Heft - By Liz Moore Page 0,64

him under control, says the somebody. But suddenly I don’t care. I stand back with the rest of the crowd. Kurt, who has found the place, apparently, and Peters step forward cautiously and go to pull him away but I say, Let him. Let him.

The kid Trevor’s challenging is practically cracking his knuckles now, ready to go, when by some miracle, some fluke, the blue lights of a cop car come flashing up the street.

Bloop bloop, goes the car, and the crowd scatters like mice, into backyards and houses and down a little alley between Jim’s house and his neighbor’s. And we scatter too, grabbing Trevor on our way, dragging him. We each put a hand on the waistband of his jeans and his toes are rasping miserably along the pavement. He is saying things we can’t understand.

Matt Barnaby takes out his iPhone and, giggling like an idiot, snaps a picture of him. Oh man, he says, blackmail.

Before Trevor gets in the car he says Guys, guys, I can handle it, stands on his own feet, sways like a leaf, and collapses.

Silently Kramer fishes in Trevor’s pockets for his keys and then gets in the driver’s seat.

I go with Kurt.

For the first five minutes of the ride we’re silent.

I’ve sobered up a little but I’m still unpleasantly high and I’m starving.

Well, Kurt says finally, that was Yonkers.

No it wasn’t, I say.

Kurt looks at me but I don’t feel like explaining. Tomorrow, I know, and next week at school, my friends will tell stories about their crazy night in Yonkers, and how Trevor almost got into a fight, and how drunk Trevor was, and how there were all these people at this party, how the girls looked trashy, how the boys looked tough or poor or stupid.

Trevor’s an asshole, says Kurt. It’s unexpected.

Why? I ask.

Kurt shrugs. I dunno, he says, he just is. He always has been. When we were little he used to hit me with his trucks.

I think his mom is nice, I say.

Me too, says Kurt.

Both his parents are, I say.

Kurt nods. He turns the radio to a station that plays old-school rap after 9 p.m. He is doing it for me, to be nice.

We pull into the Cohens’ driveway and Kramer pulls Trevor’s car in behind us. Immediately I know we’re in trouble. It’s one in the morning and all the downstairs lights are on. The front door flies open and Mr. Cohen comes out onto his steps.

• • •

Friday morning I wake up at 5:30 a.m. to the sound of my cell phone’s alarm clock and feel as if I have been dried out completely, as if I have no water left in my body. I tiptoe to the bathroom and guzzle water straight from the sink and then I put on my clothes from last night without showering. I stink of processed alcohol and smoke and filth. I smell in some ways like my mother.

The hood on my sweatshirt goes up again.

I throw as much of my stuff as I can fit into a duffel bag and sling the strap across my body.

I find the unopened envelope with my mother’s letter in it, the word Kelly smudged now from wear, and stick it into the back pocket of my jeans.

I poke my head out into the hallway and listen for a moment. I don’t hear anyone which is good. I tiptoe down the stairs.

Last night, after Mr. Cohen came outside, Kramer and Peters dragged Trevor out of the car and up the driveway toward the house. He could walk a little better on his own by then but he was still swaying.

Oh my God, said Mrs. Cohen, joining her husband. She had apparently sobered up herself while waiting for her son to return. She was wearing her bird-covered robe and had her arms crossed around her middle so tightly that her hands could have touched in the back.

Oh my God, Walt, look at him, she said, and Mr. Cohen said I see him.

Heeeeey, said Trevor, waving a lazy hand above his head.

The other boys did not know what to do and hung back. I knew just what to do and I walked up to Trevor and slung an arm around him, very responsible, and I said to them, I think we better get him some water.

The Cohens cleared a path for us and I brought their son inside and flung him on the first couch I saw and went into the kitchen and got him