The Leavers(57)

He heard Angel’s voice across the room; heard her laugh. He’d have to text her again, keep trying until she gave their friendship another chance. She said he needed to figure his shit out, but wasn’t that a sign of caring? “I’m going to Carlough,” he told Elaine. “For summer semester.” Saying it made his shoulders slump, but too late; he’d given Peter the essay.

Elaine clapped. “Terrific!”

He told Kay and Peter he was sorry he couldn’t join them at the Hennings’, but he had to work early tomorrow, even though his next shift actually wasn’t until Monday.

“We’ll see you soon,” Peter said. “Summer session is in two months, so plan on being home a few weeks before that, to get settled in and squared away. The first week of May would be best.”

Kay said, “I’m glad you’ve decided to do the right thing.”

He had to do as much as he could in the city for the next two months, before he left, starting with tonight. He’d meet up with Roland and his friends. He deserved a night out.

He was almost at the corner when he saw Charles smoking a cigarette in front of a fire hydrant. Angel had always hated smoking, called it gross. She must have changed her mind.

“Hey,” Charles said.

“Hey, man.”

“I want to talk to you for a second.”

Daniel stopped. “All right.”

Charles tossed his cigarette to the sidewalk, ground it out with his shoe, and took a pack of gum out of his pocket, popping a piece into his mouth.

“Can I have a piece?”

Charles tossed him the pack. “Keep it. Seriously.”

“Thanks.” The gum was a green square, slightly bitter with artificial sweetener. Daniel immediately wanted to spit it out, but swallowed it instead.

“I know what you did,” Charles said.

“I’ve done lots of things. You see my show the other night?”

“I respect Angel’s decision not to take this to the courts to try to get her money back, although I don’t agree with her. But you better not try to talk to her again.”

“Wait. Hold on.”

“Are you seriously going to deny this? I know you stole ten thousand dollars from her. She’s the kindest person I know and you took advantage of her.”

“I didn’t steal.”

“So tell that to Angel’s parents. They go on and on about what a good friend you are, how you guys grew up together like brother and sister. It’s disgusting. You should tell them, or I will.”

Daniel took off, half-walking and half-running, toward the subway. He couldn’t please anyone. But he wanted, more than anything, to not feel this terrible about himself.

When he emerged from the station at Canal Street, his phone rang. He scrambled for it, hoping it would be her.

It was Peter. “Your mother and I looked at the forms. What is wrong with you? You know we can’t submit that essay. I don’t even want to go to Carlough so I don’t know why I’m writing this. What is this garbage? We gave you another chance, which you clearly do not deserve, and this is how you repay us?”

Daniel reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. Under a streetlamp he unrolled it. The small classes and liberal arts education that Carlough College offers, in particular its top-rate economics and political science programs, would allow me to pursue my professional career goals. He felt disappointment, edged with relief. “Sorry, Dad. It was a joke. Let me run over and I’ll give the real essay to you now.”

“Not to mention, you were rude to Angel tonight at the party. Now, I know you feel like she betrayed your friendship because she told us about your gambling, but you could at least try to be civil to her. She was worried for you, Daniel. That’s why she told us. To help you.”

“Where are you now? At the restaurant? At Jim and Elaine’s? I’ll come give you the essay. I have it, it’s good.”

“Don’t bother. You have made your decision loud and clear.”

“Dad!”

“This is the last straw. You have done enough.”

“Can I talk to Mom?” he said, but Peter had already hung up.

He ducked into a bar on Grand Street and ordered a whiskey. The bar was small and dark, nondescript, a jukebox playing AC/DC’s “Hells Bells” and a video slot machine glowing insistently at him from a corner. He turned his back to it and looked through his phone, went through a few messages and deleted them, saw a note he’d saved months ago, when he was still at Potsdam, with the name and address of an underground poker club in the city. Two hundred to buy in, Kyle had said. The address was on Lafayette, a few blocks away.

He deleted the note and finished his drink. He would go to Jim and Elaine’s to give his parents the right essay, though he didn’t know their address. He walked east, kept taking the green lights, staying on Grand, then saw a bank and went inside to get cash. His finger hovered over the button that said $50, but he hit $500, the bulk of his account, and watched the bills shoot out.

On the corner of Grand and Lafayette, the address for the poker club reverberated in his mind. He headed south to where Howard Street crossed over to Hester. It wasn’t too late, he could turn and go right to Roland’s, go right past the building, which was narrow, no doorman, only an intercom. He checked his phone; no messages. He was frightened by how much he was about to fuck up, by his lack of desire to stop himself, the rising anticipation at the prospect of falling down, failing harder, and going straight to tilt; he’d known from the moment he left the bar exactly where he would end up. He pressed the intercom button. “What?” a guy’s voice said. He provided the password, and for a moment, a feeble hope hung in the air that it would be the wrong one. But the door buzzed open.