8. Tyler

Once drama class is over, I walk quickly out of the cafeteria, heading for my locker. I'm inches—mere seconds—away from my locker when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

    I turn around and stagger back on instinct to get away from the unknown presence.

    Coach Artegon holds his hands up, leaning back a little to give me some space. He gives me a welcoming smile. I haven't seen that smile in almost an entire year.

    "Sorry to startle you," he says.

    "It's okay," I murmur.

    Coach Artegon stares at me for a moment. "Football season's started," he says

    "Yeah, I know."

    "Well I just wanted to tell you that we'll still accept you if you decide to try out late. We're not meant to, but . . . you had potential, Tyler. Huge potential. You were the captain."

    "Yeah, well, I don't think I'll be trying out this year, but thanks for the offer," I say.

    He just shakes his head and is about to walk away but he stops. "If you need help getting through something, Tyler, there are people you can talk to. If you can't talk to your parents, then you can talk to me or someone else in the school. You're not . . . you're not as alone as you think."

    "Is that all?" I ask.

    Coach nods, and lets out a long breath. He's disappointed. I  watch as he turns and walks away. There are people walking around in the hallways but fewer than before. I look away  and reach for my locker.

    As I turn the dial, something catches my eye at the end of the hallway and I look up. Ethan stands, leaning against a wall where there are no people. He meets my eyes and tilts his head back, indicating for me to come over.

    I let go of my lock. I walk  quickly towards Ethan and stop right in front of him, leaning against the same wall, mainly to hide him from anyone that might come around.

    "What are doing here?" I ask.

    "Did you steal money?" Ethan asks, his face void of any emotion.

    He does this often—his face will be blank and completely calm but inside a war will be raging.

    "What do you mean?" I ask. "From you?"

    "No, Carl," Ethan clarifies and then runs a hand down his face, glancing around the school hallways nervously. "Come on, let's talk outside."

    He turns and takes the stairs two at a time until he reaches the top and walks out of the school's back door without even a glance back at me. I follow, his words going round in my head. Steal money? Why would he immediately suspect me?

    Ethan leans against the brick wall of the school and I stand in front of him, feeling the sun glare down on my back.

    "Why do you think I have anything to do with it?" I ask. "It's probably just a mix-up with numbers."

    "Tyler." Ethan sighs and rolls his head back until it hits the wall behind him. "He's missing two grand." A dark look covers his face. "That much money doesn't just go missing."

    "Well, why are you telling me this?" I ask. "I had nothing to do with it, Ethan. You should know that. I'm not into playing dirty or fucking around with Carl's cash. I just want out."

    "That's the thing," Ethan says and then shakes his head with a humorless chuckle. "You're an easy target. I told you, Tyler. I told you that anyone would be stupid to not use you as an easy way to back out of a problem."

    "What do you mean? You think that someone took Carl's money and framed me?"

    "I know that someone took Carl's money and framed you, idiot," Ethan growls. "Someone was bound to do it. You want out of the circuit, Carl doesn't let you, so you take some of his money and run. Convincing story."

    My face pales. "And does Carl believe it?"

    "I don't know," he says. "But others do. They think you made a runner."

    "It's not their business," I say. "What does it have to do with me?"

    "That two grand would pay the others if they win a fight," Ethan explains. "Now Carl's down two grand, someone doesn't get paid. And that someone will want to blame someone. And that someone is you."

    "But it wasn't me!" I exclaim.

    "That doesn't matter!" Ethan surges forward, his face looming over mine. "They think you took the money. It doesn't matter if you show up with evidence that you didn't. They have a target and it's a reasonable one. They'll kill you for this, Tyler."

    "Well, then, who framed me?" I ask.

    Ethan shrugs. "It could be any of them. That isn't your concern right now. Your concern is making sure that you're not easily in their line of fire. They think you took the boss's money, Tyler. As a result, they think you took their paycheck. You're dead to them."

    "They wouldn't really kill me, would they?" I ask.

    Ethan looks at me for a moment and then shrugs, taking a cigarette out of a packet from his pocket and lighting it up. "I don't know. You're the one that fights them on a daily basis. You think they're capable of killing?"

    They're more than capable of killing.

***

    When the last bell rings for the day, I slam my locker door shut and nearly jump out my skin when I see a ginger girl standing in the place where my open door had been. I close my eyes and breathe for a few moments before opening them back up, glaring at the girl.

    "What?" I ask with obvious hostility.

    The girl just smiles at me and holds out a pack of paper. "You're in first period history, right?" she asks.

    I nod silently.

    "Great," she continues and proceeds to shove the papers into my hands. "I need you to give this to Francesca Howard. She's the girl that sits in front of you."

    I just look at her, bewildered. "Why can't you?"

    "She left it in the cafeteria and her bus has already gone. Speaking of which, mine is about to leave. Her address is on the sticky note, you'd be such an angel if you could do this, thank you. Bye now."

    The girl turns around and hastily runs outside to where the buses are already pulling away and leaving. I stare down at the pile of history pages, dumbfounded. One, because I didn't even know we had homework. And two, because out of every single person in the school the girl decided that I'm the most trustworthy one.

    I rip off the sticky note and pocket it, shoving the rest of the papers messily into my bag. To hell if I'm going to trail all the way to someone's house to deliver their damn homework that they couldn't be bothered to remember to pick up.

