What Have We Done (15)

Now Mickey is quiet. He clearly thinks it’s a no-brainer. “How about this: Meet with the writer, see what you think? The agent already flew him down to Miami from New York.”

“I’m checking out of the hospital today, so I won’t be—”

“Where you staying? He can be at your hotel by dinnertime.”

Donnie realizes that the wheels on this are already in motion.

“Nothing to lose, Don. They’ll buy you an expensive meal. No commitment. Just talk to the guy.”

“All right. But make it clear I’m not sure about this. I’m staying at the Fontainebleau.”

“Nice. I love the Fontainebleau,” Mickey says. “Sinatra and the Rat Pack used to hang there. I’ll tell him to meet you in the Hakkasan Bar in the hotel at seven.”





CHAPTER TWELVE

NICO

Nico is burning up. He’s in that space between consciousness and dream. Sweat rolls from his brow, his pits feel like a swamp. The wound on his shoulder may be infected. He’s at the beach, the magical day with his mom when he was eleven—the blissful ignorance of not knowing that this was her goodbye.

She’d given him a necklace with a pendant. “It’s a Saint Christopher, like mine.”

“What’s a Saint Christopher?”

“He keeps you safe on your journeys.”

Nico still wears the necklace, though he’s since learned that Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, was demoted by the church for some reason. They probably assumed the guy was an asshole. Nico knows the feeling.

His mind flutters about, a dragonfly hovering over himself. Another bead of sweat travels from his forehead, down his cheek, over his chin. It feels like condensation from a cold beer on a hot summer day.

Summer.

Then he’s back in Chestertown, Pennsylvania, in July.

“It’s hot as shit out here,” he says. He passes the liter bottle of Mountain Dew to Annie. They sit on top of the octagon-shaped monkey bars in the dilapidated park. The bars are rusted and there’s no shade and he hopes he’s not sweating too much.

Annie says, “Um, can I ask: Where are your shoes?” She eyes his dirty feet and he’s embarrassed, but only a little. “You didn’t lose them playing cards with those older kids, did you?”

Nico feigns insult. “No, Donnie’s trying out for the talent show tonight,” he says. “They keep making fun of him, calling him hillbilly, and he wasn’t going to go because of the holes in his shoes.

So I…” Nico wiggles his toes. If there’s one thing Nico hates, it’s a bully.

Annie doesn’t say anything, but she reaches for his hand, which sends electricity slicing through him.

Nico tries to play it cool, hopes his palm isn’t sweaty. His eyes move to the new girl who’s on the swing. She’s swaying slowly, a distant expression on her face.

“What’s up with her?” Nico asks.

Annie shrugs. “I heard her parents died in a car crash.”

Nico doesn’t say anything. They all have sad stories; all different, yet all the same.

Annie says, “They gave her the welcome treatment last night. She and Marta slept at the tree house.”

Nico releases a sigh. “I heard them fucking around, but I didn’t know they were messing with any of you. Where was Mr. Brood?”

“Men’s Club.” On Wednesday evenings, the businessmen of Chestertown get together to pretend they’re big shots.

They’ll stay at the park until dark. It’s better than the house, which is crowded and where Mr.

Brood will put them to work cleaning the bathrooms or doing other made-up chores. But once the sky dusks, it’s not safe here.

Annie takes a drink of pop and tosses him the candy. They pooled their money—the four dollars they got from the recycling center. She points across the park. “There’s Arty.”

Artemis Templeton, another one of the Savior House kids, pulls an old wagon, the wheel wobbling along the broken sidewalk on the perimeter of the park. Inside the wagon is a computer monitor and a tangle of cables and cords. Dumpster diving at the RadioShack again. He says he’s going to build the next Microsoft, but bigger. Arty’s a strange dude. Probably will be a gazillionaire someday, but strange. The kids call him The Robot because of his monotone inflection.

Annie glances around. She sighs.

There’re no kids. No responsible adult would bring their children here to play on the blacktop strewn with broken bottles, used condoms, and even a needle or two. The seesaw is a broken plank.

“You think we’ll ever get out of here?” she asks.

“I’d bet on it,” Nico tells her.

“You’ll bet on anything,” she says, smiling. A smile that lights up even this grim place.

She’s right, but gambling pays off sometimes. It was a gamble, after all, that Annie would like him. Nico isn’t a visionary like Arty. Isn’t strong and smart like Ben. Isn’t good at guitar like Donnie.

Isn’t good at anything really, except maybe being a smartass. Maybe that’s why his mom didn’t come back.

He looks around to make sure nobody’s watching. “I, um, got you something.” He hands her the small box. She opens it and removes the necklace that has letters spelling out her name: Annie.