Page 21 of Wrath

Never know what to make of guys like DG. Dude’s a goodie two shoes, as my mother’s second husband used to like to say. That guy was old as hell; I think the term “goodie two shoes” is from the fifties or the sixties. Maybe the bad kids only had one shoe? Who the fuck knows. But yeah, Miller seems, outwardly, like a good egg.

He’s got a temper hidden just under his clean-cut surface, but it seems to mostly only flare up when he’s near me. I’ve only been here a few weeks, but already I feel like I understand who’s who and what’s what in Fairplay. So I know he’s part of the “in” crowd. For one, he’s lived here forever. In a place like this, that matters. Got that local street cred.

People think he's a nice guy. Not just adults like Coach Nix, but the other students, too. When they hear that I’m his stepbrother, they nod likeokay, well that's good. People talk about how he's great at soccer. And he's in the band. So all-a-fucking-merican, this guy.

What no one talks about is if he's gay.

Not that I care. It’s not relevant. In fact, none of this shitreally matters. It’s all temporary. I’ll be here until I’m not, and while I am here, I’m not looking to make connections.

One thing I hate about DG is he won't actually be an asshole to me. Not anymore. It’s all shuffling feet and averted gazes when I see him on the stairs or in the kitchen. The other night, our parents forced a movie night and we all watched this Japanese film calledSpirited Away. It was all fantastical and shit. The premise of it...let's just say I wasn't a fan. I spent half the time watching DG as he watched it. Seeing him get all wide-eyed, like an animated film is some kind of real adventure. Then when shit went sideways, he'd look genuinely shocked—near devastated, as if he'd never seen a cartoon character suffer before.At one point, his mom laughed and asked if he was okay and he said, "Yeah." But he made a funny face, and she told me, "Josh is a little...sensitive."

"I am not," he snapped.

But I guess she's right. He's sensitive, but somehow volatile, too. His feelings are like strings. Just a little pull, and the whole damn marionette moves. It's strangely satisfying.

That's why I'm out here on the roof at 1:30 in the morning. I plant myself right by his window, reach over to crack the thing open—looks like Aristotle doesn't keep it locked—and light a cigarette.

Truth is, I don't even want it, but I don't want to sleep yet. I can push myself till around 2 and still get up at 7 ready to play. Any later, and I'm fucked, and I get hit too much, and Coach Nix gets impatient. The other day, after a night I hardly got a wink of sleep, he asked how much I want to start, as if his ass didn't promise to re-organize the team for me, to let me help with strategy and all that shit.

I kept my head down, though, and took it. That's the way it's gotta be, at least in high school. Probably in college, too. Whatever the coaches say, you do it. They say jump, you ask how high.

Does it matter that I hate that shit? That taking orders makes my skin crawl?

I take a long drag on the cigarette and hope it doesn't get out that I'm smoking. High schools draw up all these little contracts, acting like they'll really bench us if we violate the rules. Mine says I won't smoke or drink or use illegal drugs. Wouldn't want to hurt the coaches' trust in me or "disadvantage teammates."

I blow some smoke into his window, draw my knees up while I wait for sleeping beau to appear.

If I look down at the roof’s dark shingles, I can zone out for a little while. I've got all kinds of shit in my room. Took some of Dr. Katz’s cocktail before I came out here. That shit stops your dreaming—especially if you take all three of the meds—which is the only reason I haven't flushed them, along with the rest of my stockpile. That and the fish. I heard flushing that shit can send it to the ocean, where it poisons fish. Doesn't seem good.

Just a few more drags and puffs, and I can hear his footsteps.

I hear his "What the fuck" like it's a mile away, which is how I know the Lamictal is starting to hit. Haven't used it in a while, but tonight—

"I know you heard me. What the fuck?" he says, now closer. "Are you blowing this shit into my room?"

For some reason, it's super funny. I lie on my back and look up at the stars, which sort of blink and wink down at me. I inhale the smoke and let it do its thing. And then I lift my heavy head and blow it toward jackass here.

"DG," I murmur, correcting myself.I turn my head to see him climbing out the window."What the fuck yourself?"I ask.

He's too close, too fast. He looks massive standing over me. His eyebrows draw together, and he sniffs the air. "Are you drunk, Masters?"

"No." I blow more smoke toward him,and he coughs.

"That shit is toxic, man,” he bitches. “You can feel the chemicals draining your life force."

I get a good laugh from that. "Ahh, a pity."

"Not a lover of life, Masters?"

"Please don't call me that."

I feel his eyes on me as I sit up and rest an arm on my raised knee. "Nothing special, DG. Just don't like it."

"What do you like?"

"I have a name," I point out.

"Yeah, but I'm not calling you that. All the football guys say Masters," he starts.

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