Cowboy Villain Damsel Duel Read online

  “We’re going to crush them!” Everyone calls him Cowboy. I can’t think of anyone more opposite from a chivalrous ranger than he is, though. He chews girls up and spits them out, leaving their reputations in shreds. Poor Sonny—I think he’s had her hopes jump up and down so many times now she’s simply flatlined. I’ve watched him pull his ass off our lawn in a drunken state at sunrise more times than I can count. And for whatever reason, he always has to squeal his damn wheels when he pulls out of our street. His nickname really should be Outlaw.

  Despite it all, I need him. If I’m going to sell enough chocolate to get our student council officers a free ride to the national conference in DC, the football team is going to have to be my endorsement. For whatever reason, underclassmen and females who dig on boys will do whatever these guys say. I need them to tell people to buy this chocolate. I need them to make everyone in this school chocolate fiends—addicts—for six weeks.

  My lap buzzes where my phone is tucked under my notepad. I slip it out enough to see the screen and read the text from my mom.

  MOM: Lana can’t babysit. She picked up an extra shift. Can you skip the meeting and watch Angelica and Bea until I get off at 4? Thanks.

  I press my finger to my screen to respond, tapping out the word NO and letting it sit there for a few seconds before erasing it and sliding my phone back under the scribbled-on pages in my lap. I don’t need to answer. I’ll be there. I do what’s expected of me, what’s asked—I do it all.

  The weight of everyone and everything mingles with my hopes and dreams and suffocates me for a few seconds. The words on my page, the notes for my speech, swirl and blur. I’m going to faint if I don’t breathe. I draw in long and deep, eyelids fluttering in a panic. Please let the words clear up, let the brightness leave the edges of my periphery, the sweat stop at my pores and heat leave my body.

  I’m fine. I can do this. Bio test Monday, economics test Tuesday, paper due Friday . . . chocolate orders due in six weeks. Plenty of time.

  The world rights and I blink one last time, everything beyond my knees becoming clear again. My eyes meet his in my first solid breath since fear took over my chest. He’s my reaper. Not him, exactly, but his type. The ones who have it so easy, who don’t have to work hard. He probably doesn’t even want all of the glory these people give him.

  “Hi.” His mouth bends with the word.

  My heart thumps once, hard. It’s painful. I don’t need him noticing me now. He’s not the guy I need right now, when he’s like this. He’ll screw it all up, think I’m here to flirt rather than accomplish something bigger. Girls like me don’t go to Washington, DC. The middle child in a line of five girls, I’m stuck between hand-me-downs and chores my two baby sisters aren’t old enough to handle. My hand is scratching out the word before I realize what I’ve written. I’m focused, and a charming smile isn’t enough to ruin years of planning.

  I flip the notebook on its side for him to read.

  ASSHOLE

  His mouth moves with the word. I don’t think he even realizes that his lips do this. He chuckles, which irritates me, so I flatten my notepad and resolve to not look at him again . . . not until he’s out of beast-mode and ready to barter a few favors. I know he’s failing trig. I can teach math to monkeys. He can sell four thousand bars of chocolate.

  Cowboy and me, we need to talk.

  Just not now.

  I get the mic back while everyone’s filing out. They aren’t supposed to leave until the band starts playing, but nobody enforces that. I’m not sure why I bother to write notes for my speech. It’s really more of an announcement, but this is my chance to get the easy ones.

  “Hey, everyone!”

  I don’t get the same volume and feedback he gets when I shout into the mic. Some people actually cover their ears. It’s infuriating.

  “Just a few things to cover on your way out . . .”

  I’m supposed to start with the color theme, the bleacher rules, the good sportsmanship clause. If I go through all of that first, there might be seventeen people left to hear what I really want them to hear.

  “Remember that the student council concession booth will be open tonight, and we’re not just selling popcorn and sodas. We have a chocolate special! One bar for five, two for eight! And every single bit of profit comes back here, to Lockland.”

  I’m pretty sure the word profit flew over most of their heads. They heard chocolate, though. People cheered at that. If half of them remember and show up at the booth, we’ll be set.

