Wanted Read online

  WANTED

  HEIDI AYARBE

  Dedication

  THIS IS FOR

  GRANDMA GRACE AND

  Grandma Tjon, who began a legacy of strong women; Mom, a pint-sized force of strength; Carrie, my best friend and sister; and Andrea, my forever friend . . . because I’ve always wanted to be like you. And my girls, Sydney, Kyra, and Amelia—wishing you the courage to be who you are.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  The End

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  The End

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Heidi Ayarbe

  Credits

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  The End

  THE CRUISERS APPEAR LIKE

  a mirage. But a crummy one, since mirages, on general principles, are supposed to be good and happy and filled with tropical fruits, muscular guys in turbans, and stuff like that. The cars rip along a shimmering strip of tarry highway between two billboards: THERE’S PLENTY OF ROOM FOR GOD’S CREATURES NEXT TO THE MASHED POTATOESAND NEVADA: LEADING THE COUNTRY IN BEING JUST EAST OF CALIFORNIA. THAT AND BROTHELS (FLIP A BITCH . . . 5 MILES BACK). I’m not gonna go all Great Gatsby about the billboards because they’re not a symbol of anything at all.

  Nothing is.

  The cruisers come to a screeching halt in the parking lot, tires kicking up loose rocks from the half-melted asphalt, modern-day Keystone Kops with wailing sirens and clumsy, fishtail stops. When the burnout smoke settles, the cops pile out of the cars, guns drawn, crouching behind the opened doors of the cars.

  I pull back the corner of a flyer advertising hand-knit Snuggies to get a better view. Four cops. The lanky one has midnight skin and talks into a radio. The next car over, two cops roll on the scorching asphalt to find better cover. Albino shades her eyes and maintains her position behind the car door. They’ve got to be using phrases like “clear the area,” “set up a perimeter,” “Starsky and Hutch will take the back while Ponch and Jon hold the front.”

  Well, everything but that last phrase, anyway.

  Josh is wearing his golden Burger King crown. They still give them out. If you request them. It’s not like something that’s just there for the taking. You have to ask.

  The crown sits lopsided on his head. He kneels next to me, cupping my face in his hands.

  Sweat drips down my temple. I’m so cold. But my hair sticks to my forehead and the back of my neck. I’m not what Josh would consider mirage worthy.

  I never have been. Not for him.

  Sweat trickles to my chin, then spatters when it hits the dingy linoleum.

  I motion behind the counter. Josh shakes his head.

  Hemingway once wrote a six-word memoir: For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

  I think about mine, summing up a life in six words, and draw a blank, wishing the store owner would’ve done the same.

  It’s pretty amazing how calm I am, considering that odds are I’ll be dead in time for the evening news.

  Chapter 1

  A CROWD HAS GATHERED.

  Sanctuary. That’s all I text, then push send, and they come. Crystal dewdrops hang on yellowed blades of grass. The group huddles at the bleachers, clapping their arms, puffs of breaths dangling in the air.

  Across the field another group gathers—dark-blue flannel shirts buttoned to the top, creased khakis. La Cordillera. I shade my eyes and squint, but they all look like blue smudges on fingerprint cards from over here.

  I dig through my backpack, looking for my glasses. They’re splotchy and crooked.

  No one from la Cordillera is coming this way. I’ll take their bets later at Mocho’s place. Though I’d like to think of Sanctuary as a demilitarized zone, a place where we can all get together under a common interest. Some groups never mix, though—not even here.

  I pause. I could go to over to them, join their circle, take their bets. But that wouldn’t work. People come to me. Even la Cordillera.

  Most of my business is done by phone, but big days, big games, it’s always nice to convene—make it a little more personal. And get the cash. Right there.

  As soon as I walk up, the crowd hushes. I scan the faces and see the quintessential human flaw—hope.

  Sometimes I think I could probably save myself a lot of stress if I got a part-time job selling high cholesterol at the Pizza Factory instead of selling hope. Because with hope comes despair. Welcome to life. Yep. It sucks. Then I spend lots of time on the phone consoling the losers—kind of like a pseudoeconomic psychologist convincing them a little bit of hell paves the way to big rewards later on.

  I could go back to wearing Walmart discount-rack clothes. It’s not like it really matters what I wear around here, because I’ll still just be me. Sometimes it’s like I live in my own DMZ with problematic T-zone pimples and oily hair. No boobs. The “big-boned” girl with a weird name.

  I look at their faces. Flushed cheeks, chapped lips, furrowed brows. Their eyes lock on me—expectation? Flashes of anxiety. Shades of doubt erase as expressions of self-assurance take over. It’s like watching some kind of Incredible Hulk transformation when I arrive.

  Here, in Sanctuary, I’m everything. Hope incarnate—a priest, minister, preacher.

  Their bookie.

  Powerful.

  Cashing in on hope is way more lucrative than adolescent pizza addictions.

  Plus, at the end of the day, gambling isn’t a whole lot different from high school. It’s all about knowing the rules, the stakes, and when to quit. There’s a fine line between taking a calculated risk and a suicidal one. Whenever I take bets at Sanctuary, I’m not sure whether I’m on the smart side or suicidal side. I know, though, that whatever it is, I’m alive.

