Every Last Fear(57)

Her eyes glistened as if she was going to say something about his family, something that was going to make them both cry. But she shook it off, realizing it was the last thing she should do.

“I just don’t get how you can like Shyamalan so much.”

Matt smiled again. She had a point, since most of the NYU film school snobs looked down on M. Night Shyamalan. But Matt loved Shyamalan’s movies because they were grounded in destiny—the protagonists unaware that everything in their lives had led up to a moment; that everything suddenly made sense; that they had a purpose in the universe.

Matt’s thoughts were interrupted by a commotion at the bar. He didn’t have a clear line of sight, but he saw the mop of curly hair bobbing around, and he knew.

“Shit,” he said, jumping from the stool and threading through the crowd. At the bar, he found Ganesh in a stare-down with three young men. Other patrons had stepped back, sensing trouble.

Matt put a hand on Ganesh’s shoulder, not acknowledging the other men. “Hey, what’s up?”

Ganesh’s jaw was jutted, hands balled into fists. Woo-jin and Curtis suddenly materialized next to Matt.

“Let’s go sit down,” Curtis said. “It’s not worth it.”

Eyeing Matt and his friends, one of the locals—he had cropped hair with a C-shaped scar on the side of his skull—said loudly to his own friends, “You hear the one about the black, the Chinaman, and the terrorist who walked into a bar?”

The three men burst into laughter.

Kala sidled up to Matt, whispered in his ear, “Ignore them.”

He should listen to her, he knew. But instead Matt said, “Korean.” He held the guy’s stare.

“What?”

“He’s from Korea, not China,” Matt said, looking up at Woo-jin.

The man pushed closer to Matt, his shoulders thrown back.

Woo-jin tried to defuse the situation. “We don’t want any trouble,” he said.

The man repeated the words in a mock Asian accent. “Oh, you no want no trouble. You love him long time.”

More laughter.

“Why don’t you and I go outside?” Ganesh said, nudging his way in front of Matt. “Or are you too scared to go without Semen Breath and Muffin Top?” Ganesh looked at the two men flanking the leader. It was a line from the movie The Judge. Matt knew because they’d watched it together, but the men were clueless.

The heavier man Ganesh had called Muffin Top hitched up his pants.

“Nobody asked you, Osama bin Fuckface,” the leader said.

Matt grabbed Ganesh just in time, holding him back from jumping on the guy.

The man’s legs were spread, a fighting stance. His friends seemed less enthusiastic.

That was when Matt realized that he recognized them, the friends. He looked at Semen Breath. “It’s been a long time, Steve. How’s your sister doing?”

Steven Ellison’s eyes immediately hit the floor. They’d been in Cub Scouts together. Gone on camping trips. Had playdates. Steve’s older sister had a severe disability and was in a wheelchair, unable even to feed herself.

“She’s good,” Steve said, his eyes sheepishly lifting to Matt’s.

“And, Nate, you still playing baseball?” The man Ganesh had called Muffin Top had been the star of their Little League team.

Nate, too, looked down, embarrassed.

But the leader, he was familiar, though Matt couldn’t quite place him, said, “You pussies can get all nostalgic, but this motherfucker”—he poked a finger in Matt’s chest—“thinks he and those Jew filmmakers can drag us all through the mud, and then just show up in our bar like nothing’s happened.”

“I had no part in the documentary,” Matt said.

“The fuck you and your shit family didn’t.”

Now Matt felt his blood turn hot. The rage he’d worked so hard to bury all these years coming to the surface again. “Say one more thing about my family, and Steve and Nate are gonna have to carry you out of here.” Matt meant it.

The crowd that had formed around them parted, and a blur of dark hair whooshed by. It was a young woman. She walked right up to the leader and put herself between the man and Matt.

“Ricky, what the hell are you doing? I’m gonna tell Mom that you’re—” She stopped, spun around, and stared intensely at Matt and his friends. “If you put one finger on him, you’ll be charged with murder. He’s got a plate in his head. One tap could kill him.” She looked at Matt.

“You should know better.”

Matt couldn’t believe it. After all the years thinking about that night at the Knoll—his electrifying first kiss—and it was her. Jessica Wheeler. As Matt stood staring, the crowd dispersed. Jessica shepherded Ricky, Steve, and Nate back to their table, wagging her finger at them. In just a few seconds, she’d ended the standoff. Shamed them all.

Back at their table, Matt watched Jessica as she continued to scold the three, then led her brother to a back office. She must work at the place. Matt had a vague recollection of Ricky Wheeler now. Ricky had been on the football team with Danny, but they hadn’t been close friends. Ricky looked much different these days. Not just older and heavier; there was a slackness in his face. The slurred speech Matt had attributed to drinking too much might be from a brain injury. Matt watched the door to the office, waiting for Jessica to come back out.