Im washing my hands in the bathroom a couple of doors down from the principals office. Washing and rinsing. Soaping up again. Washing and rinsing.
"Hey, Ryan."
In the mirror its Tim Boynton, a guy I used to play soccer with. I nod at his reflection.
"Anything goin on?" Hes grinning big.
I tell him, "Ask Andy."
He flashes a couple of bills. "Im asking you. Just a couple of joy sticks."
"I dont deal, Tim."
"You did a couple of weeks ago."
"It was a favor to Andy, all right? A onetime thing."
"So wheres Andy?"
I hit the little button on the soap dispenser and start in one last time. "Dunno."
Tim puts the money away. Now hes disgruntled.
"Well, tell him Im looking for him."
I turn on the hot water and watch my hands wrestle with each other.
I run into Andy right after sixth period. "Tim Boyntons looking for you."He gets me by the arm. "Took care of him in gym. Cmon. Were going to Saint Marys. Charlotte Silano fell off her horse."
Andy scatters some ninth-graders who are jammed up at the bottom of the big concrete stairs. First of all, hes a senior. Second of all, hes huge. Or maybe its just that hes huge. Anyway, they scatter.
I tell him, "Somebody said she broke her leg."
"Or her neck," he says. "Or is unconscious or, like, died."
"Shes not dead. If she was dead, thered be an announcement. And not to sound too callous, but what do you care, anyway?"
"Are you kidding? She bankrolled a party every couple of weeks. My PR people tell me customers appreciate the human touch. Christmas cards, ‘hows the wife and kids, a firm handshake. That kind of thing. So well go by, and Ill say how sorry I am to hear about her unfortunate accident.That way shell remember me the next time her and her friends get together to count their money."
"I dont like hospitals."
He opens the door to his old Toyota, the only car in the lot with duct tape holding on its back bumper. "Five minutes away."
I stop with my hand on the corroded handle. "And I really dont want to go to Saint Marys."
He gets in, starts the car, then pats the dash like its part of a big animal. "Keep me company. Wait in the lot if you want. Ill be like three minutes. Then Ill take you home."
I look toward the street, where about nine thousand kids are waiting. Andy knows what Im thinking.
"Forget the stupid bus." He takes a spliff out of his shirt pocket, the place anyone else would carry a gel pen. "Look what Ive got." His voice is teasing, playful, and insinuating. I feel like I ought to say, "My, what big teeth you have."
When we get in the car, I reach for the weed, glance around to see if anybodys looking (anybody with a badge), then light it and take a hit. "Okay, but Im waiting outside."
"Fine. You can guard the car. This babys worth a fortune in Bangladesh."
Were easing out of the lot when Chris Teagarden backs out right in front of us in his red Mustang. Andy has to hit the brakes, and I reach for the dash to brace myself. Ive got the seat belt on, but it just hangs there like a sash. Chris gives us the finger like the almost accident was our fault,then patches out.
Andy has both arms around the steering wheel, and hes leaning his chin on his right hand. He looks almost thoughtful. "I hate that guy," he says calmly.
I reach into my backpack for my player, put the little earplugs in, and lean back. The window on my side is permanently down, so theres always a breeze in Andys car. To my right is the long, roiled-up lawn of LBJ High.Its a big, old-fashioned building with pillars in front and stone lions that flank the main steps. The stoned lions, as they are popularly know, because of their sleepy, semiblissful expressions. Inside, the ceilings are very high, like students fifty years ago were lanky with long necks andlegs. Now were short with metal in our tongues and ears.
A bunch of ninth-graders plunge through the crosswalk. Theyve all got small faces, and most of them are still wearing clothes their mothers insist on. A couple of the boys are holding basketballs like mementos of theFrench Revolution. To make that image complete, one of them has drawn droopy eyes and a frowny face on his Rawlings Special.
We take Foothill Boulevard to the hospital. Its maybe ten blocks.
I sing along with the Killers "For Reasons Unknown" and let the dope run its hand down my ruffled fur.
"Hey, man, you asleep?"
I shake my head. "Im fine."
"Senior historys driving me nuts. What the hells the cold war?"
I sit up a little. "About fifty years worth of trash talk between the U.S. and the USSR. They were our allies during World War II, and then they got all feisty. Whens your paper due?"
Andy glides over into the right lane. "Youre so suspicious."
"Whens it due, Andy?"
At the stoplight were idling next to a black Maxima. The driver is this thirty-something lady whos really put together: hair, eyes, jewelry. Everything matches everything else. Long dark hair like Charlotte Silano. Skin like hers. Charlotte Silano all grown-up.
Andy says, "Like next week."
I ask, "How many pages?"
"Four to six."
"I can handle that."
He reaches across and into the glove compartment, an easy move because the little door is somewhere in the backseat. He shows me a tightly wound joint. "Maui Wauie," he says. "You know how regular weed gives you the munchies for chocolate? The guy I got this from claims you smoke a little of this and you want pineapple and poo."
"Poi."
He nods. "I knew that sounded wrong."