The Lovely Reckless(32)
“Chief, are you trying to teach my boys how to get to first? ’Cause the ladies will tell you I’ve got that covered.” Ortiz grins, and the other guys start laughing again.
“You’d better keep it covered, Ortiz,” Cruz says. “Or you’ll end up being some girl’s baby daddy.”
Chief crosses his arms and tucks his hands under his armpits, shaking his head. The old guy is either embarrassed or trying not to laugh.
“Ortiz is a fool, but he throws a hell of a party.” Cruz keeps her voice low. “He’s having one tonight. You should come. Bring your friends. The one Turk hustled is cute. Unless he’s yours…”
“Abel? Definitely not mine. He’s like my brother, and he needs to get in a little less trouble.”
She scribbles an address in her notebook, tears off a corner of the page, and hands it to me. “Then come by yourself. We’ll hang out.”
Chief looks up, grinning. “Let me put it another way for those of you with cleaner imaginations than Mr. Ortiz. When you start to let up on the clutch, you’ll feel it engage. That’s your signal to move your other foot from the brake to the gas pedal.” Chief toys with his cap again. “If you know when to make that move, you won’t stall and you won’t crash. You’ll fly.”
Before Noah died, I never took risks. I was too afraid of disappointing someone or screwing up the Plan. Now I’ve disappointed everyone.
There’s no Plan and no Noah, and I’m still afraid.
Just once, I wish I knew what it felt like to fly.
CHAPTER 15
NIGHT TRAIN
I’m not brave enough to take public transit to the party, so I end up in a cab. It would have been cheaper to leave from the rec center instead of the gas station near Dad’s apartment. But that would’ve required calling Lex and explaining why I didn’t need a ride home, and I couldn’t come up with a decent excuse.
The driver turns into a run-down town house complex, and I get out a block away from the address Cruz gave me. It isn’t hard to find. Bass thumps from inside the town house, and the party spills onto the sidewalk out front. The last time I went to a real party, Noah was still alive.
Over the summer, I sat around drinking with lifeguards and caddies from the club. We even went to a so-called party on the golf course, but it was just a bunch of people standing around in the wet grass.
Three guys hang out on the steps, holding red plastic Solo cups and checking out girls as they walk by.
I’m up next.
“You need a drink, baby?” one asks.
I keep moving. “I’m good.”
He raises the plastic cup in a mock toast. “If you change your mind…”
Inside, music vibrates through the drywall. A deejay stands behind a table made out of a sheet of plywood and plastic milk crates, spinning the dials on a massive stereo system. Hips grind and hands wave to the beat.
The kitchen is crammed with people lined up at the keg. I scan the room for Cruz and squeeze through the wall of bodies. A kid who looks like he’s still in middle school hands me a cup.
“She nailed it again,” someone calls out.
“Drink up, boys, and cough up your money.” Cruz stands and holds out her hand. Her competitors hand over their cash. She spots me and waves me over to the table, where they’re playing quarters, and judging by how drunk the guys are compared with Cruz, she’s kicking their asses.
She shoves the guy sitting next to her. “Frankie needs a seat, and you look like you’re gonna puke. Move it.”
“Only if you promise to find me later,” he slurs, and stands.
“Not if the fate of mankind depended on it.” Cruz positions a shot glass in the center of the table and then pats the empty seat. “I wasn’t sure you’d show.”
I maneuver between the people watching and sit down. “Why not?”
Cruz flicks the quarter between her fingers. It hits the table once and bounces into the cup. “This neighborhood isn’t exactly the Heights.”
“I don’t live in the Heights anymore. I moved in with my dad, in Westridge.”
She nods her approval. Maybe I went up a notch. “Wanna play and help me prove to these boys that women are superior?”
I’ve played quarters before. Twice. My performance didn’t rank in the superior range. I pick up a quarter anyway. My days of playing it safe are over.
“I’m in.”
“Bring it.” A wasted guy sitting across from Cruz slams his cup down.
She puts one elbow on the table, holding her arm straight up, with the quarter between her forefinger and her thumb. She squints and lets the quarter roll off her thumb. It bounces on the table and lands in the shot glass.
“Aw.”
“Damn.”
A chorus of groans travels around the table, but approving nods show the guys are impressed. Cruz pours syrupy red liquor from the bottle in front of her. Night Train Express. It smells like cherry cough syrup.
The guys slam their shots, wincing or shaking their heads like wet puppies.
“You’re up, Frankie.” Cruz slides a quarter in front of me. “Show ’em what you’ve got.”
Nothing. That’s what I’ve got.
I focus on the shot glass. Don’t overthink it. I snap the quarter, and it bounces off the table and lands next to the cup.