A Dark Road Page 3

  “Hi, Hads.” Without taking his eyes off his new conquest, Simon tried smacking at my shoulder like I was one of the guys back home. “I haven’t seen you all damn day.”

  “You still haven’t,” I muttered.

  He gestured to the girl while simultaneously offering me the other half of his fruit roll-up. “Jenna, this is my sister.”

  “Hi.” I did the preliminary assessment that I learned to do of all Simon’s conquests. Obvious tattoos? No. Piercings? No. Track marks? Self inflected wounds on the arms…?

  “Tell me about your day,” Simon said around a mouth full of ham sandwich. “Does your locker jam as bad as mine?”

  “I haven’t been there yet.”

  The silence was the worst part, but after a minute Simon introduced me to a girl named Rachel and her boyfriend Mark, who came over from the lunch line. The group talked pleasantly among themselves and I tried to join in every so often with the occasional comment or question, but I was distracted by how crowded the cafeteria was becoming and how long the lines were for food. It made the room seem unbearably small and stuffy and I half-wished for air conditioning. I pulled at the collar of my shirt.

  “Is the food really that great around here?” I joked. “Why doesn’t anyone go to a burger joint or something?”

  Jenna spoke up suddenly. She had been so quiet I had nearly forgotten she was there. “We’re not allowed to leave during school hours.”

  Simon and I looked at each other. “Not even seniors?” he asked. “As a privilege?”

  “Yeah,” Mark said. “Its sucks donkey balls.”

  Another smash of the day was crumpling on me. Simon was over it in a whole two seconds and for some reason it annoyed the hell out of me. I turned away from the snippets of conversation taking place, the little desire I had to participate in them gone. Someone named Sylvia suggested we finish eating outside though, and I felt a little better. At the very least we were allowed that small privilege.

  There were only two other cliques sitting in the bleachers, and a few brazen girls lying out on the football field to soak up the last of the September sun. I saw three guys walk past the bleachers and huddle around the football goal post. There wasn’t anything special about them and it took me a second to realize that the only reason I noticed them at all was because they were in my English class.

  The shortest of the three boys, whose acne was out of control even from far away, bounced from foot to foot while one of his companions rubbed his hand over his shaved head. The third and largest boy impatiently typed into his phone. I read his lips as every few seconds as he swore and poked his head around the goal post. It was a fascinating sight, like watching men waiting for their executioner. I couldn’t help but wonder what was making them so anxious when not so long ago they had seemed as happy-go-lucky as the rest of them.

  Then came the boy with the wild blond hair. I recognized him instantly as the mad villain from a few days before. He stood away from his friends, though it seemed to me that he was away from them in a more non-linear sense. The riled boys looked positively thrilled when they saw the brown paper bag he held. And though it looked as if he was saying something forceful to the group, they began laughing, overwhelmed with their new joy.

  The three boys walked towards a garbage can near a small brick building that I guessed was used for concessions. The shortest boy was laughing while ribbing the one with the shaved head, whatever problem they had a moment ago seemed to have evaporated completely. They were so relieved; they even made a detour and stopped in front of us on their way back inside so one of them could make a lurid gesture with his mouth towards Jenna. The tall boy made a kissy face at me and smiled. I felt my fists clench but was briefly distracted by the blond-haired boy as he pulled his hood over his head and stared at the ground. As he walked away he looked at nothing and everything. It seemed to me that his eyes were intangibly gray, like ash or stone, but I didn’t get the opportunity to confirm it.

  “What’s up with them?” I asked.

  Rachel looked over her shoulder and promptly rolled her eyes. “Those idiots?”

  “Ignore them,” Sylvia said. “Just the resident scumbags.”

  “Most of those dudes have hit their heads on the wrestling mats one too many times,” Mark added.

  “What about that other one?” I nodded to the boy with the eyes of ash and stone. “He doesn’t play sports.”

  Mark didn’t have to turn to see who I was referring to. “McKay,” he said. “Resident rain man.”

  Rachel jabbed him. “Stop that!”

  Now Simon’s interest was piqued. “Say what now?”

  “The kid is retarded or something. He’s like mute but super smart.”

  I stared at the group while Simon and his new friends talked on. It didn’t make a lot of sense to me why a boy who looked like that wouldn’t be more outspoken. I knew from my own brother that even unintelligent people are often listened to if they’re good-looking. And when you look a certain way people tend to think certain things about you. How often had I been annoyed because people stared at my mid-range extremities instead of listening to the words coming out of my mouth? A lot the boys at home assumed I was smart, but for all they knew I could have been talking rubbish. It seemed like such a shame though that a boy who looked that good could be mentally handicapped. I shook my head and looked away. I was no better than anybody else, judging the book by the cover.

  Chapter 6

  McKay

  Normally, I wouldn’t have to bother with making another batch so soon. Yet I told Louie that I’d have something extra for him the next time we met up. Louie is what you would call a freelancing and wholesale disruptor. And believe it or not, he’s a somewhat safe bet to work with--not that there are safe bets in illegal pharmaceutical--but he’s as safe as they get. I only sell ecstasy to him wholesale because I know where his meth lab is and the street corners his brother and cousin sell on.