    I zip up my bag and hook it over my shoulder, walking down the deserted hallways until I reach the door to the back parking lot. I head over to my red truck; it's an old model and with the money my parents bring in, I could probably afford a much better, newer one. But that's what I like about this truck—the chipping paint, the fuzzy quality of the radio. Old and rugged. I throw my bag into the passenger seat  and close the driver's door behind me. There's only one row of seats inside the truck. Behind that is the cargo bed which is open and easily gets filled with water that I have to constantly let out.

    Once I'm sure that all the school buses are gone and there's not as much traffic on the roads, I pull out of the school lot and head down the main road before veering off down a back street.

    I have a fight scheduled for tonight, as I usually do two to three times a week. But this one I don't want to appear at. If Ethan's right, then people will want me gone even more than before. But they won't want me to just walk away, they'll want me to limp away with blood dripping after me. But if I don't show up to this fight then it's an immediate affirmation to the rumor going around, of me running off.

    When I reach the parking lot outside of the bar, I park and cut the engine. There are a few cars, five or six, and the place looks deserted. I frown a little but get out of the truck anyway, pushing my school bag into the space between the dashboard and the seat. I pick up my sports bag from the side and shut the driver's door behind me, locking it up.

    As I head across the parking lot towards the empty bar, my phone goes off in my pocket. I bring it out and glance at the caller ID before accepting the call and placing the phone to my ear.

    "What, Ethan?" I ask.

    "Where are you? I thought you were coming to see my race."

    I curse inwardly. "My fight got changed. It's rescheduled for four."

    "Four?" Ethan's voice sounds disbelieving. "Does the bar even open at four?"

    I look around the lot and shrug to myself as I stop at the main doors to the bar, placing my bag on the ground. "I got it on voicemail this morning. They had to swap some things around . . . "

    Ethan doesn't say anything and the more I ramble on, the less realistic the story is sounding.

    "Tyler," Ethan says. "Was it definitely Carl that left the voicemail?"

    "I mean . . . " I start. "It sounded like . . . I didn't check. It was early, I just went with it."

    Ethan inhales deeply. "Tyler, get the fuck out of there," he says. A cold chill sweeps down my spine. "It's a fucking trap! Get out!"

    I grab my bag and turn the phone off, gripping it tightly as I turn around to walk back to the car. But when I do, I catch a glimpse of another person standing in front of me as a fist slams  into my face. The hit doesn't affect me much and I drop my bag and my phone, quickly dodging another hit. I grab the man's arm as he comes back again and pound my fist against his cheek.

    He grunts but brings his free arm down to punch me in the stomach. I lurch forward on instinct from the pain and he uses that to his advantage as he elbows me in the back, sending me sprawling on the ground.

    The side of my face presses into the gravel and little rocks embed themselves in my skin. Two hands grab my arms and haul me to my knees. My mind is still clear and when I look up, I recognize Adam, one of the weekly fighters from the circuit.

    I guess that the two people holding me are fighters, too. Their grips are harsh and their nails dig into my skin through the clothing. A knee whips up and hits me right in the face, knocking my nose and making me wince from the sound it makes. My head lolls and my nose swells up in pain.

    I look up and glare at Adam who punches me in the face again, over and over. I feel blood dribbling out of my nose and spit some out when he lets up for a moment. He grabs my hair and yanks my head back, making me grit my teeth in pain. My eye feels like it's swelling and the man presses a finger against the area just below my eye where I feel the wound. He meets my eyes and puts pressure on the wound, his fingers pressing into my skin making me clench my teeth together to stop my scream of pain. As I feel my eye begin to close up, I twist my head quickly to the side and bite down hard on his fingers.

    He lets out a screech and stumbles away. With the last of my strength I thrust my elbows back quickly and elbow the other two men in the groin. Their grips loosen, and I jump up, turning and punching them both in the face. I turn back to Adam and see him standing a few feet away.

    An object in his hand glints against the sun and my mouth goes dry at the sight of the knife he holds.

    I gulp and he walks forward.

    I know that the men behind me will get up soon too, so when Adam is close enough, I surge forward. I narrowly dodge his knife when it comes for me and punch him in the face. He flings his knife around and each time, the blade misses me by inches. He gets in a few hits here and there but most of them are mine being inflicted on him.

    I whirl around when I hear the men behind me get up, ducking when a fist comes at me. I push one of them away, making him crash into the brick wall. The other two men head for me and my eyes stay on the knife the whole time.

    After a few more hits, I kick one of the men in the stomach and he falls to the ground. I turn around just in time to see the knife come right towards me. I grab onto Adam's arm and the knife stops inches from my flesh.

    We struggle and in that moment it's all a matter of who's stronger.

    It isn't me.

    The older man uses his strength and pushes the knife further forward. My hands are shaking and sweat makes my grip on him slip. I struggle to push his arm as far as I can away from my body, but he's already moving the knife forward and before I know it, the side of my stomach erupts in blinding pain as the knife digs in then runs along the side of my hip in a long, messy cut.

    The blade releases itself from my body and I slump forward, feeling my clothes soak quickly in the blood that oozes from the wound. I hear bodies shuffle and footsteps slap against the ground as the men run away. I cough blood out onto the gravel as car engines start up and then tires screech as my attackers make their escape.

    I bleed out onto the ground and lift my head weakly to see the back piece of my phone broken off and thrown across the ground. I clench my eyes shut. If Ethan has bothered to come then he'll still be an hour away. That's too long. I'll have bled out by then. I can't call my parents. I can't call an ambulance.

    I reach into my pocket and find the little sticky note. I bring it to my face and read the address printed on it.

    I recognize the street name and slowly push myself up from the ground to start walking.

__________

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(French edition of my book ASK AMY is available in bookstores in France and online retailers outside France)