“My dad will give us a ride into North Adams.” Black Molly leans over Cody as she does her math work sheets. “I thought we’d hang out.”
Cody is hoping that the other kids in study hall aren’t noticing this tête-à-tête. She hates that she’s embarrassed about Molly’s attention, that it signals her as even more of an outsider to have it. If Black Molly is the quintessential outlier, she, Cody, is fast becoming the second most typical by being seen as her friend. Taylor and Tyler and that wretched a-hole Ryan have stepped up their torment of her, adding innuendo and suggestive noises to their repertoire of torture, all of it implying that she and Molly are lesbians. Cody can’t say for sure, but it is possible that Molly is. And that’s fine. In this world, you have to be open-minded. But she hates it when they make it sound like she is, too. Still, a ride into town is a tempting thing. If she can get into town, maybe she can bump into Mingo. Even if she is seen getting into that beat-up old truck Molly’s dad drives, it would be worth it. “Okay.”
“See you after school.” Black Molly gives Cody a playful shove.
Mr. Frost pulls up ten minutes after the busses have left the yard, so there are few students left to see Cody get into the cab, squeezed on either side by the double bulk of Mr. Frost and Molly. Mr. Frost doesn’t insist on seat belts, and Cody is too overwhelmed to ask to get the catch for the middle lap belt out from under the bench. She just hopes that the bodies on either side of her will act like an air bag in case of emergency. Unlike her own mother, Mr. Frost doesn’t ask one question about Molly’s day. In fact, he is completely silent. Molly is, too. Cody thinks that this is going to be the longest ride of her life. She waits for Molly to say something, and when she doesn’t, Cody asks, “So, where do you want to go?”
Molly shrugs. “McDonald’s?”
McDonald’s is just fine. She’s got three bucks in her pocket and a cheeseburger sounds good. This vegetarian thing is getting old. A little animal protein would taste real good. Of course, Cody won’t tell her mother that she’s broken her vegetarian fast.
Mr. Frost pulls into the drive-through and speaks for the first time in Cody’s hearing, ordering up a bagful of food. Molly swings the truck door open and she and Cody slide out. “Thank you, Mr. Frost.”
He just looks at her with dull eyes. “What? Yeah. Okay.” He moves the truck up in line.
As the two girls enter the building, it occurs to Cody that no one has spoken about a ride home.
* * *
Black Molly and Cody finish their sandwiches, suck down their shakes. Like good fast-food patrons, they clear their tables, dumping the trash, stacking their trays. They head across the street to the Dollar Tree. Cody is out of money, but there really isn’t anything there she wants. They wander around, touching stuff, lingering in the cosmetics aisle, moving on to the card section, where Molly pulls out all the suggestive birthday cards and they laugh. It gets kind of boring after a bit, even with the only adult clerk in the place giving them the fish eye, making the loitering so much more interesting.
“Let’s get out of here.”
Molly ignores her, goes back to the nail polish display, which strikes Cody as weird, given Molly’s less than girlie affect.
“Come on, Mol, let’s go.”
Molly comes back to where Cody waits by the exit. She shrugs. “Yo-kay.”
They cross the street, reaching the bench where Cody had been that afternoon when she met Mingo. Molly sits next to her, shoves a hand into the pocket of her down vest. “Want one?” She offers Cody a bottle of black nail polish. She’s got three in the palm of her hand.
“You steal those?”
“Course I did. You think I’d pay even a buck for this crap?” She’s grinning, her crooked teeth behind the rim of black lipstick showing yellow. “What’d you take?”
“I didn’t want anything. No point in taking the risk over shit like that.” She hopes that she sounds derisive, not weak. “I’m gonna risk my neck, it’s going to be over something worth more than a buck.”
Black Molly tucks the bottles back into her vest. Sits back. “Speaking of, when are you gonna bring me something from the rooms?”
Cody has no answer for this. It’s been a little while since Molly first brought up this scheme, long enough that Cody has decided that she was just kidding around. She shrugs.
“I can’t believe you haven’t scored at least one or two tabs of something interesting. Cough syrup, even. Shit, I get stuff out of my grandma’s medicine cabinet all the time. She never knows. She doesn’t miss them.” Black Molly grins, swirls a finger to her temple. “She’s getting loony tunes, so all she thinks is that maybe she forgot to take her pills and then took another.”
“You don’t worry she could, I don’t know, have a bad reaction to missing her meds?”
“She’s never dropped dead ’cause I take a couple of her Vicodin every time I go over. Besides, it’s not like I’d take her heart medication or anything important. Just her pain meds.”
“You use them?”
“I told you, it’s money in the bank. I get a little collection of pills, sell them to the highest bidder.”
Cody has to laugh. “I guess that makes you a drug dealer.”
“I guess so. Problem is supply. That’s where you come in.”
Cody sees it now. She is uniquely positioned to provide Black Molly with product, and, in return, what? This kind of thing goes so far beyond her minor-league rebellion, this flirtation with real trouble, that it makes Cody a little sad. If Black Molly is going to insist, then she’s going to have to give up this dubious friendship. “What do I get out of it?” Cody hopes that she sounds sufficiently skeptical that Molly won’t think she’s a wuss.
“A cut.”
Cody picks at the skin around her thumbnail. Bites it. “I don’t think so.”
“What, not like father like daughter?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your dad. He was killed in a drive-by, right?”
“So?”
“Only gang members and drug dealers get shot like that.”
* * *
In the paling wash of diminishing sunlight, the streetlights had come on, sodium white and ugly. Every other one flickered with a hiss. Randy was a block ahead of her, strolling, head down, hands in his jean pockets. Even though he wasn’t walking fast, she had to pick up her pace to catch up with her father. She was surprised, seeing her father on a street so close to her home, a sighting as rare as a unicorn. She was going to run up and see if she could surprise him in turn. Even though Randy had visitation rights, he’d been mostly absent from her life, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t happy to see him when she could. He could be charming and a joker, more like a wicked older brother than a parent.