  Principal Lee’s eyes meet mine as I clear my throat, so I flow right into the rest of my duties. As I figured, the gym is empty when I get to the end of the code of conduct spiel. I say every word of it anyhow, because Principal Lee is less than a dozen feet away and his arms are crossed over his chest.

  I press the off switch at the side of the mic when I’m done and walk the few steps between us to hand it to him. He grabs at it with a jerk.

  “What was that?”

  I know what he means.

  “What do you mean?”

  This is just posturing.

  His chin dips.

  “You can’t go rogue like that. Listen, I know this chocolate sale is important to you, and I know how much you want that trip for Council, but we have to encourage good sportsmanship as early and as often as possible. It’s how we cover our rear ends.”

  He actually pats his hip to accentuate his point.

  “I did talk about it.”

  “At the end,” he argues.

  My mouth clamps tight, holding back the boil while my nostrils flair. Maybe just one tiny remark. Maybe just a little passive aggression.

  “Color themes rank higher in importance, huh?” It slips out, and I might be okay but I already feel my eyes finishing their roll.

  “School spirit for more than a select few of you who are trying to go on a very privileged, very expensive vacation? Yeah . . . it’s more important.” Vacation is a low blow. Besides, it’s not like he didn’t go on this trip when he was in high school. He bragged about his experience when the organizer made the presentation to us last year.

  “Okay, sir. Whatever you need to tell yourself.” I cup my mouth quickly. That little quip—that one I didn’t see coming.

  Narrowed eyes glare down at me, and this time it’s his nostrils flaring.

  I don’t hear any of the words that leave his mouth. All I hear is the ripping sound of the detention slip as he tears it from his thick pad. The crunch of the paper being tucked into my open palm barely registers before the brightness creeps in again. I won’t be able to catch it this time. It’s too late. I’m already falling.

  The floor . . . it’s cold.

  3

  Villain

  “You got any junk?”

  I nod short and swift at the bulky man-child tugging at the sleeve of his ill-fitting jersey in front of me. Half of my customers are on our football team. Most of them come here to buy weed, but the good ones, the ones who take a beating on the field, they like the oxy and the shit laced with oxy. I always make bank on Friday afternoons. Dull the pain before it comes, that’s the Matador way!

  “My prices went up.” I sniff and glance down the alley. Truth is, most of my customers could beat the shit out of me. Thank God they’re too dim to realize that. It’s all about performance in this business. I act like I’m a dangerous dude, and in their haze of desperation, they believe it to be true. I dress the part—skater shoes, black jeans, oversized hoodie—almost always black—and beanie stuffed down over my unruly hair. My muscles are made from jumping fences and flying off my board messing around at the park at night with my friend-ish Jackson while I wait on Sal to show up. I’m scrappy, but I sure as shit ain’t strong.

  “But you still have it, right?” This guy will pay whatever I ask. He’s on edge, and tonight’s game must be a big deal. I can ask for more than I thought. Good. I need more than I thought.

  “Yeah.” I twist my backpack around to my
front and pull out one of the pre-packed sandwich bags. I put my baby sister Gia’s lunch in these same bags.

  I know this guy—Christian Miller. We were friends once—sorta—back in the days of fourth grade tetherball. I’ve always been tall, so I was always good at the game. Christian was short back then. I was his god. Still am, I guess, though for entirely different reasons.

  “Sixty.” I clutch the bag, showing him just enough to stir his salivary glands.

  Fucking addict.

  He pulls a wad of twenties from his back pocket. I should have said eighty. He peels three bills away and hands them to me, and the exchange is seamless. He’s out of the alleyway before I blink and stuff the bills in my front pocket.

  The air is becoming crisp. It’s one of those Illinois falls that shows all signs of an early winter. I can almost smell the snow coming. My lips form an O and I breathe out to test whether I can see the fog. Not yet, but soon.

  It’s slower than most Fridays. I know the pep rally is done because I’ve had three customers. But three is usually seven. Sometimes eight. The shift in business has my suspicions piqued. I sniffle in and reach behind my neck to throw my hoodie up over my messy hair. It’s worse than usual—I didn’t get up this morning in time to shower.

