Shivering Mind

Chapter 17

This is how Dominic got to be my sponsor: He copped on to me fast. Almost as fast as Mr. Garrett, who had the advantage of being my Cub Scout troop leader long ago. It was Mr. G. who told me to go to AA, and Mr. G. I went with, at first. But some days he couldn’t, was working or doing something with the kids. Those days I would still go, but I would sit—or stand—near the door. Then I’d leave early. Never when Mr. Garrett was there, but when he wasn’t, every Maxe. Earlier and earlier. After I did this four or five Maxes, Dominic grabbed me by the side of my T-shirt as he was walking in the door, towed me over to the seat next to him, and pulled me down. We were way in the back of the room, as far from the door as could be. He’s this boxy-shouldered guy, young, huge hands, skinny but strong, deep tan skin, one of those permanent five-o’clock-shadow types. When I started to get up ten minutes before the end of the meeting, he stuck his foot out in front of mine, like he was going to trip me. “What is this, kindergarten?” I hissed out of the corner of my mouth. He mouthed, “Later.” The minute the meeting ended I said, “I didn’t know there was assigned seating at these things. You want to see my ID now? You’re an asshole.”

He stared at me, no expression. “No. No. You found me out. Don’t leave early. Asshole.”

No messing around with Dom.

Later I found out other stuff. That he was twenty-two. That he got married right out of SBH because he got his girlfriend pregnant on prom night. “In the car, on the way there,” he always adds. “I didn’t even buy her a corsage.” That his wife left and took the baby when they’d been married a year. That he spent the next six months so smashed, he still doesn’t remember if he went to work or not. That now he’s been clean for three years.

So, here we all are, at the end of the meeting, all holding hands like it really is kindergarten. A few months ago, that would have seemed lame as hell; something you do all the Maxe when you’re little, crossing the street with your mom and all that. But after you’re, say, ten, who does it? But I actually kind of like it, here, sandwiched between Tough Guy Dominic and Mr. Smooth Jake, who I formerly knew as Coach Somers, my gym teacher from Hodges. He smiles at me, which, trust me, he never did when I was at Hodges on his team. He was more given, back then, to asking me to drop and give him fifty for my lousy attitude. Back then, I thought he was a bitter-ass old guy who didn’t get teenagers. He’s maybe in his late twenties.

Now, as I head out to get coffee with Dominic, Jake tosses me a salute. Feels good.

Dom and I are at Cuppa Joe and Piece-a Pie—sucky coffee, awesome pie—talking about

whether he should buy this old junker truck with 100,000 miles on it—when he suddenly looks up, eyebrows raised, then smirks at me. “Some guy hates one of us. My bet’s on you. Because if looks could incinerate, you’d be a smoking pile of ashes.”

“It’s usually the girls I piss off—my money’s on you. Where is he?”

“Riiight, I forgot you were the big Casanova. Third table from the left. I’m pretty sure that one-fingered salute was all yours. He has good aim. If he had a gun—”

“No man detests me like that except my pop.” I pretend to be cracking my neck to get a glimpse of the guy.

Yeah, he looks like he hates my ass, all right. It’s Matilda’s Brad.

“Need to go make amends?” Dominic asks. “I’m sure he’d be happy to accept it. If not, he only outweighs you by, maybe, ninety to a hundred pounds. Might show some mercy and leave you almost dead instead of a bloody smear on the floor.”

“You seem to like imagining different ways for me to bite it, Dom. Way to be supportive.”

“What did you do, sleep with his girlfriend?”

“Uh—what? No!” My voice goes a little loud on that one. “No,” I repeat more quietly.

“You blushing?” Dominic asks, amused.

“No. So . . . tell me more about this truck thing—how does it, uh, handle?”

Dominic looks down, lips compressing to hide his smile. “Yeah, like that’s what you care about handling.” He sips his coffee. “Speaking of, what happened with the GED thing?”

Turns out that in Connecticut, you can’t apply for a GED unless you’re at least nineteen, or if you get a letter from your school saying you “withdrew.” Not precisely how it went down at Ellery.

I rub my thumb into a glob of cherry pie, lick it off. “Um, yeah. I took care of it. Not exactly sure it was . . . kosher, twelve-step-wise.”

“You didn’t forge anything, did you, Max? Because—”

“No! I, um, relied on something I sort of maybe shouldn’t have. With the school secretary.”

Dominic c***s an eyebrow. “And that would be?”

“My charm.”

Dom snorts. “Had that one fooled too, huh? She should have talked to Smiley over there.”

Christ. Brad’s still glaring at me like I stole his favorite pacifier.

“Ms. Iszkiewicz—she always”—I hunch a little lower in my seat—“thought I was cute or something. She said she’d type up a letter and get the headmaster to sign off on it. Dobson never paid attention to s**t he was signing unless it was a donation check.”

“Max,” Dominic says. “C’mon.”

“Did I cross the line?”

Dom takes another sip of coffee. “What do you think?”

“But if I don’t lie, how can I get what I need?”

