Nice Girls(15)

“You ready, Ivy League?” Dwayne asked as he sent a quick text.

“Can’t wait,” I murmured.

As soon as we left the car, I smelled weed in the air. The scent was pungent and heavy, as if someone was smoking right behind us. I turned back and checked the parking lot, but there was no one there. I clutched my purse tighter, staying behind Dwayne as we hurried into the apartment building. The heavy bass of a song was pulsing through the floors above us.

Dwayne laughed after he checked his phone.

“Man, they sound hyped to see us,” he said.

We followed the bright orange carpet up to the third floor. At the end of the hallway, loud music was pouring out from an apartment.

I followed Dwayne. My pulse seemed to climb with the music. I had to remind myself that we were fine. Everything I’d heard about the Sewers—the violence, the crime—was overblown. They were rumors meant to scare kids from the north side of the city, nothing else.

A door suddenly slammed open. The noise was hitting us at full blast, as if an earplug had been yanked out.

There was movement, the blur of a white T-shirt and dark skin stumbling out. It was a guy who reeled a few steps back. In the next moment, another blur shot out of the apartment: a guy with a bun made of dreadlocks. With one hand, he grabbed at the white shirt; with the other, he formed a fist, drawing it back like an arrow.

White Shirt screamed.

The second guy swung. His fist slammed into the other’s cheek.

White Shirt staggered backward—for a moment, he seemed stunned.

Then he collapsed onto the orange carpet.

He didn’t move.





8




Dwayne immediately rushed forward. But instead of helping White Shirt on the ground, he shoved the other guy away.

“Get off me,” grunted Man Bun. He angrily shoved back until Dwayne let go.

“The fuck are you doing?” asked Dwayne. The two of them were the same height, staring each other down.

“Get your goody-two-shoes ass out of my face!”

“What the hell are you doing?”

A few people had rushed out of the apartment. They hovered over White Shirt, chattering in excitement.

“Damn, not much of a fight,” someone murmured. Someone else laughed.

One guy bent down. He reached out and shook White Shirt’s shoulder.

“Come on, man, wake up. Go home,” he said. He shook White Shirt again with a little more force, but nothing happened. The alarm now seeped into his voice. “Hey, he’s not waking up.”

“Actually?” a girl asked.

“Yeah, he’s actually not moving.”

“Oh, shit. Is he—?”

I pulled out my cell phone, not knowing what else to do. It was a knee-jerk reaction.

The group sounded panicked. One of them raced back into the apartment.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a head poke out of a door nearby. It was an elderly woman in a fuzzy pink bathrobe. She took one look at the hallway and shook her head in disgust.

As she closed the door, the woman looked me over, the disapproval written all over her face.

I heard the click of a dead bolt.

In the background, Dwayne and Man Bun had calmed down slightly, their voices no longer audible. Dwayne turned back, looking perturbed at White Shirt.

The pungent mix of weed and booze slammed into me. The back of my head was throbbing from it all—the noise, the smells, the fight I’d just seen. I wanted to be somewhere dark and quiet, a glass of wine in one hand and a modest joint in the other. I was too sober for the present.

All of a sudden, there was a hush. Someone had shut off the music.

“Everyone get out!” shouted a girl’s voice. “Cops are coming. They’re on Hyde Street.”

Everyone froze.

“Aw, shit,” said the guy near White Shirt. He bolted for the stairs. Someone else booked it, too.

The apartment had suddenly been uncorked. People poured out. One burly guy shuffled out with a bong, smoke still rolling from the glass pipe. Another one came out with a tequila bottle tucked under his arm. Girls hobbled out with half-empty water bottles—they reminded me of the freshmen residents at school, who all thought they were so clever for sneaking vodka that way. As if reading my thoughts, the girls glared at me. I skirted out of the way as two other guys lumbered in my direction.

“Damn, she looks scared as hell,” said one of them, looking me over. “Thinks we’ll mug her or something.”

“Bitch probably called the cops,” said his friend, disgusted.

My face was burning as I squeezed the phone in my hand. I hadn’t even set foot in the party, yet people could still sense who I was—the same fat, straitlaced girl from high school.

The hallway was now empty except for Dwayne, Man Bun, and a petite girl with long curly hair and hoop earrings. The girl squatted down next to the body.

“Hey, you don’t have to touch him,” said Man Bun.

But the girl reached out and checked the pulse on White Shirt’s wrist. No one moved until she got back up.

“He’s fine,” she said. “Pulse is normal, he’s breathing, no blood. Probably has a slight concussion.”

Man Bun turned to Dwayne, relief on his face.

“Told you,” he said. “I was right—”