Page 47 of Whatever It Takes
These assholes don’t apologize. Instead they face the bar, their bodies still close enough to ram into the table again.
“Hey! Watch where your arses are bumpin’ into.” Sheetal snaps at the rowdy guys.
They turn on her in an instant, and I just barely make out one of them say, “Daft twit.”
“Hey.” Salvatore walks in front of them. “Back off.”
Tess tosses napkins on the spill, and I walk around the table to stand beside Salvatore. “Just give us some space,” I tell the guys. I’m pretty nice about it, so I don’t really expect their response.
“Just give us some space.” The taller one with blond curly hair mimics my American accent, only he over-emphasizes it like I’m an airhead.
“We don’t want any trouble,” Salvatore says.
“Wankers!” Sheetal yells at them.
Salvatore sighs heavily, but he’s smiling up at the ceiling.
Tess laughs.
I’m trying my best not to grin. Lips pressed tightly together. Curly Blond pins his glare on me, as though my effort to suppress laughter is the serious crime.
Salvatore slides closer to me, and then puts an arm around my shoulder. It’s sudden and all for show, but it still causes me to solidify to utter stone.
“I saidback off,” Salvatore tells him.
Sheetal eagle-eyes the Curly Blond and mumbles into her beer. “What a divvy.”
He’s about to reply when a server walks over. “We got a problem here, mates?” He looks between our group and the asshole, but unlike the four of us, all of the asshole’s friends have left him and migrated back to the bar.
Curly Blond grinds on his teeth. “No. I was just leaving.” He steps back.
The server sees the empty pitcher, plus the sopping wet napkins, and he gives us an apologetic look. “I’ll grab some towels and bring you lads another round on the house.”
He leaves and we all look between each other, seconds away from breaking into laughter.
Barnaby’s is our spot. Officially.
And then it hits me. It was a silly,normalargument. That guy didn’t recognize me. Didn’t start a fight because he hated my brother. Didn’t call me names because of my relation to the Calloway sisters. London and Wakefield are bringing me this overwhelming sense of normalcy, and I don’t want to let it go.
But I don’t want to let go of what’s back home either.
Garrison.
My family.
I love them more than anyone here can understand.
11BACK THEN – September
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
GARRISON ABBEY
Age 17
With a Grouplove song blasting through my headphones, I splice together roughly thirty-four clips on Final Cut, my Mac propped on my legs. I cut and duplicate four-seconds fromPrincesses of Philly.
Right now, I’m looking at Ryke Meadows on pause. He’s staring at a mangled motorcycle on the sidewalk. I press play.“What the f**k? Mother ****ing, piece of sh*t **** **** ******* kidding me.”I pause, trimming one-eighth of a second.