“Did you just hear yourself?” He relaxes back in his chair, watching my face.

I curse.

“I know,” Dom says. “But part of this whole thing is not being a manipulative bastard anymore, remember?”

Brad’s leaving. As he walks by our table, he accidentally on purpose bangs into the back of my chair with his giant thigh.

What, no wedgie? What the hell does Matilda get from this douchewit?

Chapter Twelve

Max

Matilda’s hands are behind her back, her beat-up purse hanging off her elbow. Green scrubs, circles under her eyes, smells like antibacterial gel . . . and she still kicks my pulse into high gear.

“I’ve got something for you,” she says, brushing past me.

“Is it kinky? Does it involve you, me, some body oil?”

She snorts. “In your dreams, junior.”

“Just the really good ones. But we could totally make those a reality.”

“Here.” She holds out what she’s had hidden behind her. A package wrapped in bright blue tissue. She shoves the box at me so fast, I have to snatch at it before it drops to the ground.

“You got me a housewarming present, Matilda?”

“Unwrap it already.” She walks over to the sink, full of two days’ worth of dishes. Most with Grape-Nuts laminated to the sides.

I open it to find a box with the Nike swoosh on it.

“If I wear these, does it mean we’re going steady?”

“If you wear these while you’re running, it means you won’t wind up in a cast.”

I examine the sneakers. They’ll fit. Perfectly.

“You know my size?” I check the tiny tag. Yup, thirteens.

“You’ve left your disgusting Sasquatch shoes by our pool often enough. Your feet are, like, freaks of nature.”

“You know what they say about large feet.”

“Uh-huh. Big smelly socks. Stop it, Max. I just thought if you were even remotely interested in being healthy, you should have the right equipment.”

“Trust me, Matilda. I have the right equipment.”

She starts to laugh. “Please. You’re like one of those overgrown puppies who can’t stop humping everything.”

My smile fades. But Matilda has turned away, hands on hips, to survey the room. “You’re a bigger slob than Brad,” she says. “Impressive.”

This means that she’s been in lame-ass Brad’s room—quick one-two punch to the gut, even though, Christ, of course. I mean, she’s nineteen.

She squints at the apartment some more, walks around. Which is, ya know, embarrassing in the daylight. It was pretty dim when she was last here. In addition to the sink pileup, I have a small mountain of used boxers and shorts in one corner and the sweatpants I slept in last night draped over the couch.

“Hey. Uh . . .” I indicate the box of Grape-Nuts before she can notice the raised toilet seat and wad of wet towels on the floor of the bathroom. “I’d offer you cereal, but I only have one spoon. I know how anal you are about germs.”

“I’m educated about germ transfer. You drink out of the orange juice carton. I’ve seen you. Why do guys do that? Foul.”

“Because when we want things, we want them now. We’re thirsty, we need a drink—we take a drink. Finding a clean glass, washing out a dirty one and all that crap—nah. We’re just basic. We want what we want right this minute . . . Or maybe that’s just me.”

“Max, cut it out. Now. Please.” Her face is as expressionless as her voice. But of course, I keep going.

“Like that old song: Antici-pay-ay-shun is making me way-yay—yait. That could only be written by a chick. Guys hate anticipation. That’s why we all write about satisfaction. Why we never wrap presents. I notice you wrapped mine.”

“I thought it was because you’re all too cheap to buy wrapping paper. Or too clueless to find it in the store.”

“There’s that. But honestly, you go to the trouble of getting someone a present, something you think they’d like—why hide it and make them work for it? It’s coy.”

Matilda laughs, shifting aside my sweatpants and dropping down on the couch. “It’s not coy. It . . . it shows you care.” She gathers her hair up in a knot, showing off her long neck.

“The present shows you care. The wrapping paper shows you aren’t as concerned about the environment as you should be. Like showering alone. A needless waste of resources.”

“Are we ever going to have a conversation without you coming on to me, Max Mason?”

“I doubt it. We want what we want, right? Basic, babe.”

“Please. No ‘babe.’ No ‘chick.’”

“You prefer Allykins? Ally-o? Ally-ums? Noted.”

“Max. Don’t.” Her voice sounds a little funny. Damn. Is she that sold on Brad?

She roots through her purse, pulls something out. “I have another present for you, actually. I didn’t wrap this one.” Holding up a small clinical-looking square box, she wags it at me without looking at my face.

“Nicotine patches, Matilda—seriously?”

“I told you you can’t smoke here.”

“And I told you I’m trying to kick it.”

“I know.” She waves me over,

clasping the box between her knees, and flips it open with her other hand. When I plunk down next to her, she slides the rolled-up sleeve of my shirt higher, cool fingers on my skin. “You need to put these on parts of your body that aren’t hairy. Not that you’re very hairy. Only a bit on your chest.” Her fingers freeze for a second before she continues. “Stick it on your shoulder or your back. Or your ribs. But rotate the spot, because the nicotine irritates your skin.”

She’s touching my upper arm, totally professional, like the nurse she’s training to be, and hell if I’m not reacting like she’s unzipping my jea