  An engine idles to a slow stop just around the corner and my heart kicks with instant panic. I lean forward and catch the gaze of the female driver. She’s a mom. I see the baby carrier locked into the back seat. Mom glances into the rearview mirror to check on her sleeping child while still keeping an eye on me.

  Look out, lady. Goblin boy might steal your baby.

  She rushes out of the car with her keys in her hand, sharp ends poking through her knuckles. She unclasps the carrier from the back seat and hooks it over her arm, striding away from her gray sedan and making sure to beep the lock three times.

  My heartbeat settles back to normal. I chuckle as I lean back into the brick wall, my knee bent and foot flat against the rough concrete someone used to patch a crack. I’m not what people see. I don’t use the shit I sell, and I don’t carry a gun. Fuck that, I barely know how to use one. I have one tattoo, and it’s personal, and I don’t show it to anyone. Yeah, I used to use, but that’s bad for business. And really, a person can only dull reality for so long before they have to add more layers of pills and smoke and shit on top of it. The only way that path ends is buried. The money, though? Money cuts through all the bullshit.

  Money is my way out. Out of this town, out of this family, out of this deck of cards I was dealt. In one year’s time, I’ll have enough to change my name, move to the other side of the country, and start over from scratch. I’ll be able to invent a new me, one nobody knows. And Paul, my stepdad, will get every single thing that’s coming to him.

  Twenty more minutes pass without hope of another customer. My pocket feels light. Today’s haul was less than two-hunny. Plus, now I have a shit-ton of product that I can’t bring home because Paul will find it and keep it for himself.

  My system is complicated. Mom’s ex-boyfriend Sal meets me on Tuesdays at Pinky’s Hot Dogs on Main, across the street from the pain clinic where he works. I give him his cut from the last week, and he gives me enough skimmed prescription pills to meet the demands of Lockland High. I have Tuesday night to bag things up, Wednesday morning to hide my shit in the lining of my backpack, and Thursday and Friday to make my sales and clear out my inventory. The backpack lining is my sixth hiding spot. It’s only a matter of time before Paul goes on a major bender and rips through that too in search of a fix.

  Pulling my bag snug against my back, I peek from the sides of my hoodie as I exit my not-so-discreet alley and dash across the street to head home. The gray skies are heavy, like walking under a blanket. Even the traffic sounds are dulled. The pounding of our high school drumline breaks through the thick air, and it gives me an idea. If the band hasn’t hit the road for the game yet, the doors aren’t locked.

  My pace picks up to make it in time, and my pulse ratchets higher with every step. The panic is familiar, and constant. I continuously look over my shoulder, ready for a hand to grip my neck and yank. I easily make it to the back of the school, and the gates aren’t yet locked. The first set of doors doesn’t open, and when the left side of the second set is locked, my teeth clench. The right side opens freely, though, and I swear I hear angels sing and feel the warm glow of heavenly light at my luck. Because yeah, making sure I can hide my scripts at school is what the fine folks up in heaven are worried about right now.

  Lockers are a privilege at Lockland. No clue why I still have one. Probably because it’s in a shitty spot, low to the floor and just outside a bank of restrooms. I give a quick glance left and right and hold my breath, listening to make sure I’m alone. I drop to my knees and turn the dial to my combination then cautiously lift up on the lock, opening the door wide enough to slip my backpack inside. I’m tempted to lock my money inside too, but I like keeping it on my body. This cash is probably the only thing I would ever fight someone over.

  The locker shuts with a soft click. I fall back on my ass and gasp out a breathy laugh. My palms slide back and I tilt my chin to the ceiling. My eyes close, testing how a relieved smile feels for just a beat. That’s all I get, too, because the shift in position makes it impossible not to hear whoever is sobbing in the girls’ bathroom just to my left.

  My head rolls to the side and I reach with one palm to push back my hood and tug my beanie from my head so I can hear better. It’s a pretty steady stream of sniffles. I’ve gotta get out of here before whoever is crying in there makes it to this hallway.

