Friday – Quinn

On Friday nights there were always only two things on my mind: getting the hell out of the house and nding the party. But before I could get my buzz on with Guzzo and Dwyer, I had to take care of Willy. Ma used to want me to stay home with him, but thank God that didn’t last long, because the Cambis, our family friends a few blocks away, came to the rescue and invited Willy for their spaghetti-and-movie nights. So Friday aernoons I just needed to get his bag packed and get him over there. He could do it all himself—he was in seventh grade, for God’s sake—but Ma hammered me with: “Quinn, you need to take some responsibility.” If she wasn’t actually in my face, or over my shoulder, across the room, sour-frowning as she said it, then she was a voice in my head making sure I knew she was there.

As usual, Willy beat me home. He le the door open. He was too old to act like a frigging wild animal, but he was the baby of the family and we still treated him like one. He was in the living room with the PlayStation. His life’s major achievement was the mastery of all games and how quickly he beat them. His latest was the new version of Grand e Auto. Ma hated the game, but when Willy agreed to play soccer, the deal he cut, the little prince, was that he could play GTA as oen as he wanted. Whatever. Willy was all charm. He got what he wanted. Whenever he smiled I was sure he put tears in Mrs. Cambi’s eyes, which was why they adopted him every Friday night.

“Fuck yeah!” Willy yelled, because he knew it was me walking into the living room, not Ma. On the screen, he blasted someone away with a handgun. He’d stolen a cop car and was cruising through the streets. I knew this part. Soon he’d nd the helicopter and go blow up more shit in his virtual world. I hated to admit it, but the game kind of freaked me out.

“Hey!” I shouted. “Turn that down. People’ll think I’m beating you or something. You packed?”

 He bobbed his head to the soundtrack and ignored me.

“Willy.”

“Will, now. It sounds tougher.”

“Tough Will, I will kick your ass if you don’t get your bag packed now.”

“No, you won’t.” He still had his back to me and I snuck up behind him slowly. “No, you won’t, because if you do, I’ll tell Ma, and she will kick your ass!”

“Maybe,” I said, pretzeling his arm behind his head. “But it will be worth it!”

He whined and kicked at my shins, but I lied him from the oor by the TV and dragged him like that across the room until we were by the couch, where I dropped him face- rst. I got a knee on his back. “You had enough?”

His face reddened. “Enough?” I pressed harder. He wasn’t in pain, smooshed into the cushions of the couch like that. He was just pissed he couldn’t free himself. He wanted me to hurt him—he was that stubborn. If I hurt him, he could hurt me with a week’s deep shit with Ma.

ing is, I tackled him once, two years earlier. He was in h grade and I was in tenth. I misjudged the distance and as we fell, his head hit the corner of the coffee table. I called the ambulance myself. I got him to the hospital myself. He needed stitches. It was aer dinner, so Ma was already at work. I didn’t want to call her. I didn’t want to bother her. I just wanted to take care of my brother and x everything before she came home the next morning.

But they called her as soon as we got to the hospital, and when she got there, she gave me the third degree right there in front of everybody. Hell of a bawling. I didn’t blame her. We all have our roles to play since Dad died.

Plus, now it was a story Willy’d bring up at the kitchen table if he wanted to get out of what I told him he needed to do. For example:

“Eat your green beans.”

“Why?”

“You have to. It’s healthy.”

“What if I don’t? You going to smash my face again? You’re not my dad.”

No. I wasn’t a stand-in for Dad. Nobody could be that. When the IED got him in Afghanistan, he became an instant saint in Spring eld. I wasn’t him.

I’d never be him. But I was still supposed to try. at was my role: the dutiful son, the All-American boy with an All-American een-foot deadeye jump shot and an All-American 3.5 GPA.

 But sometimes trying to get Willy ready and out the door was an All- American pain in the ass. I got my knee off his back and lied him from the couch. “Come on, Will,” I said. “Please. I gotta get going. Get your bag packed.”

