Page 20 of Something Good
The slam of the front door broke us apart, and I flew back over to sit on Jimmy’s bed. My heart pounded in my chest as voices rang through the house, and before I could gather my bearings around this new development, the door to Sammy’s room was flung open.
“Get up! Whatchu doin’ in bed? Lazy-ass kid.”
“It’s fucking seven in the morning on a Saturday. Why wouldn’t I be in bed? Shouldn’t you be passed out in a ditch somewhere?”
My eyes darted between Sammy and the guy standing in the doorway. He was tall, maybe six-three, and had the build of a guy who’d probably been a linebacker once upon a timebut had softened around the middle. He was wearing a dirty undershirt that stretched over his belly, with an unbuttoned denim shirt over the top. There were grease stains on his shirt and jeans, and his work boots looked like they’d seen the inside of a sewage pipe. His dark, scraggly hair hung to his shoulders, and the scruff on his pock-marked face either needed to commit to growing into a beard or be shaved off completely. He was terrifying, but Sammy didn’t move a muscle.
“Ungrateful brat. I don’t know why Charlotte puts up with your ass.” His eyes flicked to me, and I shrank under his withering stare. “This your little boyfriend? That why you’re still in bed? You fucking your boyfriend?”
My mouth dropped open. I’d never heard someone speak like that. Not to anyone other than in movies. Sammy launched himself out of bed lightning-fast and got right up in the guy’s face. It didn’t matter that the guy had several inches on him and at least eighty pounds. Sammy didn’t back down.
“Fuck. You,” he said slowly, with clenched teeth. The guy didn’t budge.
“What’re you gonna do? Huh? You think your scrawny ass can take me?”
I stood, inching closer to Sammy. I didn’t know what I was going to do. Sure, I had the speed and muscle of an athlete, but I didn’t know fuck-all about fighting. I just knew I couldn’t leave Sammy alone.
“Get out of here,” Sammy said.
No one moved.
Sammy’s eyes flicked over to me, and he repeated himself again more emphatically, this time making direct eye contact so I knew he was talking to me. “I said, get out of here!”
“Sammy, I don’t think?—”
“Go!” he shouted.
“But—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. I don’t have time to listen to this bullshit. I got shit to do.” Greasy Hulk stepped back toward the door. “Get rid of yer little pussy friend, or I will,” he said without a backward glance.
At his exit, I let out a breath in a whoosh. “Sammy, who was that?—”
“Don’t worry about it. Just go.”
We turned so we were facing each other. “No. I’m not leaving you here with that guy.”
“He won’t fucking do anything. He talks a big game, but he’s a lazy piece of shit.”
I looked at him skeptically. Sammy described him like he was relatively harmless, but the guy I’d just seen looked like he wouldn’t have any problem starting a bar fight with a motorcycle gang—by himself.
“Is he a friend of your mom’s or something?”
Sammy sighed and turned toward the closet, grabbing a T-shirt and pulling it on. “I said it doesn’t matter. Just go. Okay? Please, go.”
All the bravado, the cockiness, the asshole energy he’d exuded every time we’d crossed paths was gone. Deflated right out of him. In its place was a deep weariness, and I realized there was so much I didn’t understand about Sammy’s life. As kids, I’d been too young to see the differences between us, but now, I was starting to glimpse just how very different our lives truly were. And the more I saw, the more I wanted to understand. I just didn’t know if he’d let me.
As we stood in the center of the room, taking stock of each other in a silent standoff, I saw the toll this existence was taking on him. He was exhausted. And he didn’t have the energy to battle Greasy Hulk if he had to battle me too.
“Hand me your phone.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
He raised his eyebrows in challenge.
“I’ll leave if you promise to text me later that you’re okay. Or you’ll call if that guy tries anything.”
