Period 8 Read online

  Much as he respects Logs, “stepping out ahead” isn’t the main objective. Paulie wants to understand the life he’s living now. He wants to know his possibilities, his edges. Now.

  Paulie wishes sometimes he had Arney’s ability to detach, to see things in his mind instead of in his heart, and to just take what he wants. He looks at his title page. Why does it seem like I have a choice between so many good decisions while Bobby and Taylor—and a whole bunch of other kids—have to choose between the shitty ones?

  He steps behind the counter to put a sixteen-ounce coffee and a scone on his tab, then returns to the small table where he’s plugged in his laptop, cracking his knuckles, ready to get some words down. He opens a manila folder containing notes from Brain Rules and How We Decide, some Internet printouts of teenagers doing heroic things and mind-numbingly stupid things. He could keep all that information in his laptop, but he wants it where he can pull it out of his backpack at any time.

  He types, absently finishing the scone, hoping for the wisdom that sometimes comes with a caffeine rush.

  “Hey, man.”

  He looks up. “Justin. ’Sup?”

  “All lonely and shit,” Justin says. “Saw the lime-green Beetle and thought I’d come in and see if I can keep you from graduating.”

  Paulie closes the laptop. “Who needs a diploma anyway,” he says. “Studies say the job I want won’t even exist by the time I get my education and it will only require a GED anyway. I can go straight to welfare.”

  “That’s the man I backed for prez,” Justin says. “A little more of that kind of rhetoric and your campaign might’a got off the ground.”

  “We gave it our best shot. Pretty glad I didn’t win.”

  Justin’s fingers tap nonstop on the table to some driving beat playing in his head. “You know, bro, your opponent was low-down. He’s still low-down.”

  “Arney? I guess. He was just being Arney.”

  “Yeah, and I let that go. Politics and all, and you seemed okay with it. But that personal shit trash-talking your pops and all that DNA stuff was out of line.”

  “I straightened him out on that,” Paulie says. “He still claims he didn’t know beforehand. And he stopped it.”

  “Tell you what, my man, there is damn little happens around Mr. Stack he doesn’t know about.”

  “Did you come here just to cheer me up?”

  Justin looks behind him at the entrance, then back at Paulie. “I came here to smarten you up,” he says. “This shit with Stack and Hannah ain’t right.”

  “I know. I gave him the go-ahead, though,” Paulie says. “Can you imagine what Hannah Murphy would say if she thought somebody needed permission to go out with her? Especially mine?”

  “He asked because he knew what you’d say. Man, you act all tough and shit but I know what’s going on inside. Stack can see it too, man, and he uses it. That’s what pisses me off, it’s fucked up.”

  “I’ll get through it. Shit, kids are starvin’ in Somalia.”

  “Which at this particular moment in our lives we can do zero about,” Justin says. “Arney, however, is more immediate.”

  Paulie smiles and leans back. “Well, I can’t go busting up Arney because I don’t like him going out with my ex-girlfriend. She’s got a part in it, too.”

  “She’s getting even, like any chick would. I’ll give her that room, but if Stack was ever my friend, it’s history now.”

  “Well, if it elevates your opinion of my sanity,” Paulie says, “I’m cooling off on him, too.”

  “Just know if you’re laying around some night feelin’ like destroying some property, give me a call.”

  A quick fist bump and Justin turns to leave. Paulie watches him disappear through the door. Justin whirls and points and Paulie hears a muffled, “Got your back, man,” through the window. Justin walks a couple more steps, whirls and points again, and mouths, “But whose got your front?”

  Paulie opens the laptop again, sighs, and tries to focus, only to look up and see Hannah standing at the counter. His adrenaline floodgates open: quick heartbeats and an ache in his lower back, and he moves to the opposite side of the table facing away.

  He wants to write his goddamn paper, but he can’t concentrate until he knows she’s gone, so he pretends to read, counting out the seconds he thinks it will take them to make a double-shot vanilla latte. She was texting; he doesn’t know if she saw him and he’s pretty sure if she did, she’ll pretend otherwise. When the bell hanging over the door rings three more times, he ventures a look over his shoulder.

  Hannah stands two feet away. “Hey,” she says.

  “We have to stop meeting like this.”

  She says, “Funny.”

  “Not much material to work with.”

  “Were you ever going to tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Who you cheated with.”

  The bottom drops out of Paulie’s stomach. “What do you mean was I ever going to tell you? You know?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  He closes his eyes. He told Mary not to try to fix things.

  “When did she tell you?”

  “She didn’t. Paulie, how could you do that?”

  His mind spins. He doesn’t know from which direction this attack is coming, or from which to attack back.

  “Do what?”

  “Take advantage of someone like Mary Wells. I thought I knew you.”

  “How can I put this delicately,” Paulie says. “Who the fuck told you it was Mary Wells?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “It sure as hell is my business, because only two people knew.”

  “Obviously that’s not true, and you still haven’t answered my question.”