  The only reason Louie allows me to have my lab is because Frank doesn’t try to sell in his territory. Louie doesn’t have the resources to make ecstasy himself (i.e. his brother and cousin are idiots) so if he ever tried to get the pinch on me, I’d rat his ass out so fast his entire familia will be celebrating all their Cinco de Mayos in county for the next 10 to 15.

  He still has the standard holders, lookouts, and muscle that any upper-level dealer would have though, so I need to be cautious. I can’t let Louie know that I barter to The Stooges, Frank that I deal with Louie, or the sheep and normals about any of it. It isn’t that hard to multitask when it comes to keeping the truth to yourself. I’ve found that the more you listen and the less you talk, everything generally gets easier.

  Every once in a while though, Louie will start talking to me like we’re a couple of co-workers around the water cooler instead of two dudes committing a series of felonies. My theory here is that he’s trying to entrap me, (probably wearing a recorder and trying to get me to admit something that he can later use against me to get a deal). Either that or maybe he thinks he can blow off steam with me because we’re in the same line of work. He’ll start telling me about one of his holders who disappeared for a couple of days and how he had to do things to various baby mamas…I always back out of the conversation as soon as possible without trying to seem disrespectful, but I never know if I’m doing it right. I mean, it’s bad to know subconsciously that I’m inadvertently responsible for deaths, stealing, prostitution, whatever. But don’t stick me with details too. It’s only one more inclusion I’m looking to be excluded from.

  Ideally, I’ll get this to Louis by Halloween, and then that way we won’t have to meet again until after Thanksgiving. Even drug dealers and their chemists don’t like working around the holidays.

  ***

  I give Dog dinner and tie him out back before I get started. Dog must love being the pet of a chemist. With the nasty vapors in the air, I make sure to only give him canned food, and since I’m paying extra for that, I figure I
might as well go all out and get him the real good stuff that has its own special refrigerator section in the pet aisle.

  Even with all the windows open, the house isn’t a real safe place to be. I keep Dog outside when I cook and then we sleep outside for a day or two while the fans air everything out, but I mostly do that for Dog’s sake and the smell. It’s one of my precautionary measures. I’ve got chemical hazard gloves and overalls that I stole from the waste management crew when they were working on the sewer lines and I never work if I’m real tired. I guess the only thing I ever really splurged on was a gas mask. I got it from a war retiree at a flea market last year. Its vintage, but that just means its better.

  When cooking, it’s important not to expose yourself to phosphate gas, which will kill you pretty quick if you give it the chance.

  It’s strange that the tweakers, sheep, and normals alike usually don’t know why meth labs are so dangerous; that they can all be so close to something and not understand how it works. But it’s the white phosphorus with the sodium hydroxide that makes the site deadly. And from living with Dog, believe me; I know the difference between my toxic and nontoxic gases.

  Most of them also don’t know that when a cook isn’t careful, white phosphorus can auto-ignite and blow up the lab, you, your Dog, and everything around you. And the reason you hear about so many labs blowing up is because most tweakers are using their own product while they’re cooking. With shaky minds and hands, they tend not to pay much attention to the batch right beneath their noses. Too busy itching and twitching…

  See, it isn’t hard to make crank if you know what you’re doing. Making meth sober is easy, but making meth high is deadly.

  There isn’t much of a difference between the normals and the sheep.

  I distinguished the differences between them a long time ago, somewhere between elementary school and junior high. Originally they were both the same, but you start to see the subtle differences between people that put them in distinct groups. Sheep are unique in the sense that their brains are literally like sheep. They don’t seem to have any concept of the long-term, or self-awareness. Sheep do what they’re told, when they’re told. They all follow each other around, wearing the same things, doing and saying the same things. A lot of the normals do this too, but sheep take this to the extreme. The only congruent thought a sheep has is how much more they can be like the person sitting next to them. But I guess that makes them less harmful than the alternative.

  The normals, on the other hand, are the quid pro quo kids. Their lives run on schedules and teacher recommendations. But this type of development is called ordinary, a proper way of seeking approval. Again, I don’t really get it. I do have respect for the normals in one regard, though. Each of them has a plan for their lives that tends to be dictated by a series of formulas. And I enjoy a good formula. No room for error. From what I understand, the ‘normal’ formulas go something like this: {college + (internship) + dating (+/-) dating = marriage} marriage. From a lot of conversations I’ve heard, the other formula goes like this: true love (∞) ≥ marriage + kids⁴=happiness.

  The closest I’ll ever get to the normals (or even the sheep, for that matter) is in a cook. By sticking to my routine, and providing them with a product they secretly want (but won’t admit), I feel a little more connected. I mean, I know I’m not, but it’s a sort of sensation that I can fly on for a while, like when The Stooges are nice to me for the first couple of hours after I hook them up. I think it’s probably what the ecstasy users feel their first time, or an experienced PCP user: you know you’re not invincible, but that isn’t going to stop you from having unprotected sex with a stranger or jumping off the top of a building.

  I daydream about doing both.

