Page 36 of What Boys Learn

To a motel.

I gave her a ride to a motel.

Dean Duplass had told me Izzy had died in Wadsworth.

No one had said Izzy died in a motel.

14

BEFORE

She was squatting with her underwear down around her knees, fist grabbing the crotch to pull it away from the pee stream, when she saw the strobing lights. A megaphoneamplified voice startled her so badly she almost toppled headfirst into the tall grass, still peeing.

“Dogface, come on! Cops!” came a husky whisper from the shadows.

She grabbed at her wet underwear, hobbled by the jeans bunched around her ankles. When he reached for her, she thought he was trying to help and she reached back, but he slapped her hand away.

“You’re a fucking mess,” he said. “Pissed yourself.”

She took a second to catch her breath. “Only a little.”

“Get up. We gotta get back to the car.”

Through the latticework of black tree branches they saw flickering lights and silhouettes, people standing, a few running.

“They’ll arrest us.”

“Not me they won’t.”

He knew he could talk his way out of getting arrested even after they checked his fake ID. Even if the cops smelled beer on his breath. He’d be charming. Tell a story. He’d done it before. He actually seemed to enjoy it.

She took a few steps and got the spins.

“You dork,” he said, laughing as she vomited onto her shoes. One quick spurt, and then another, burning her throat. Back spasming. “Spread your feet. Jesus!”

Looking down, she saw orange flecks on her shoes, even in the dark. But worse was the spittle on her shirtfront. It smelled already. Just thinking of it made her want to gag again.

“Well there goes that,” he said. “Grant’s not going to want to fuck you now.”

She wiped her chin. “What?”

Part of her—the tiniest part—was flattered. Grant was interested. But the slight spark of good feeling was doused by what he said next.

He came at her with a small stick and crouched down, flicking the vomity chunks off her shoes. “Good job, Dogface. You’ve made yourself unfuckable. I’m not going to get the car now. Not at a discount. Not unless I find some other little bitch for him.”

She stood still, fighting the urge to be sick again, glad he was cleaning her shoes, at least. Trying to see it as proof that he was willing to be nice. He couldn’t mean the thing he’d said about a discount.

“Remind me not to let you eat Doritos again,” he said. “Not with beer, anyway.”

He pointed to her shirt. Not so easy to clean.

“Then again, Grant’s pretty drunk,” he said. “He may not notice that you smell. Youarea virgin, right?”

“You’re gross. Stop it.”

She still felt lightheaded. She didn’t know what to make of his words. Hewashelping her, after all. With Ewan, you never knew. Her entire childhood had been a series of jokes and tricks, some of them mean, alternating with occasional favors, like the time he stole money from Martha’s purse to order them pizza. There was no point trusting, and no pointnottrusting, either—not if you ever wanted to go anywhere, do anything, get out of a house full of anger and shouting.

“C’mon.” He grabbed her by her skinny upper arm and pulled.