  He closes his laptop, folds his hands on the table. “You know, Hannah, I’d answer your question, I would. But it wouldn’t do a bit of good. Your mind’s made up about me. I’m my old man and that’s it. Well, tell you what. I ain’t my old man and until you clear your pretty little head out so you can hear what’s what, all I can say is fuck off.”

  “Have it your way,” she says.

  “That possibility dried up the day I told you the truth,” he says back.

  “That possibility dried up the day you did it.”

  He grits his teeth. “Whatever. Do me one favor, though, and then I promise, I’ll never darken your door again, literally or figuratively. Tell me who said it was Mary. Better. I’ll make it easy. I’ll say the name and if I’m right, don’t say anything.”

  Hannah shrugs.

  “It was fucking Arney, wasn’t it?”

  Hannah flushes slightly and stares straight at him.

  “Thanks. Now you have a latte to drink and I have a paper to write. If you’re gonna stay here to drink it, I’ll pack my shit and go. If not I’d appreciate it if you’d get us out of each other’s faces.”

  “On my way,” Hannah says.

  .11

  Paulie drops his gym bag next to the bleachers and scans the six half-courts, looking for the right open-gym game. Justin and a couple of his buddies hold the court next to the entrance and Justin motions him over. “Will’s got to get with his honey,” he says. “Play with us.”

  “Tell Will to hang on for one more game and I’ll be back,” Paulie says, and moves two courts down where Arney plays with two first-stringers from the high school team. On the adjacent court, Sam Jackson, another first-stringer, shoots jumpers.

  “Got winners?” Paulie asks.

  Jackson nods.

  “I go with you?”

  Sam passes him the ball. “Sure. Get warm.”

  Minutes later, after Arney’s team wins, Paulie says, “Let’s do it.”

  They pick up the best shooter from the losing team, Randy Wilkes, and take the court.

  “Hey, bud,” Arney says. “Ready to get schooled?”

  “Hey, bud,” Paulie says back. Arney misses the irony.

  Rules say winner’s out
s, so Arney’s team takes the ball. “I got the prez,” Paulie says, and Sam and Randy square off with the others. Arney passes in to his big man, Ronnie Turner, who fires it back and cuts to the hoop. Arney fakes the pass and pops a jumper, looking Paulie in the eye just before he releases.

  Enjoy it, Paulie thinks.

  It’s Arney’s last point. Paulie is on him like a wetsuit, slapping the ball out of his hands at every opportunity, blocking him from passes. Arney grows exasperated and throws the ball away twice, which gets Turner on his case. “Come on, prez. Don’t force it, man. Take your time. He’s got size on you. You got to play smart.”

  But Paulie’s anger works to his advantage; he’s seeing Arney’s moves before Arney makes them, crowding his left side because Arney’s a southpaw, forcing everything the other way. He can feel Arney’s frustration building.

  Paulie plays psychologically sweet, complimenting Arney when he almost pulls off a move, encouraging him to stay with it. “I’m fresh,” Paulie says. “You’ll wear me down pretty soon.”

  “Yeah,” Arney says, “like anybody could wear you down.”

  “You’re having an off night,” Paulie says, and slaps the ball into the bleachers.

  “Man, what’s with you?” Arney says.

  “Just workin’ out the kinks of a bad day,” Paulie says back.

  Turner says, “Will you girls shut up and play?”

  Paulie smiles and nods. He will most certainly shut up and play.

  Arney passes the ball in and cuts to the hoop, circling under the backboard and out to the corner baseline, with Paulie tracking every step. Paulie’s teammates are emboldened by his defense and turn it up on their end. Arney cuts back toward the hoop on the baseline and Paulie lets him go, giving his big man just enough room to sneak in a bounce pass. Arney goes up for the shot with Paulie right behind him, his palm on the ball and no part of their bodies touching. He slams the ball back into Arney’s face, sending him sprawling across the floor. Blood squirts from Arney’s nose.

  “My foul,” Paulie says. “You guys’ ball.” He offers Arney his hand.

  Arney slaps it away. “Jesus, Baum, what the fuck is the matter with you? You had the block.”

  “Guess I got too into it,” Paulie says. “Sorry, man.”

  Turner says, “You okay, prez?”

  Arney wipes his nose with his hand, sees blood. “I’m okay, but I’m done. I’m not playing with this asshole.”

  Turner glances around the gym. “We need a third.”

  Paulie walks to the sideline. “That’s okay. I’ll call it, too. You guys go two-on-two.”

  Without turning back he moves to call winners on Justin’s court.

  Arney Stack walks in his back door, through the kitchen, and heads for the stairs toward his room. His mother intercepts him at the base of the stairway, seeing crusted blood below his swollen nose. “What in the world happened to you?”

  “Basketball,” he says. “It got a little rough.”

  His father appears in the entrance to the living room. A thin, wiry man, impeccably dressed even in his casuals. “Let me look at that.”

  Arney grimaces and approaches his father. “Yes, sir.”