  Why am I not moving?

  I don’t think I’ve blinked once since my eyes landed on the checkered tile floor that disappears around the corner into the girls’ bathroom. There’s something achingly beautiful in the sound of this girl’s cries, which I know . . . that’s a shitty thing to think. I can’t explain it any other way, though. It’s familiar, and my lips part just enough to push out a scratchy cry of my own to see if the tone matches hers.

  It doesn’t.

  I blink.

  “Shit.” The word comes out louder than my failed attempt to cry. I sit forward and fold my arms on my knees and rub the puffy feeling away from my eyes. I should be halfway home by now, but instead I’m sitting on the concrete floor in a hallway of a place I hate. I think maybe this girl, whoever she is, hates it here too.

  Palms flat on the floor, I pull my legs in and lift myself to stand, taking quiet steps closer to the ladies room. I feel like a pervert.

  “Hey,” I say at my normal volume. Her sniffles pause.

  I reach the door that’s propped open with a wedge and rap my knuckles against it to announce my presence.

  “You can clean in here. I’m done,” she says, clearing her throat to mask the tears she probably just wiped away. She obviously thinks I’m the janitor.

  It’s a terrible idea, but I step over that small threshold where the hallway concrete floor transitions into tiny octagon tiles and wrap my hand around the wall blocking my view. I could still leave. In fact, that’s probably what she wants. Yet . . .

  “No, I’m not . . . here to clean?” I shrug, hidden behind the wall. I pull my hand down and flatten it over my face. I’m making this worse. I step into her view and peel my fingers from my eyes. “Just making sure you were all right.”

  I’ve seen her before. Maybe. I think she might be a tutor or something, probably in one of the classes I rarely go to. She hugs her backpack to her chest, and her cheeks are wet. The white parts of her eyes are bloodshot, and she’s squeezing herself and her massive bag so hard that I think she’s trying to somehow tuck herself inside and disappear. I should have ignored her. I have no idea what I’m doing in here.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll go—” I stuff my hands deep into my pockets and turn.

  “No!” She barks out a panicked sound that stops me. I turn and lean my back flat against the wall, barely in her view. My feet are so c
lose to leaving the tile. I have to get to Gia’s school soon. She hates it when she’s the last one checked out of after-care. I don’t really know this girl; I could keep walking. But I don’t.

  “Sorry,” she says. My eyes bounce to hers, and for whatever reason, my mouth curls upward. She lets out a nervous giggle, and the hold she has on everything visibly eases until her bag slips to the floor. She shakes her head lightly and rubs at her temples. “I’m usually so together. I just get so sick and tired of it all sometimes. You know?”

  I consider her question for a second or two before smirking.

  “The sick and tired part? Yeah. But I’m never together, so you’ve got me on that one.” The skin between her brows dents right before a short laugh bursts through her lips.

  It feels really good to make someone laugh. No. It feels really good to make this girl laugh. The red tones in her eyes have cleared. I notice it because she’s smiling toward the floor but her head isn’t looking so far down that I can’t see her eyes. I need to get out of here. I can’t get out of here. I feel oddly stuck, but even so, I don’t really mind.

  I chuckle nervously and resume my steps toward her to formally introduce myself. I need to know this girl. I operate in the shadows and she clearly lives above ground where people work hard and have goals and shit. This girl—she’s the kind whose name I should know. I wipe away the sweat forming on my palm—another really strange occurrence—and am about to offer it to her along with another witty, self-deprecating line—I liked the way she laughed at the first one—when a swift tug on my hoodie forces my collar hard against my throat. I stumble back, but before I fall on my ass, someone stops me with what feels like a forearm bluntly shoved at the center of my back.

  “You already have one detention, young lady. You trying to get yourself suspended by hanging out in the bathroom with this guy?” I recognize the familiar snark and indignation in Principal Lee’s voice. I also smell the stale cigar smoke from the nearness of his breath. That shit kills people. Though I probably shouldn’t say that to him right now.