  I’m good at what I do. The money flows. On a bad week, I clear a hundred dollars or so—enough to dress better than any kid at this school; my clients’ girlfriends hate me for it. I look at the girls, clutching their boyfriends’ arms. Sanctuary’s extras—generic, varsity jacket–wearing girlfriends in Payless, knockoff Coach or Uggs—almost but not quite the real deal.

  I look down at my shoes. Old Gringo zipper boots. The real deal—three hundred bucks real.

  I give their boyfriends something they can’t. These guys are hungry to bet—to feel something outside this Carson C
ity bubble. Before me, they never knew what it was like to live. Now they feel the surge of emotion watching their team win. Or lose. And a need to capture that feeling again.

  And again.

  And again.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, these are Super Bowl wild-card playoffs. Ready for business?” I ask. I look at the time. “Class starts in thirty minutes. Who’s on the lookout?”

  A couple of light bettors—baseball, basketball, fill-in-the-blank-sport bench warmers—go to the baseball backstop and hang out. The rest of us take out tattered copies of Dostoyevsky’s The Gambler. My bet book is cradled between the pages that hold one of my favorite quotes:

  I deduced from the scene one conclusion which seemed to me reliable—namely, that in the flow of fortuitous chances there is, if not a system, at all events a sort of order. This, of course, is a very strange thing.

  A system.

  An order.

  I look at the expectant faces of my clients, who will throw their money away on chance, on whims, instead of studying the system. Few take the time to understand the way it works, the wonder of the world of betting, like they’ve all settled into some kind of daze of conformity, following the trends, the favorites. The world of betting is much more than money-lining the favorite. I shrug.

  “I’ve got a special today for those wanting to cash in on something that could be real sweet: Arizona has pretty much surprised us all. If you’re betting on them and have the lead after the third, then lose, you get your money back.

  “And, of course, as always, anything goes. You dig your grave, you lie in it. I don’t have time for hand holding.”

  Leonard, my guy in Reno—kind of a bookie mentor, actually—taught me some basics when I began, the first being: Read back is final. I read back the wagers. Client reconfirms. Done deal. No do-overs. It takes time to build a list of clients—reliable ones. Now nobody gets in Sanctuary without a face-to-face recommendation from one of my regulars. And I reserve the right to refuse.

  Money changes hands, bets are read back and placed. Someone on lookout whistles. On cue I start to read from that quote. We each read a quarter of a page, some mumbling over the interminable sentences. Dean Randolph comes over and sits on the bleachers with us, staring across at la Cordillera. “What are you reading?” he asks, not really listening.

  “The Gambler,” I answer.

  Randolph nods.

  I look over at a seminew client—don’t remember his name. His hand trembles, cash peeking out of his clutched fist; sweat drips down his temples. What’s his name? I stare at him until we make eye contact and I mouth, “Cool it or leave. Now.” I can see his Adam’s apple bob up and down in his throat. Justin. That’s right. Justin. He’s a junior.

  Somebody’s reading. Randolph listens to Alexei’s first run with roulette. The guy stutters over “whence” like he’s never read nineteenth-century lit before. Rookie.

  “What class is this for?”

  “Not a class,” I say. “We’re just into Dostoyevsky. We meet here all the time.” I know the drill and pass him my book, dog-eared pages yellowed, highlighted, and underlined.

  My bet book lies open on my lap—right in front of Randolph’s nose. I move to close it and it falls off my knees. Randolph absently picks up my bet book, pages open, handing it to me while flipping through the pages of The Gambler. “Dostoyevsky, huh? Pretty highbrow.”

  “Yeah. He was persecuted in Russia for his ideas, exiled in Siberia, came back, and rocked the world with his work. The founder of existentialism.” I smile and hold my hand out, waiting for him to pass the book back. A couple of guys cough. A blue vein streaks across junior Justin’s bright red face. I glare at him and tap my fingers on the bleachers, waiting for Randolph to hand me everything, feeling the thrill, that feeling that we’re so close to getting caught. But we won’t get caught.

  I shift my weight and try to ignore my cold, metal-bleacher–numbed butt.

  Randolph nods, looking above The Gambler at la Cordillera. He’s more interested in our friendly neighborhood gang. He hands me the book, and I close it around Sanctuary’s bets, safe in The Gambler’s pages.

  It’s so freaking obvious why we’re here—what Sanctuary is—that he doesn’t see what we’re doing. Really. Study group? The Gambler? Outside? When the temp is hovering at just about ten degrees?

  I shake my head.

  It’s always that way with Dean Randolph and pretty much every other teacher, parent, guardian, counselor . . . whoever . . . on the planet. It’s like once you hit middle age, you spend your time looking for smoke signs when your ass is already on fire.

  Randolph tries to hide a yawn. He smiles at us approvingly and ambles along, skirting around la Cordillera, not ballsy enough to actually sit with them. When he’s out of sight, I take the rest of the bets. Justin hands me his sweaty ball of cash. I hold his wrist. “It’s cool, okay? Just be cool.”