He made a big production of catching his breath and calming down and then he stomped off to our room. As soon as I heard him banging drawers and looking for his uniform for his soccer game, I went to the kitchen for my own bit of packing. at was another part of the Friday night routine: I always swiped a askful of Ma’s bourbon. She needed it to fall asleep when she got back from her shi over at the Uline Warehouse—twelve hours straight, so who could blame her? I took it to ignite my Friday night buzz.

Me, Guzzo, and Dwyer. We got our drink on to get our party on—weekend warriors to the end.

But I always stole the booze without Willy knowing either, and I got the

ask in my jacket pocket while he searched for his shin pads in our room.

He couldn’t see me taking the booze. His eyes were Ma’s eyes were the eyes of all the jackholes in Spring eld who looked at me and thought of Dad.

Apparently, I had his eyes. His build. His “All-American” looks. All- American? What the hell was that? I hated that shit. What did it even mean?

I doubled back into the living room and turned off the game and the TV.

I checked the house and the lights and all that. Responsible. at’s me.

“Ready?” I yelled.

“Yeah,” Willy said.

“You good, Tough Will?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I thought you wanted to be called that—”

“Asshole.”

“All right. Let’s go.”

Once we were outside and I locked up and we were heading down the sidewalk, I threw my arm over his shoulder. He didn’t shrug it off, which surprised me, but I was glad for it. I wasn’t his dad or any dad, but I did love being a brother, and I did love the little pain in my ass.

But I didn’t love having to walk him to the Cambis’. Take some responsibility! Ma never said that to him. He could walk his own damn self!

He was twelve, not ve. It wasn’t far, either, but Ma and the Cambis were paranoid about the two-block stretch between our houses. Supposedly, the

neighborhood was going to shit, and supposedly Sal Cambi got chased by a few kids all the way home one day aer school and Mrs. Cambi had to threaten to call the police to get them off her front porch. Frankly, I’d seen Sal acting like an ass so many times with Willy, he probably said something and was so dumb about it that he didn’t realize it’d get him chased in the rst place. e kid was an idiot sometimes, but whatever, I was glad he was friends with Willy, because the Cambis were nice as hell—they fed Willy every Friday night and made him part of their family, and all that kindness got me off the hook from babysitting so I could hang out, like everybody else I knew did.

Everyone in this neighborhood lives in multifamily buildings. We live on the second oor of ours, above old Mr. and Mrs. Langone, for a good rent, Ma says, but the Cambis own their entire building, which, they said, was why they stayed. Otherwise they would have moved a long time ago.

I didn’t have to be a parent worrying about rent and electric bills and all that shit to know that when you live in a neighborhood where they don’t x the streetlights very oen, where cops set up one of those elevated lookout stations around the corner and patrol the streets a lot more than they used to when I was little, the neighborhood was on the decline. But I loved the West Side. I’d lived here my whole life. What the hell did people really mean when they said the West Side was on the decline? What’d that say about the people who lived here, like me, or all the damn people who were moving here now?

When we got to the Cambis, Willy sprinted up the front steps. I hung back. He rang the bell and Mrs. Cambi answered the door. Willy dashed past her and Mrs. Cambi waved to me from the doorway. She wore slippers. I stayed right where I was on the sidewalk, not wanting to get too close. Not wanting to get roped into staying longer than I had to. Just wanting to get the hell out and get the party started for the night.

But Mrs. Cambi beckoned me, like usual. “You know you’re always welcome too.” She leaned against the frame and held the door open. I could smell the sizzling garlic and onions from the street. I didn’t remember the last time Ma had cooked for us.

“anks,” I said. “I’m good. I have things to do.”

“Busy man. Of course you do.”

“And I wouldn’t want to crash Willy’s time with his friends.”

 “It’s never crashing when either of you are at our place, Quinn. You know

that.”

“anks again, Mrs. Cambi.”

“Regina. Call me Regina. Mrs. Cambi was Joe’s mother.” She smiled, and it was that smile I saw too oen. at proud pity for Saint Spring eld’s two sons. “You’re a good kid, Quinn,” she told me.