  Arnold Sr. studies the wound. “Did you extract retribution?”

  “Naw, it was Paulie.”

  “I see. An accident?”

  Arney smiles. “Not exactly. He was irritated at me from something at school.”

  “Having to do with the Murphy girl?”

  Arney takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. Probably.”

  “So he takes it out on you on the court.”

  “I guess.”

  “And you do nothing.”

  “It was Paulie, Dad.” He doesn’t say that Paulie was so pissed he’d have retributed the retribution in a big way, but makes it sound like he gave his friend a pass.

  The open-palmed slap to the side of Arney’s face knocks him back two steps. He catches himself on the banister.

  His mother retreats, hand over her mouth.

  “You’re a Stack,” his father says, low and mean. “No one assaults a Stack and walks away, understood? Especially that Baum kid. He’s diminished you all your life.” It’s his father’s favorite word. Diminished.

  Arney is physically strong enough to take his dad, but he says, “Yes, sir.”

  “You give a man an advantage and he takes advantage.”

  “Yes, sir. No excuse.”

  “Very well, then. I’m sorry I had to strike you.”

  “I had it coming, sir. You’re right. I can’t pick a fight, but you can rest assured I’ll get him back, and he’ll know it.”

  A slight smile crosses his father’s face. “You’re a good man, son. Or you will be.”

  The following afternoon Paulie drives slowly toward the Wells mansion, his mind bouncing over what to say when he gets there. “Make it look like we’re hanging out,” he says to the steering wheel. “Hi, Mr. Wells. I’m Paul Baum. Your daughter and I had a quick one in my car a little while back, but that’s over now and I’m here to make it look like she and I are hanging out. Don’t go for your firearms, it’s all for show.” He laughs. What the fuck. I’m ninety percent sure, he thinks, but I need a hundred: did Arney tell Hannah?

  “Can I help you?” Victor Wells looks bigger in the door of his mansion than he did in the park, and every bit as intimidating.

  “Yes, sir. Is Mary here?”

  “She’s here but I’m afraid she isn’t taking callers.”

  “This is about school,” Paulie says.

  “Is she expecting you?”

  Funny, Paulie thinks. Name two guys she has ever expected to come here.

  “I don’t think so. It’s about a project we’re working on.”

  “She hasn’t mentioned a project. Is this recent?”

  “Actually it’s old. We started it at the beginning of the semester and I’ve been procrastinating.” For an avowed truth-teller, this lying stuff comes way too easy.

  Wells’s eyes narrow. “Didn’t I meet you at the park when school kids were out looking for my daughter?”

  “Maybe. I mean, you could have. We were all out there.”

  Wells studies Paulie’s face, which Paulie holds devoid of expression. “I suppose she can give you a few minutes, but make it short.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Wait here.”

  Paulie stands on the porch, taking in the surroundings. The porch wraps completely around the house like on a southern antebellum mansion, the lawn perfectly manicured.

  “She says she can’t talk with you right now,” Wells says upon his quick return.

  “Could you tell her it’s really important?” Paulie’s heart pounds against his breastbone. Wells was gone but a few seconds; Paulie doesn’t trust that he actually asked her.

  “Son, I’m formally asking you to leave my property. I’m sure you don’t want me to call security.”

  “You have security? Why in the world would you need security?”

  “That’s none of your damn business. Now get off my porch.”

  Paulie takes a deep breath. “Mr. Wells, I’m not a bad guy. I’m not here to cause trouble or do harm to your daughter. I’m asking you—I’m begging you—to tell her it’s really important, that it won’t take more than five minutes and we can have the conversation right here on the porch. It could affect my graduation.”

  “Boy, you’ve got some nerve.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

  “C’mon. Five minutes.”

  Wells disappears again and Paulie starts to sweat. It’s as if he’s starting a four-mile swim in shark-infested waters.

  “Hey,” Mary says, coming down the stairs. “What are you doing here?” Her demeanor tells him he was right: Wells didn’t tell her he was here the first time.

  “I need to talk with you about our project,” Paulie says, guarding against the possibility that her father is b
ehind the door.

  “Want me to get my notes?”

  She’s a quick study. “Yeah, sure.” He’s been here only ten minutes, and already has a sense of extreme vigilance.

  Mary hurries to her room, grabs a notebook, hurries back. She steps onto the porch, closing the front door behind her.

  “Jesus Christ,” Paulie says.

  “Sit next to me,” Mary whispers. “If he asks, it’s civics. He knows which classes I take at school and which I take for Running Start, but he wouldn’t know you and I aren’t in the same civics class.” The notebook is open to early semester notes, focused on actions by the Supreme Court. “We’re working on the court’s decision to treat corporations as individuals,” she says, “a decision he likes a lot. I’m writing advantages and you’re doing disadvantages.”

  “This is like a test.”

  “And you need to get an A on it. My dad has radar for lies, and you can bet he’s a lot better at flushing them out than you are at telling them.” She smiles. “Especially you, Paulie.”