Chapter #59Criss Cross Consequences by: Seuzz   Chris Trantham is in the locker room of the country club when you arrive, and he does at double-take at your entrance. He turns back to his locker, and looks very shy, but you can tell he's thinking about saying something. You ignore him, and to drive the point home even more, you move into the restroom to do most of your changing. Then it's into the kitchen, where everyone is too busy for much talking.
You watch him closely, though, to see how he's doing. The real Trantham is always quiet and a little slow, slower than Jose likes when a crush of dishes comes in or when you have to sweep into a dining room to help with a change. The new one is slower still, and you keep close to him, burning your last reserves so you can help him out. It grinds on your patience to do this, and you snap at him hard when he drops a tray full of knives on the floor.
Nine-thirty comes, and it's time for your smoke break with Manny; you postpone it, though, and tell him you'll stick it out to ten-thirty, when Chris takes his. "Trantham don't smoke," he says.
"His not-smoking break, then. Come on, I'm helping cover for him, he's being a fucking butterfingers tonight."
"He's on thin ice. Tell him so from me."
So at ten-thirty you squat behind the kitchen with your new confederate. "Get your head where it needs to be, man," you tell him as you light a cylinder. "Trantham's always on the edge of losing his job here. You need to be better than him."
"I'll try," he says. "Oh, I made a list for you, like you asked." He hands you a sheet of paper.
"Good job. Fuck me, excellent job," you add as you glance over it. It's covered top to bottom and back to front: Names, in caps, embedded in whole paragraphs. "Do I thank you or do I thank him?"
"Huh? Oh, I dunno. Not him, I don't think. Putting it together, it was— Well, it was like studying a subject."
But then he reaches for your cigarette, and you remind him he doesn't smoke. "Jose noticed, bet others do too. Get in character. Night's sleep might do you good. How's your new life look from the other side? You play in that band, what are they called?"
"The Hi-Hats. It's okay." A tone of quiet desperation creeps into his voice. "I hope I can remember how to play before practice tomorrow."
"You sellin' to any of the guys in it?"
"Two of them, but mostly I sell to—"
"Is it in these notes? Then I'll read it there. Listen—" You draw the cigarette down to the filter, then grind it under your toe. "You just stay under deep cover, send me texts if there's a serious problem, otherwise just settle in, get your head inside Trantham's. We'll talk later about a meet-up time on the weekend. And don't worry too much about being convincing. You got Trantham's head in there, he'll carry you. But the face is ninety percent of the disguise. That's what people see and believe. Even if you fuck up, they'll just be mad at you. And if they're mad at you?" You clap him on the shoulder. "Fuck 'em." You pull him back inside.
* * * * *
Being utterly worn out, you fall asleep as soon as you get home. It's a shorter night than you'd like, being behind by a full night's sleep, but you're at eighty-five percent, you feel, as you head out the door the next morning.
You'd checked the message from Chelsea late last night: Call me, urgent. You'd cussed. If Chen wanted you to see an urgent message he should have put "urgent" in the subject line. Does he expect you to leap just because he's got boobs now?
And your exasperation doubles when the phone buzzes on your drive to school. Never mind, says the new text from Chelsea. Great, does that mean the problem went away or that Chen is passive-aggressively baiting you for being late? You swing by the old elementary school on your way out, and as you sit outside the door you text her back: Didn't read texts till midnite, busy all day w/ your hos then work. Things OK or not? The reply comes a minute later, after you've relit the pile of dirt. OK, mayB best u not c txt.
Fucking cunt. Must be seriously turning into Chelsea if he's going to be such a ditz.
You study the burning pile, which still gives off no heat. The mass of dirt has congealed into a rough cylindrical shape, and some rents and fissures have opened up in its sides and at one end. You hope that doesn't mean the thing, whatever it's turning into, is defective.
* * * * *
First period. You stop dead in the classroom door as Faith Becker, Molly Shaw, and Mindy McAdams swivel at your entrance. Their eyes pop and shine, and they giggle, and Mindy runs her tongue over her lower lip.