I nodded and made my way.

at stuff just pissed me off. e world was shitty, and I didn’t care if that sounded melodramatic. It was. Yeah, yeah, I was a good kid. A model kid.

My dad had been the model man: the guy who, when he was on leave, stood there behind the table at St. Mary’s soup kitchen in his pressed Class A blues serving ladle aer ladle of chicken soup he’d helped make. Yeah, yeah, model man when he lived, model man aer he died. e model man and the model family he le behind.

My dad got blown up in Afghanistan, and Ma and everybody we knew and plenty of people we didn’t know but knew his name, all reminded me— he sacri ced for all of us. He sacri ced for the good of our country. He died in the name of freedom. He died to prove to the wackos of the world who didn’t believe in democracy, liberal economy, civil rights, and all that shit, that we were right and they were wrong. But for me, my dad was dead, so the frigging wackos won. And, seriously, who are the frigging wackos, anyway? I sure as hell didn’t feel sane all the time.

Dwyer and Guzzo had been texting me since I got home, and I knew they were waiting for me in the alley near Jerry’s corner store. When I was a block away, I took a quick swig of bourbon and stuffed the ask in my ass pocket, so they’d know I had it. So they’d know I wanted to get the party started too, but I’d had shit to do. I took a swig because I was taking responsibility!

By the time I got to them they were pissed, and they looked like a couple of old ladies bent over and gossiping. Dwyer with his hands thrust in his pockets, shuffling back and forth on his two feet, his skinny arms and legs all

dgety, trying to hide his big-ass head beneath a green hoodie, and typical Guzzo. Guy’s built like a bear, but he stood there, with his hands on his hips, thumbs forward, kicking at the edge of the Dumpster like he was checking a tire for air. He threw his hand up when he noticed me. “What the hell?” he said.

 “Dude! We’ve just been sitting here,” Dwyer said, wiping at the buzz-cut stubble around his head. “Someone’s going to get suspicious.”

“No one’s going to get suspicious,” I told them. “We’ve scored beer here more times than I can count.”

“Whatever,” Guzzo said. “is is our last night out for months. Next

week, it’s back to hell.”

“It’s not hell,” Dwyer said.

“Dude, I hate forced fun,” Guzzo continued. “Coach isn’t fooling anyone with his team-building shit. Basketball meetings every Friday and Saturday night mean one thing: no goddamn partying. at’s it.”

“Man,” Dwyer said, giving Guzzo that face that said You dumb or what?

“You kill me. is is serious. When that scout from Duke shows up, you’re going to be the rst in line, squeezing his palm. All stupid smiles and clean- cut.”

“No, he won’t,” I said. I bounced in between them and boxed Guzzo back into the Dumpster, keeping my ass low, legs spread. “I’ll get there rst. ‘Hey, man,’ I’ll tell him. ‘People tell me I look good in blue.’ ” I ashed a big fake smile, and Dwyer laughed.

Guzzo pushed at me, and I held my ground, keeping him pinned, but he’s huge, and it didn’t take long for him to toss me aside. He swung around in front of me. Frowned. “Fuck that,” he said. “You know damn well English is going to be rst in line, because everybody’s going to talk to him rst.”

“Not if you step in there,” Dwyer told Guzzo. He bounced Guzzo with his shoulder and they went at it for a few seconds, trying to get position on each other, get a leg in front, and box the other one’s back. Dwyer’s tall but he’s all sticks, and Guzzo popped Dwyer’s leg with his knee and got in front. He grinned. “Whose house?” he said to me. I laughed. I started bobbing in front of him, like I was going to shake and move past him to some hoop behind him.

“Oh, yeah,” I said, dribbling my pretend basketball.

“Falcons all the way, baby!” Dwyer yelled from behind Guzzo. “Whose house? OUR house!” His cheeks were already so red his freckles seemed to gather all together.

Guzzo, squatting, his arms spread out, and keeping Dwyer behind him, nodded. “Hell, yeah,” he said. en he stopped and stood up and let Dwyer rush past him. Dwyer came at me so quickly, I thought he was going to

knock me over. He dipped, pivoted, and swung around me like he was going up for an easy layup behind me. Classic Dwyer. He loved banging in the paint like a giant pinball and ghting for the rim. Guzzo wasn’t as much of a

ghter. He was just massive; people bounced off him more than he tried to send them ying.

