I thought about the money. Cyndra’s mind games. The Mustang and the castle-house, and a group of kids who lay twenty-dollar bets before their day even begins.
And me. Going through their scraps. Trying to avoid my dad and his corpse-pale fists. Watching with one eye for him, always there. Watching for that look. The grooves that arc over his mouth when he comes after you, upper lip curled onto his teeth. The twin lines blooming into the skin between his lips and nose, slashing down at his barred teeth—like his teeth are fangs. Like the skin will split to let them out.
I tried to sleep.
At lunch Clay was already sitting with Nico and Spud at our usual table. I stopped there, thinking I’d just check in quickly. But Clay’s eyes slid past me as Michael walked up.
“Come on, Iceman,” Michael said.
In the food line people swirled around us but didn’t push or complain.
“What’s with the Iceman bit?”
Michael smiled. “Look, everyone loves a nickname, right? Some of the gang had started calling you Ice because of your eyes and because you’re cold, man. It’s good. And this morning you played it true. So you’re the Iceman.”
We started walking again.
“What’s your nick?”
Michael shrugged. “It’s stupid. Most people don’t use it anymore.” He looked down and away.
“It’s not Pretty Boy, is it?” I asked. The corner of my lips tugged up.
Michael laughed for our audience, then clapped me on the shoulder. I stepped away. Michael just laughed again. People in line around us turned and smiled. It was like there was a gushy ooze of hero worship going on. The girls sighed, and the guys nodded like they were in on a joke with the main man.
“It’s Face.”
I grabbed the tray the lunch lady shoved at me. “Well, that fits, I guess.”
“It’s stupid. Came up in junior high. Some kid saw episodes of The A-Team on the retro channel and thought Face was a great nick for me.”
“Well, it could be worse,” I said. Michael steered us past the cashier and propelled us to the outdoor tables.
“Yeah?”
“It could be Ass-Face.”
Michael laughed, for real this time, and I felt that slight moment—that I’d made him laugh. Mr. Popular Super Jock. Man, he sure had some charisma to make everyone want to be part of his cool flame.
“Listen”—Michael leaned in—“not for nothing, but I’m not paying you to hang out with your loser friends.”
“Actually you haven’t paid me anything yet,” I replied. Michael grinned and stepped off like he hadn’t said anything.
We were the first ones to get outside. Michael popped open his backpack and pulled out a big container with noodles in it.
I put the Burger King cup on the table and started wolfing my chiquitos.
“What’s Cyndra’s nickname?” I asked around a mouthful.
“Cyn. As in a body for. It’s not too original.”
“Still works.”
Dwight and some of the other jocks pushed through the swinging door and clomped down the ramp. When they reached the tables they slammed their trays down and straddled the benches like they were too manly to be able to throw both legs over.
Except for Dwight, who stood at my back like he was waiting for me to move.
I ignored him.
“That’s my spot,” he said.
“Not from where I’m sitting, asshole,” I said.
Michael and the other jocks laughed. Dwight stood for a moment longer, and I understood why he was the one who’d spit in my drink that morning. Because he didn’t want me there. Who knew if the others felt that way or not, but Dwight hated it. I was in his spot.
He walked around to sit across from us, making a cheer-girl move so he could at least get in front of Michael’s face, if not at his right hand.
He glared at me. I made sure he saw me look at the Burger King cup, and then I smiled and glanced at his nachos.
He took it as a dare and started eating, shoving food into his mouth. When he was five nachos in, I held up a hand.
“Relax, man. Relax. It’s empty.” I showed him the empty cup. Some of the other jocks started laughing.
“Yeah, fool. It’s empty.”
“Iceman already took care of it, see?”
They started making hawking noises.
Dwight shook his head. He studied his nachos. “Screw that. I watched them put the cheese on. I’ve watched it the whole time.”
“You know Big Mack?” I asked, pretending to be surprised. The lunchroom worker was part cafeteria worker, part security, all legend. “Did you know that he was in county lockup with my dad?”
A total lie. And if they thought for two seconds, they’d realize it, since Big Mack was a school employee.
But they didn’t think. And given what they assumed about me, of course they went for it.
A few of the jocks started repeating, “In county with his dad,” like it was the best part.
Dwight had to choose between looking pissed and playing along. You could see he was pissed. But he forced himself to laugh and ate six more nachos.
“Tasty,” he said.
His friends howled.
“No hard feelings, right?” I said. Throwing it back at him, just like he’d done in the parking lot.
Michael lifted his chin at Dwight. “Good play, man.” Like the team had just made a touchdown or something. Dwight relaxed.
That’s the kind of power Michael had. Three little words and the whole thing was over, because Michael said good boy.
Terrell slapped my hand and straddled the bench next to me. Everyone called him T-Man, partly because of his first name, but mostly because he was the go-to receiver on the football team and so scored more than anyone else.
“County, huh? What’d he go in for?”
LaShonda scooped her arms around his neck. They were looking at me like junior gangsters, even though I knew that T-Man’s dad was a dentist and LaShonda was president of Future Business Leaders of America.
“Drugs.” I decided it didn’t matter. Anyone with halfway decent computer skills could probably look it up anyway.
Which made me wonder if Michael had.
T-Man and LaShonda nodded like they knew firsthand what I was talking about.