“We’re not joking, Matthew,” Marcus says.
“That’s not my name,” I say, defensive over my Latino heritage all of a sudden, or maybe it’s all I can think to say. Stick gets into fights with his brothers more often than he can remember—like physical fights, despite the age difference, and his father would break them up and remind them that they’re family, the “five brothers,” closest in age.
“Well whatever the fuck you want to call yourself, you gotta pay the toll,” David says.
“Come on, David, I don’t have any money. I just came to see Stick.”
My wrist hurts like shit and I’ve got it hanging at my side, shielding it from Marcus.
“Well you can’t pass until you pay,” Marcus says. “Them’s the rules.”
He’s spitting on me, not on purpose I don’t think, that’s just the way he speaks, and the bushy-bearded dude stumbles closer, laughing like he’s insane. I try to slip around Marcus to the door.
“Where you going, boy?” Marcus says, hand outstretched against my chest, and I can’t deal with this right now, I’m ten seconds from seeing Stick. And I might have a broken wrist. David laughs.
“Gotta pay the toll, got to pay the toll, he comes to the garage and now he gots to pay that toll.”
The white dude with the bushy beard starts his rap and everybody laughs, Marcus grabbing onto my shirt to keep his grip as he cackles like a maniac, still spitting, and Bushy-beard is spasming, or maybe dancing, it’s tough to tell which.
“Pay the toll, pay the toll, spin around on your face in that stupid sideways place but you got to pay the toll.”
I spot Jarrett in the opposite corner by a series of wooden shelves, all 6 foot 5 and two-hundred fifty pounds of him, slumped into a loveseat on his own. He has a football scholarship at the University of Maine so no one messes with him, and he gets along with Stick so I try to get his attention. Marcus squeezes on my shoulder and the pain shoots through to my wrist. Jarrett’s playing on his phone.
“Holy shit, Coop!” David shouts.
The bushy-bearded freak slips on his bare feet and takes a headfirst tumble to the concrete. Marcus keeps cackling.
“Marcus, get your skinny ass over here,” David says, out of the recliner with a couple random others, trying to roll the passed-out asshole back on his side. Marcus lets me go and I don’t wait—I rush up the stairs into the kitchen, away from Stick’s brothers and the wafting cloud of bad weed. No wonder he hates them.
I remember my first day at Woodbridge High, the jagged anticipation clutching at my chest as the bus looped its way around town, the chatter of the other students drifting past me, strangers staring almost baiting me it seemed, through the massive entrance to the high school, everyone dressed the same but not the same as me, more jeans and less khakis and better hair and straighter teeth. I couldn’t find Sammy, who I met in the neighborhood that summer, and I couldn’t find Stick, the boy from up the street with the deep tan and the flecks of blonde in his hair oddly iridescent, his eyes inviting and wide like gleaming puddles of sticky blue. So I wandered around the hallways searching for my class while a series of bells rang out in succession and I tried to ask a teacher for help but he was no help—he might have been a student—and I ended up in homeroom ten minutes late. Everyone spun around to gawk at the new kid with the curly brown hair and the Puerto Rican face sneak inside all quiet and shy but our homerooms are assigned by last name, which is so perfect it has to be fate because as soon as I entered I spotted Stick (Turner) and he saw me (Tirado) and there was an open seat to his right on that first day of school. He asked me how I got there, whether I biked the back way across the train tracks. He said no one takes the bus, not even on the coldest days.
“Awesome shirt,” Stick says when I enter his room. He tosses me a beer from a cooler in the corner, and I catch it one-handed.
“Thanks,” I say, pausing. “What’s this song?”
“You don’t recognize? Your T-shirt.”
He’s been drinking, must be for a while now because he’s slurring a bit and he doesn’t slur when he drinks. Not like this.
“It’s their new album!”
It is. Holy crap it is.
“No way. It leaked?”
“Yeah. I’ve been listening all day for like—I don’t know—what time is it?”
He smiles, that sweet unforced smile, like I haven’t seen since his father died. He steps across the carpet to close the door behind me.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought I would surprise you,” he says, and I’m trying not to stare but I can’t help but stare, a fleeting glimpse of stubble above his chin, the tanned skin and white teeth between pink lips, like right before we kissed. We’re alone in his bedroom and I’m nervous being alone with him. I can’t help but think…
“It’s a concept album or something, all the songs blend into each other and there’s this rhythm between them, but I can’t figure out the lyrics yet, I mean I’ve only listened nineteen-and-a-half times—” I laugh, it’s so exact. “But it’s awesome.”
Stick has the album playing from the laptop on his dresser, attached to a single Bluetooth speaker. Twin beds are lined up on each side of the room, one for Stick and one for Jarrett, and I always wondered how the hell Jarrett fits on such a small mattress.
“They’re going out on tour. If they come to Jersey, we’re seeing them, right?”
“Absolutely,” I say, because we need to, definitely, and Stick seems happier tonight, which is nice—we’re alone in his bedroom and this song is amazing.
“What happened to your hand?”
Stick leans against his dresser to keep himself upright.
“Baseball,” I say. “I think I sprained it.”
“That’s a massive wrap.”
Mom took several tries to get it right but it’s not close to right—she’s better at teaching than nursing and we probably should have gone to the hospital. But I didn’t want to miss being with Stick.
“It doesn’t hurt too bad,” I lie. He steps closer to get a better look, but he’s afraid to touch. The bandages are stacked several inches above the surface.
“You need to drink.” He takes my can and releases the tab. I don’t like the taste of beer and it doesn’t get me high like the glue but I take a sip for Stick. I can’t resist.
“Whose beer is it?”
“Some big idiot brought it over, he left it in the kitchen.”
Three empties are stacked next to the cooler on the side. Stick stumbles to his bed to take a seat.
“I think I saw him. Big ugly beard, face like a horse.”
“Yeah that’s him. How did you know?”
Stick waves me over to sit beside him on the rumpled sheets.
“He’s passed out in the garage,” I say, slipping onto the mattress.
“Nice.”
Jarrett’s bed is framed by a long machete above his headboard, which I haven’t seen before—I mean I knew he was into martial arts, he watches all those Hong Kong action films on Netflix and I get it, I’ve spent several days at a time escaping to Konohagakure, the Hidden Leaf Village in the Land of Fire where Naruto resides, but it’s a little weird to see the weapon unsheathed over Jarrett’s bed.