Cody was on her way home from Miranda’s house, where they’d been doing homework, although mostly they’d been baking, and now she had a plastic container filled with misshapen Tollhouse cookies in her backpack. She wasn’t supposed to go home this way, but it was faster than skirting around this tougher area of town, and she traveled these streets far more often than her mother would ever know. Randy was getting ahead, moving well past where she normally turned off, so she hurried her pace.
Cars rolled by, slowing for the stoplights. When the lights turned green, drivers gunned engines with a throaty suggestion of potency. A small black car with a dented right rear passenger door drifted a little out of its lane, nearly sideswiping a parked car.
Cody realized that Randy had gotten another block ahead of her. She wasn’t sure if he’d turned down another street or if he was just out of sight momentarily, certain to heave into view as he crested the hill. She started to move faster. There he was, standing on the corner, maybe waiting for the walk light; or maybe he knew that she was behind him and he was waiting for her. The same small black car that she noticed before was back, like its driver had gone around the block. The passenger window was down and she saw a face, distinctive in the fading light. She thought that she knew him, and her impulse was to wave. Johnny, she remembered, that was his name. He’d been at her dad’s apartment a couple of times. Never spoke to her.
The car continued rolling, moving slowly toward her father like some kind of predator. And then it pulled up to the curb where Randy was standing. Maybe this is what he was waiting for, a lift from Johnny. Cody started to run, hoping to catch up with Randy before he climbed into the car, just to say hi, see if he’d put a five-dollar bill in her hand, like he usually did. She was within a few feet, but he hadn’t seen her yet.
“Randy!” Cody called to him, and he glanced her way, then motioned for her to wait a moment. Cody came to a stop a few feet from Randy, but close enough to see the charming smile on his face as he leaned toward the open passenger-side window. Suddenly, he stepped backward, almost tripping on the curb, the smile gone, replaced by an O of realization. There was a pop and then the small black car bolted away through the red light.
It wasn’t like it was on television, Randy didn’t sink to his knees and then fall; he dropped hard and unquestionably dead to the filthy sidewalk.
* * *
“S’up?” It’s Mingo Ayala.
Cody is startled out of her thoughts. “Hey. S’up yourself.”
Mingo sits down on the bench, putting himself between them. Pulls out a pack of cigarettes, recalls his manners and offers one to the two girls. Black Molly accepts; Cody shakes her head no. He gives Molly a sideways glance. “Who are you?”
Molly leans in to accept the light from his Bic. “Black Molly.”
“Cool.” Mingo looks at Cody. “You got my dog?”
“Yeah. I mean, he’s at the hotel.”
“Still ain’t got no transportation. You got to get him to me here.”
“I don’t know if I can. Mr. March is here on vacation, not work. So he’s probably not going to the Artists Collaborative. That’s just across—”
“I know where it is.” Mingo shoots twin streams of smoke out of his nostrils.
“You aren’t back in that house, are you?”
“Not so far. Still at Front Street.”
Cody notices he doesn’t call it a home, or a group home or anything. Must be kind of embarrassing, being treated like some kind of orphan. She pictures a Dickensian poorhouse. “Do you go to school?”
“Yeah. Night classes. Workin’ construction days.”
To Cody, it sounds like Mingo actually has his life in order. Except for his dog.
Black Molly flicks the end of her cigarette with one black nail. “You interested in maybe working with us?”
“Doin’ what?”
“Selling.”
Mingo laughs. “Right, you two white chicks gonna supply me with what? Tylenol?”
“I’m not kidding. Cody’s got access. Guest rooms at the hotel.”
“Molly, I never said…” This ridiculous notion is getting out of hand.
Cody knows she’s got a horrified look on her face, because Mingo laughs again and shakes his head. “Don’t worry, little chick. I’m not sayin’ I’m not interested, but I’m gonna have to pass. I don’t want to fuck up my probation.” He drops his butt on the sidewalk, grinds it out, then stands up, planting himself in front of Cody. “You do what you can to get Dawg into town. A-ite?”
“Yeah. I will.” Cody looks up at him, shoves her bangs out of her face. “Word.”
“And don’t be gettin’ into trouble.” He nods toward Black Molly. “You, too.”
Once Mingo has sauntered out of earshot, Black Molly shoves Cody with an elbow. “He thinks he’s so tough. My brothers would make headcheese out of him.”
“He’s all right.” Cody pulls her jacket tighter; it’s getting chilly. She wants to ask how they’re getting home, but she waits for Molly to say something.
Molly lights up another cigarette she’s pulled from deep within her jacket. Blows out the smoke. With a practiced gesture, she tips the ash off the cigarette, glances over at Cody. “Call your mother. We need a ride.”
“You don’t want to meet my mother.”
“Sure I do. What? Embarrassed?”
“Kind of.”
“Of me?”
“No. Don’t be stupid. Of her. She’s lame-o.”
“There’s worse things.” She takes another drag. “So, tell me. What was it like to see your dad get plugged?”
Cody doesn’t answer. The smoke from Molly’s cigarette is in her face.
“Come on, it’s kind of cool.”
“I wasn’t there.”
“They ever catch the guy who did it?”
“No.”
Molly stubs out the cigarette. Slides her wide bottom closer to Cody. Puts a companionable arm around her shoulder. “He’s still out there?”
“Yes.” The panic is building; she can hear her pulse in her ears. The dry mouth taste of bile is layering her tongue.
“You worried?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s just hitch home.”