Still, we laughed, but it was because it was all we thought about. It was all everybody was thinking about. It was mid-November. State rankings came out in two weeks. If we were number one, it was only going to get harder.

“Listen,” I said. “If this is our last big night, let’s make it worth it.”

“at’s what I’m talking about,” Guzzo said, slapping my hand in the air.

He pulled a short key on a ring from his pocket and held it in the air like a cartoon superhero. “Shotgun, baby!” he yelled.

He was so loud, Dwyer looked around to see if anybody was watching us from the top of the alley.

“Seriously,” Guzzo continued. “How much are we going to get? I’m shotgunning like ten beers tonight.”

By “we,” Guzzo meant me, because I usually had more cash than either of them, so I almost always bought the beer, which pissed me off, but I knew they felt bad I paid for their fun more than they paid for mine. And fuck it, we were tight, and that was most important. I’d been friends with Guzzo forever, and when Dwyer had joined us in middle school, everything had only gotten better.

“I have this,” I said, patting my back pocket, knowing they could smell it on my breath. “And I don’t want to be wasted when I get to Jill’s, and you can’t be either. You promised me. Seriously.”

And that was the other reason I didn’t mind buying Guzzo beer. Jill was Guzzo’s cousin, and he kept promising he was going to put in a good word for me with her. I’d always liked her. Gearing up for the basketball season, I would go on these epic runs all around town, and I—okay, I admit it—I’d run by her house more than once. You know how it is. Sometimes you just want to cross paths with that one person, on the bus, on the street, wherever, just so you can nod, and say “Wassup,” and hope to hell that something more comes of it. Anyway, the last time I’d seen her, she was dragging her younger brother across the street. She’d been wearing these stupid gray sweatpants rolled at the waist, rolled at the ankles, too. She walked barefoot along the

walkway. I waved to her, she waved back, and all I could think was, How does she make even a stupid pair of sweatpants look so good?

Everybody knew she threw mad parties, so I was psyched for the night.

Everybody’d be hands-up dancing on the rst oor, and I’d see if Jill was down with some alone time. And if not, that was cool too, because then I’d be ripping shots with Guz and Dwyer in the kitchen, like we did at most parties anyway.

“Well, let’s do this,” Guzzo said. “Jerry’s, beer, a couple slices at Mother’s, and we’re good. e party’s gonna be a shitshow—Frankie brought over a frigging trunkful.” Frankie was another one of Guzzo’s cousins, and this was another reason being friends with Guzzo was a good thing. He had an army of cousins around the city, and if you were in the shit and you were tight with Guzzo, you didn’t have to look far for help.

Basically, we always got started at Jerry’s, because it was the dirtiest little corner store I knew, and the easiest place for us to get beer. Guzzo had lied a bottle once. I had too. But we didn’t try that anymore. And we never bought it ourselves. e clerks behind the counter would never risk selling to underage dudes. But one night I asked a guy on the sidewalk outside if he’d buy us a twelve-pack of tall boys, he agreed, and that had become our weekly routine. It was the safest plan anyway, and we always seemed to nd someone who’d buy the beer for us.

e only problem was always this: Whoever we found to buy us the beer would only do it if we paid him extra. ere weren’t any Good Samaritan beer angels oating around waiting to gi us our weekly Friday buzz. So beer cost double for us, but whatever, we were seventeen. And I made mint at my summer job and it gave me play money for the year. Plus, Ma was a frigging workhorse, always doing the night shi at Uline so she could get paid more. It meant the money I made was just for me, and whatever I wanted to spend on Willy. But mostly, it went for beer and Friday night dinners at the back window of Mother’s Pizza.

