.
The boys jump from the car and saunter toward me. Nick, in relaxed black Levis and a Queens of the Stone Age band t-shirt, his blond hair artfully pulled into a faux hawk, stalks toward me like a cat does its prey. The other two fan out behind him. A pack of lions on the prowl.
"Well, what do we have here?" Nick asks as he circles me. His pet lemurs follow his lead. I stand stock still, a deer caught in the headlights.
Saying nothing wins me no solace. Instead, it only serves to enrage him.
"God, you really are a grade-A loser, aren't you, Dodger?"
"You've got me pegged," I say, shrugging a shoulder as I attempt to barrel through the cage they've trapped me in. They tighten their ranks.
"You know, it's too bad you're such a freak," Nick continues, his eyes ranking over my form. It's a warm day for October; my black hoodie is unzipped, revealing the plain white tank tucked into my black cargo pants. A scuffed-up pair of black chucks finishes the look. "Still, if you agree to throw a bag on your head, I'd let you sit on my face."
"Is that because your nose is bigger than your dick?" The words come out faster than I can stop them.
Brandon snickers that is, until Nick turns his steely gaze to him. The look is enough to shut him up.
"You think you're so clever, Dodger, but you forget I already had you." His smile widens. "You gave it up so easily, too."
His words leave my skin crawling. My heart begins to thump as a buzzing overtakes me. I want to run, but I'm frozen in place.
"Leave her alone, Nick." Riley's voice cuts through the white noise blaring in my head. My eyes flick up to see her, her wavy blond hair pinned back with a butterfly clip. Madison Parker and Nicole French alongside her—two of her cheer squad compatriots and lauded members of the Benjamins.
God, I'm surrounded.
My eyes lock with Riley's; something I see in them wreaks of pity. It unleashes a bubble of rage in me. That she thinks I need her to intervene makes my blood boil.
"Riley," I say, putting on a smile that's all teeth. My voice takes on a grating pitch as I speak to her through my clenched jaw. "Do us all a favour and stick to the party line? I don't need you coming to my rescue."
She ignores me, turning to Nick.
"Come on," She walks past me, pulling him back to his still-idling Trans Am. The rest of the Benjamins follow. "She's not worth the energy." She continues, making sure to raise her voice enough that I hear.
I wait until the group is well out of my eyesight before I carry on my way.
I hate Mondays.