  This imaginary human connection is brought to you by the ‘red, white, and blue’ formula, because meth! Hey, it’s cheaper than dental care. If crank were legal I could picture the red, white, and blue angle being promoted on TV, just like Pepsi. God Bless America: land of the free and home of the tweaked.

  All sarcasm aside, I think the entire process is incredible. There is the red phosphorus, and white is the ephedrine or pseudoephedrine, while blue is usually the iodine. Of course there’s a lot more to it than that, and I know it sound like some lame science jargon, but think about it—when you combine everything the right way and your timing is right, it makes these tiny rocks that go scourging through your system. It can change your metabolism, heart rate, instincts (whatever those are), reflexes, and thought processes within twenty minutes or so. Basically, if you use them the right way, they can change your entire life.

  Sometimes when I’m cooking I pretend I’m not really cooking at all. Instead I make believe that I’m working on a cure for cancer or a vaccine for HIV or some shit like that. It’s stupid I know, but it makes the time go by faster and helps me stay focused. It’s like when I was a kid and Mom and I used to play dress up, only now my imagination is better and instead of doing something good, I’m creating a product that kills people.

  But when I can’t get there (in my head, I mean) and when I feel the most shitty about myself, I dig out the shoebox from my closet and run my fingers over the ribbons from science fairs. No sports trophies here. I try to remember Mom’s face when I won the little buttons and came skipping through the door with laminated certificates. And I tell myself that she didn’t leave because of me, that she still loves me, maybe even thinks about me.

  And then I put the box away and get back to reality.

  Chapter 7

  Hadley

  With the rotating schedule, the next day was both better and worse. It was better because at least I saw Simon during government and had gym. But it was much worse because it was like the first day all over again. I was forced to try and relearn the hallways and room numbers just like the day before. Again I found myself reaching for the pink schedule every other hour, trying to calculate which day I was supposed to have this class or that one, and if I was in the right place at the right time.

  At least I managed to find the gym without any problems. Like Simon, I was pretty excited with the idea of co-ed gym. With only females to compete with, there hadn’t been much competition at all back home. I wasn’t sure what the sporting rules here were, but I was still eager to play, but even more eager to win.

  After changing and taking attendance, the coach lined everyone into teams for volleyball. It wasn’t my best sport, but I was always decent at it once I got the hang of it. With the move and subsequent chaos of moving I hadn’t worked out in almost a week and I was desperate for some physical exercise. As the coach assigned positions, I was borderline excited until I saw who he assigned to be middle base next to me. It was one of the boys from lunch yesterday. Because he was shorter for a guy, the boy with the out-of-control-acne was in the front on my team.

  I bored my eyes into the back of his head and saw that he was even more jumpy and ugly up close. His pus-filled zits were yellow on the back of his neck and threatened to boil over at any given moment. I retched at the sight, but my disgust didn’t stop the frustration itching at my fingertips. I remembered the way he and his friends had snickered at us, and the perv move they made, and I only wanted to stomp his nasty face in with my sneakers.

  The whistle distracted me and the volleyball went soaring into the air. The girl next to me hit it just before it landed on the ground, giving me a dirty look as if to say ‘pay attention.’ I braced myself and focused. I wouldn’t let that happen again.

  The ball only came to me a few times, but I (maybe a little too over aggressively) dove for it when it wasn’t in my territory. The gym coach had us rotate rows so each of us could have an opportunity to serve and my pulse began to race. I had missed the thrill of competition more than I first realized. But realizing this only made me angrier. The thrill of any sport was a great sensation, and like my home and friends, it had been ripped right out from beneath me.

  A girl with red-rimmed glasses handed me the bal
l when my turn came to serve. I stepped back to the line of faded duct-tape that had been used as a marker for the server and surveyed the gym. The class had a total of twenty-three kids and the coach. The basketball nets were up, giving me ample room to serve the ball as high as I wanted to. I saw a relatively open spot on the opposing team and thought about it, but aimed for another semi-weak spot where two girls were staring off into space. And then I saw it again, the back of the neck of that pervy boy from yesterday. I’m not sure what it was about that ugliness that inspired me, but it did.

  The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to do it. Sure, he was on my team, and yes, I would lose my serve, lose potential points for my team, and make myself look like a jerk.

  Still, I knew the instant I thought of it that it would be worth it.

  I lifted the ball above my head in perfect serving position, only instead of aiming above and beyond the net; I struck it straight for the back of the short boy’s head. Thanks to the gym’s acoustics, the thump the contact made actually echoed.

  “Damnit!”

  “Serve much?” someone called.

  A few people laughed, though it was hard to tell whether or not they were laughing at me or the other kid. I didn’t have time to think about it though, before a voice called down from the bleachers.

  “Come on, Fuller, it’s not like another bump will hurt your pretty face.”

  Everyone looked up at McKay and laughed. If they were laughing at me, they now directed their humor at Fuller’s pain as he grumbled and rubbed the back of his neck.

  I was so hypnotized by McKay that I barely heard the coach blowing his whistle. “That’s enough out of you, McKay! It’s bad enough you didn’t dress-out again, I don’t need you interrupting my class.”