Are they serious? you gasp to yourself.
Turns out they're not. Not about you, anyway. A rough blow almost sends you sprawling into Fred Hildown's lap, and only some quick footwork keeps you upright as you stagger against the back wall. "Move it, stir fry," says Steve Patterson as he swaggers into the room. The eyes of all the girls are upon him, but he coolly ignores them in a way that still acknowledges their admiring stares.
Justin Roth and Adrian Semple give you a commiserating glance as you drop into a desk in their company. Luke Bennett's expression is stony. Hildown just looks down into his book.
Carson Ioeger stares back at you with pale, quivering horror, but turns abruptly away before you can rebuke him.
* * * * *
Soccer practice. George Mendoza is there. Or, someone who looks like him is there. In reality, it's Kevin Hall (trapped under a mask) a few lockers down in the changing room, keeping his eyes straight ahead as he ignores the horseplay around him. You're relieved to see that Hall is following Mendoza's instincts and memories, and going to his classes without prodding. But you need to test him, to see how far he can play his new character.
Your chance comes about halfway through practice, when the ball is down at the other end of the field. You drift over to Mendoza. "How's your supply holdin' out," you ask.
He flinches as though touched by a hot match. "It's holding out," he stammers.
"I don't want it holding out, I want it moving," you tell him. "You do too, the more you move, the more cerveza-and-lime money you get. How many you sold?"
"Two."
"Who to?"
"Chuck Johnson."
"You sold him two?" You spit when he nods. "You're fucking lying to me, Mendoza, you sold one of 'em to yourself. Which is okay, I don't mind how much you smoke so long as you give me twenty-four a month for your bag. But you make sure Chuckie Johnson and Bucky Penis or whoever the fuck you're blowing out in the animal pens is buying too. I'm raising your fucking quota next month, from six to twenty-four."
"What? I can't—"
"Sure you can. You just gotta convince Chuckie and Bucky and Muckie that ganja tastes better than cow anus. Watch out, here they come." The game returns to your part of the field.
* * * * *
You go off by yourself at lunch to think, for you need to find an angle that'll let you swap Thomason in for Varnsworth. Thomason seems vexed too, for he comes looking for you, and finds you behind the music wing, smoking and chewing on a sandwich. He just nods in greeting, though, as he slides down the wall and opens his own sack lunch. "You seen Evans's ugly face around?" you ask him.
"Which one?"
"His face, not his ass. And I'm not talkin' about the asshole hanging out at Eastman," you add in a lower voice.
He chews thoughtfully. "I don't have him until seventh. By the way, how are we gonna talk about each other, keep from being confused?"
"We call people by their faces. The guy I saw at practice this morning? That's George Mendoza. The fucker I'll talk to later this afternoon after ball practice? That's Kevin Hall. The sorry shit I work with at the country club, that goes to Eastman? That's Chris Trantham. The guy you'll see in seventh, that's Fuckface Evans. So you haven't seen him?"
"No." He swallows. "When does my name change?"
"I'm trying to think of a way. You have her for any classes, ever bump into her regularly, got any friends in common?"
"No. Am I shit out of luck?"
"Not yet. I gotta friend maybe I can call in a favor from." You're wondering if Chen, from his position as Chelsea, could help. "Meantime, you play it cool with Evans and Mendoza, like nothing's changed."
"It's creepy. That's why I left 'em, came looking for you."
"Naturally, they're a coupla creeps, just like you. Wait, they're eating together now? Alone? Fuck." You jump up. "We better go sit between 'em, make sure they're not comparing notes."
Reluctantly, Thomason puts away his lunch and follows. As you walk toward E wing, where you know they like to lurk, Thomason asks in a low voice, "Are you gonna be switching faces with anyone?"
"Can't. Can't leave my face on autopilot like I did with you fuckers. Got too much stuff upstairs I can't have anyone learning about." Like where the real Gary Chen is, for a start.
And why you probably need to get his help with the last switchover.   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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