We had to hang around for a while, but soon aer it was actually dark out, I le Guzzo and Dwyer in the alley and leaned up against the brick wall down the block from Jerry’s until I saw a guy making his way up Fourth Street toward us. I recognized him; he’d helped us out before. He was a skinny white dude, who was a little strung out. I told myself that the guy looked like he could use my money to buy himself some food, but he’s going

to buy more beer anyway. And while I’m fucking judging the guy like that, I’m also digging in my pocket for the money I’m about to give him to buy me and the guys our beer at ve thirty in the goddamn aernoon. See what I mean? Who’s the sane one now? I’m thinking all this, but on the outside, I was all smiles and handshakes—All-American.

And I was about to hand him my money when the front door to Jerry’s whacked open and a cop pushed a younger guy out in front of him. It was only a matter of seconds before the cop had thrown the guy to the sidewalk and pressed him face- rst into the concrete. I was barely twenty feet away. e guy on the ground was black and he looked like he was around my age, and I wasn’t sure, but I thought he was looking at me. He was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him. Did he go to our school? All I could really see was the cop over him, shouting. e cop was white and it took me a second to recognize him, because his face was angled down the whole time, but then, when he raised his head for a second, I realized right away it was Guzzo’s older brother, Paul.

Holy shit! Paul! Paul was hitting the other guy, again, and again, smashing his face into the sidewalk. e blood kept coming. I wanted to move; my gut wanted me to rush to help Paul. But I knew enough to know that you stayed out of police business, plus Paul didn’t need my help because he was pummeling the guy. So I just stood there, sorta frozen, just watching, trans xed. With one knee and a forearm pinning the guy beneath him, Paul bent low and said something into the guy’s ear. I couldn’t look away; I didn’t even want to. I didn’t know what the hell was going on and my own pulse jackhammered through me. I heard sirens coming up the street, and I swear I would have stayed staring if it hadn’t been for the cop car that pulled up onto the sidewalk between us. When car doors swung open, I turned and ducked back down the alley to nd Guzzo and Dwyer.

ey were waiting near the back and I ran toward them.

“Oh shit,” Guzzo said.

Another cop car raced past the entrance to the alley behind me.

“Oh shit,” Guzzo said again.

“We have to get out of here now,” I hissed.

“What the hell happened?” Guzzo asked.

I looked up at the chain-link fence behind us. It was higher than a basketball rim, maybe een feet. But climbable. On the other side were the

tracks to the commuter rail. “Dude,” I said, putting my hands on the fence.

“It’s your brother. He busted some guy in the store. It’s fucking ugly and we

need to get the hell out of here. Now!”

I started to climb.

“e tracks?” Dwyer asked. “Are you crazy?”

When I got to the top, I looked both ways. No trains. Still, it was probably a high traffic time, so that wouldn’t last for long. I dropped one leg on the other side of the fence, swung myself over, and began to climb down.

“What the fuck, man?” Guzzo shouted.

“No one saw me,” I said when I hit the ground. “If we get out of here right now, maybe nobody will, and we can all just pretend like we weren’t here.

Like it didn’t happen.”

“What happened?” Guzzo asked, one hand on the fence, but hesitating.

“Is Paul okay?”

“Yeah, man,” I said. “But he just beat the piss out of some kid on the sidewalk and we don’t want to be around to have to answer any questions— it was fucking ugly. Now get over here before a train comes.”

ey hauled ass over the fence, and we ran along the pebble embankment of the railway until we came to the Fourth Street bridge, and then we slid down the embankment to the fence along Fourth Street and climbed over that one. I heard a whistle in the distance, but we all made it over and away from the tracks in plenty of time.

“Paul?” Guzzo said again, his voice cracking.

“It was bad,” I admitted.

“What the hell do you think the kid did?” Guzzo asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But whatever he did, your brother just put him in the hospital for it.”

“You know what?” Dwyer said. “Let’s just get a slice and chill. Seriously.”

It was a good plan, but when we got there, I couldn’t stop thinking about what I had seen. I swear I thought about the guy on the ground, but mostly I thought about Paul, because Paul was Guzzo’s older brother, and aer my own father died, Paul had basically been my older brother too. And I couldn’t shake that look of rage I’d seen on the face of a man I knew and thought of as family.