  He nods.

  “Or don’t come back. You got that?”

  “Okay.”

  Everything’s done—the bets are placed. I close my book and am ready to head to class—with plenty of time left over to get caffeinated—when I see Nim and his girlfriend.

  Not Nim. Not today.

  Nim motions for Kylie “Medusa” to stay. I can practically hear him: “Stay, Medusa. Stay. Good girl.” Medusa sits on the lowest bleacher, her hair a nest of tangled auburn ringlets—probably one of Nevada’s government-protected ecosystems for migratory birds.

  “Hey, Mike.” Nim smiles. Deep dimples on ski-tanned cheeks deceivingly charming.

  I’ve fallen for that smile plenty of times. Like eight hundred dollars plenty. I pull my gaze away. “Yeah.”

  “Can you hook me up?”

  “I’m not a pimp or a dealer, so probably not,” I say, standing up.

  Nim pulls me down and sits next to me, wrapping his arm around my shoulder, nearly asphyxiating me with cologne and caked-on Degree Sport stick. He pulls me in tight—too tight. I can practically feel capillaries bursting under his grip. “You know what I need.”

  I swallow. Count. Keep it cool. His grip loosens and he starts to laugh that maniacal nervous laugh he gets before he goes wacko. This is not good.

  “This sweet parlay will get me out of some hot water,” Nim says.

  Nimrod’s dad doesn’t know he’s already hundreds in the hole. Hundreds his family can afford. Hundreds Nim can’t. The irony of this entire situation is that though I’m the one who has him by his Shrinky Dink steroid balls, I’m the one trying to still my trembling hands. If he knew how scared I was of him, I’d never survive high school.

  I shake my head, steady my hands to pull out the BlackBerry. “Not gonna happen. You’ve already used up your line of credit.” Leverage. Gotta use any leverage I’ve got, so I squeeze a little harder. “You’d have done well this past week with Ravens.”

  Nimrod slams his fist into the bleacher, the aluminum buckling. I don’t think I’ve visibly flinched and hope to God my lip isn’t quivering. He’s never hit me before. But today he’s desperate. Desperate people do stupid things.

  The thing is, with a guy like Nimrod, you’ve got to take a little pity because unless he makes the major leagues or lands a modeling contract soon, odds are he’ll end up working as a security guard for his dad’s storage rental units, wearing the poop-colored polyester uniform. His only chance at post–high school glory is discovering that some deranged serial killer hides body parts in one of the storage units.

  I look back to la Cordillera. A few of them are watching. Witnesses. This is good. I’ll need witnesses.

  As if he’s reading my mind, Nimrod drops his arm and stares at the gang. Being on good terms with la Cordillera is kind of its own built-in security system.

  “Please,” he says. “C’mon, Mike.”

  Criminy. He’s begging. I shrug him off. “Nope. I can give you the number of my guy in Reno, though. He’s real pleasant. Especially when you don’t pay your debts.”
r />   I watch Nim’s dimples disappear and his face turn a blotchy red. It’s kind of fun to play with him. He grabs my arm tighter. Fun’s over.

  “Don’t be a—”

  “You want to finish that sentence?” I ask, and peel his fingers off my arm.

  “I’m good for it,” he grumbles. Defeated.

  I wait, cock my head to the side, and stare at him.

  He shoves his hands into his pockets, pulling out a limp, pencil-smudged piece of paper. “C’mon, Mike. Jesus Christ, already.”

  “Collateral,” I say.

  “Collateral?”

  “What? You need a dictionary?”

  He flinches.

  “Collateral. Give me something of yours. You lose, I keep it. You win, you get it back and we’re done.”

  “Like my varsity jacket?” Nim nods at Medusa, who’s moved so close to him, it’s hard to tell where he ends and she begins.

  Medusa glares at Nim and hugs it around her broomstick body.

  “Um. No.”

  “But that jacket—”

  “Means nothing to me. Something else. Something big.”

  Nim looks shocked. How could his varsity jacket be meaningless—all that leather, the letter, those pins? “Okay. Like what? My debit card?”

  “With a fifty dollar–a-week limit. Please.”

  His jaw almost drops to the bleachers. If there’s one thing Nim isn’t, it’s subtle. The entire student body knows his jock strap size, PIN, and mother’s maiden name. Idiot.

  “Shit. What do you want then? My signed football—Peyton Manning. It’s gotta be worth—”

  “The title to your truck.” I say. “By the end of the day.”

  “Are you out of your—no way. Like.”

  I move down a couple of bleachers. “Have a great week then.”

  He pulls me back so hard that the bleachers dig into my knees with an electric, cold jolt. He leans in close, so close I can smell the barely masked body odor and count his blackheads. The left side of his lip goes up as if it were attached to some invisible string, bobbing up and down, up and down. Twitchy.

  How to deal with the likes of Nimrod was not addressed in Bookmaking for Dummies. My only hope to come out of this without ending up with my jaw wired shut and a liquid diet until we graduate is to make sure Nim wins. Unfortunately, I don’t rig bets. I just place them.