Bad Brett

Caught up in some thug shit. That’s what Brett calls it. Bad Brett, sixteen, blond puffy hair that curls into a mini-fro, baggy South Pole jeans, those bright colored Polos three sizes too big for his welterweight frame.

We act tougher than we are. Suburban kids playing with danger. MTV jams gone straight to our heads.

Anyway, it starts as a dare maybe. One of those after-school-bell, seat-of-the-pants, bad decisions that take two to fortify. Bad Brett is the easy one,

“Fuck, let’s do it. Then we set, playa.”

I at least relent. Take my time to map out the plan in my head. See the consequences because shit, there always be consequences. But I keep seeing dollar bills. Lots of them. Which means buying more forties at Dink’s Liquors on Post where all it takes is a teenage mustache and a deep enough voice to buy ‘em.

Which also means plenty of movie nights. Dinners at Applebee’s (another place I could buy booze, thank you passive young waiters and shitty fake out-of-state license.)

Most of all, more chances to see Gina. Sixteen. Head-strong. Pierced and proud. That blue bandanna she always wears, slicked back hair and bun. Midriff-baring, tear up the dance floor on teen night at Mirage, and make me feel like I could conquer the world.

So now, it’s the two of us. Bad Brett and me hunched over the package in my bedroom. Mom’s out making bill-money waiting tables at Sal’s Diner. Dad’s long gone by this point. Brett holds it in his hands, raises it high, shakes it like the money would just flow out of it. Rain on us like it does on them girls over at Wiggle Room. Yeah, ‘nother place that out-of-state license does wonders. But his hands rattle and he keeps looking out the window.

Brett had the idea. We’d been buying weed from those older dudes that hang out in the mall parking lot. Frankie Flex and Toby. Two cats in their twenties. Probably never had a job in their lives. But they’re always flashing gold, new pagers blowing up from their belt buckles. Frankie with his fast talk, always squeezing your shoulders like he’s some type of fucked up masseuse.

“We gotta move it, Brett. That ain’t gonna be easy.”

My warning but Bad Brett always has the right answer.

“Sayreville. Next town over. High school kids don’t know us.”

“And Frankie and Toby?”

“Well, we stay away from the mall for a while. Easy.”

He’s smiling but his eyes say something different.

All bark and I’d seen that crack before. But this time it slices deeper.

And two days later, Brett’s pager goes off and I see Toby’s number on it. I ask him if he’s gonna call back and he just laughs it off.

Now I’m two forties and a few joints in, my mind flashing to Gina and those tight abs, the way she slithers her tongue around my lips and smirks, like she knows exactly what she’s doing.

Some sappy love story. When a Man Loves a Woman. Playing Saturday night over at the multiplex. She’s already dug her fingernails into my chest, made me promise. Done with this bullshit. I swear I’ll be better.

Brett takes off for the weekend. Something about his older brother’s basketball tourney upstate. His Moms makes him go, some shit. But last time he spoke to me on the phone, it was all quick and painless. “Did you see that Knick game,” nothing about the brick sitting under my bed. “So where you taking Gina tonight?” Like he knows already but I tell him anyway.

Multiplex. Saturday night. I take my Mom’s car. Shitty Plymouth but it has wheels. Just a permit but I’m a smooth-talker (“Ma, it’s fine. You get two hours a week alone. They told me that at Driver Ed.”)

Mom’s either gullible or just don’t give a shit anymore.

Gina’s in the passenger. Tight jeans and the gold stud in her navel glistening. She’s tan from hours at the salon. Her hair’s did up different. No bandanna. Down and wavy. Longer than I can remember. Looks like Janet Jackson.

She navigates the palm of my hand with her fingernails. We barely talk. Just listen to the radio. Hot 97. Some smooth R&B going in and out because Mom’s radio sucks.

Parking lot’s packed since it’s 9 and it’s Saturday, and every teen and their brother is here with a date, holding hands, squeezing their bodies together like in preparation for when the lights go low.

Then I hear it.

My name.

Shouted.

Then I see it.

The glint of metal.

Then I feel it.

Brett knew.

BIO: Jesse Binger is a crime fiction writer whose work explores suburban grit, bad decisions, and quiet moral collapse. His stories are forthcoming in Close to the Bone and Yellow Mama.. He lives in New Jersey.