“Yeah,” Willy said.
“You good, Tough Will?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“I thought you wanted to be called that—”
“Asshole.”
“All right. Let’s go.”
Once we were outside and I locked up and we were heading down the sidewalk, I threw my arm over his shoulder. He didn’t shrug it off, which surprised me, but I was glad for it. I wasn’t his dad or any dad, but I did love being a brother, and I did love the little pain in my ass.
But I didn’t love having to walk him to the Cambis’. Take some responsibility! Ma never said that to him. He could walk his own damn self! He was twelve, not five. It wasn’t far, either, but Ma and the Cambis were paranoid about the two-block stretch between our houses. Supposedly, the neighborhood was going to shit, and supposedly Sal Cambi got chased by a few kids all the way home one day after school and Mrs. Cambi had to threaten to call the police to get them off her front porch. Frankly, I’d seen Sal acting like an ass so many times with Willy, he probably said something and was so dumb about it that he didn’t realize it’d get him chased in the first place. The kid was an idiot sometimes, but whatever, I was glad he was friends with Willy, because the Cambis were nice as hell—they fed Willy every Friday night and made him part of their family, and all that kindness got me off the hook from babysitting so I could hang out, like everybody else I knew did.
Everyone in this neighborhood lives in multifamily buildings. We live on the second floor of ours, above old Mr. and Mrs. Langone, for a good rent, Ma says, but the Cambis own their entire building, which, they said, was why they stayed. Otherwise they would have moved a long time ago.
I didn’t have to be a parent worrying about rent and electric bills and all that shit to know that when you live in a neighborhood where they don’t fix the streetlights very often, where cops set up one of those elevated lookout stations around the corner and patrol the streets a lot more than they used to when I was little, the neighborhood was on the decline. But I loved the West Side. I’d lived here my whole life. What the hell did people really mean when they said the West Side was on the decline? What’d that say about the people who lived here, like me, or all the damn people who were moving here now?
When we got to the Cambis, Willy sprinted up the front steps. I hung back. He rang the bell and Mrs. Cambi answered the door. Willy dashed past her and Mrs. Cambi waved to me from the doorway. She wore slippers. I stayed right where I was on the sidewalk, not wanting to get too close. Not wanting to get roped into staying longer than I had to. Just wanting to get the hell out and get the party started for the night.
But Mrs. Cambi beckoned me, like usual. “You know you’re always welcome too.” She leaned against the frame and held the door open. I could smell the sizzling garlic and onions from the street. I didn’t remember the last time Ma had cooked for us.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m good. I have things to do.”
“Busy man. Of course you do.”
“And I wouldn’t want to crash Willy’s time with his friends.”
“It’s never crashing when either of you are at our place, Quinn. You know that.”
“Thanks again, Mrs. Cambi.”
“Regina. Call me Regina. Mrs. Cambi was Joe’s mother.” She smiled, and it was that smile I saw too often. That proud pity for Saint Springfield’s two sons. “You’re a good kid, Quinn,” she told me.
I nodded and made my way.
That stuff just pissed me off. The world was shitty, and I didn’t care if that sounded melodramatic. It was. Yeah, yeah, I was a good kid. A model kid. My dad had been the model man: the guy who, when he was on leave, stood there behind the table at St. Mary’s soup kitchen in his pressed Class A blues serving ladle after ladle of chicken soup he’d helped make. Yeah, yeah, model man when he lived, model man after he died. The model man and the model family he left behind.
My dad got blown up in Afghanistan, and Ma and everybody we knew and plenty of people we didn’t know but knew his name, all reminded me—he sacrificed for all of us. He sacrificed for the good of our country. He died in the name of freedom. He died to prove to the wackos of the world who didn’t believe in democracy, liberal economy, civil rights, and all that shit, that we were right and they were wrong. But for me, my dad was dead, so the frigging wackos won. And, seriously, who are the frigging wackos, anyway? I sure as hell didn’t feel sane all the time.
Dwyer and Guzzo had been texting me since I got home, and I knew they were waiting for me in the alley near Jerry’s corner store. When I was a block away, I took a quick swig of bourbon and stuffed the flask in my ass pocket, so they’d know I had it. So they’d know I wanted to get the party started too, but I’d had shit to do. I took a swig because I was taking responsibility!
By the time I got to them they were pissed, and they looked like a couple of old ladies bent over and gossiping. Dwyer with his hands thrust in his pockets, shuffling back and forth on his two feet, his skinny arms and legs all fidgety, trying to hide his big-ass head beneath a green hoodie, and typical Guzzo. Guy’s built like a bear, but he stood there, with his hands on his hips, thumbs forward, kicking at the edge of the Dumpster like he was checking a tire for air. He threw his hand up when he noticed me. “What the hell?” he said.
“Dude! We’ve just been sitting here,” Dwyer said, wiping at the buzz-cut stubble around his head. “Someone’s going to get suspicious.”
“No one’s going to get suspicious,” I told them. “We’ve scored beer here more times than I can count.”
“Whatever,” Guzzo said. “This is our last night out for months. Next week, it’s back to hell.”
“It’s not hell,” Dwyer said.
“Dude, I hate forced fun,” Guzzo continued. “Coach isn’t fooling anyone with his team-building shit. Basketball meetings every Friday and Saturday night mean one thing: no goddamn partying. That’s it.”
“Man,” Dwyer said, giving Guzzo that face that said You dumb or what? “You kill me. This is serious. When that scout from Duke shows up, you’re going to be the first in line, squeezing his palm. All stupid smiles and clean-cut.”
“No, he won’t,” I said. I bounced in between them and boxed Guzzo back into the Dumpster, keeping my ass low, legs spread. “I’ll get there first. ‘Hey, man,’ I’ll tell him. ‘People tell me I look good in blue.’ ” I flashed a big fake smile, and Dwyer laughed.
Guzzo pushed at me, and I held my ground, keeping him pinned, but he’s huge, and it didn’t take long for him to toss me aside. He swung around in front of me. Frowned. “Fuck that,” he said. “You know damn well English is going to be first in line, because everybody’s going to talk to him first.”
“Not if you step in there,” Dwyer told Guzzo. He bounced Guzzo with his shoulder and they went at it for a few seconds, trying to get position on each other, get a leg in front, and box the other one’s back. Dwyer’s tall but he’s all sticks, and Guzzo popped Dwyer’s leg with his knee and got in front. He grinned. “Whose house?” he said to me. I laughed. I started bobbing in front of him, like I was going to shake and move past him to some hoop behind him.