The Book of Masks (Vol. 5)

What Happens in the Warehouse

Previously: "A Drive to Distraction" 

The fuck are you doing out here? Carson wants to know. You hurl the question back at him: "The fuck are you doing out here?"

His glare deepens into a frown of disgust.

"Look, just come hang out with me 'n James," he says, and starts to take you by the shoulder. "We're—"

You wriggle out of his grasp, and he looks at you in surprise.

"Don't grab at me, man," you pant back at him. "If I wanna come hang out with you, I'll come looking for you!"

His eyebrows knit together. "You gonna go hang by yourself?"

"No, I came I with some guys!"

"Who?" He looks you up and down again, and his lip curls.

"Some guys I know! Look, just fuck off, man!" you holler, and you feel a fury rising inside you. "If I wanna come find you later, I'll—!"

But Carson has brushed you away with a wave of disgust. You are boiling inside as you watch him go, and you loft a hard middle finger at his back.

* * * * *

Actually, Patrick and most of the others have moved off in the same direction, so you have to follow Carson anyway, but you do your best to ignore him and not notice where he's settled. It's not hard to lose track of him, though, because you've been pulled into a large, saloon-like space.

It must take up a quarter of the building's massive floor space, for there is lots of open ground for the booths, tables and chairs that have been set up. But along one wall runs a makeshift bar, built of heavy plywood planks on sawhorses and other support, behind which are strung a bunch of high school kids selling food and drink. Some of the guys you recognize from school; none of them, though, are the kind you'd feel comfortable socializing with, for they are a rough and rowdy-looking crew of the kind that hang out behind the portables, smoking weed and cigarettes and fingering the boobs of any girls miserable enough to hang out with their type.

You find Patrick and Dean at one station where bottles of beer are for sale; Patrick gives you a quick glance as you join him, then steps up past Dean to hand over a dirty bill in return for a brown bottle of an imported beer. You step up after and ask for one, and Ricardo Pedroza—a muscled thug—hands one over. "Nine bucks," he says as you hesitate, and it gives you a jolt, as that's a big share of what you've got left after your shopping trip. You give him a ten, and he gives you a dirty bill back in change.

Patrick and Dean didn't wait for you, and are now slouching in a booth in the middle of the room, along with Jonas and Bree, and a couple more of their friends. (Sara and Felicia, though, you notice are not with them.) You shove in next to Patrick, who shoves the others over to make room for you. Most of them have their phones out, though even these are alerting eyeing the room.

The music isn't so loud in here that you have to shout, but you do have to raise your voice to be heard over it. "So are we waiting for anyone else?"

"Not waiting for anyone!" Patrick replies without looking up from his phone.

"Hey, you know Carson?" Dean asks. He has to lean forward to peer past Patrick. "Yeah, I saw you talking to him," he adds when you shrug.

There's a sudden squeal from the other side of the table, and one of the girls jumps away from the guy she's sitting next to. She shows him her teeth; he laughs, harshly.

"Hey man, make room," someone says from behind your shoulder, and you twist and look up to find a dark Hispanic guy smiling down at you. He's got a round face with a friendly expression, and he's wearing a large black sweatshirt and a single gold chain around his neck. "Toby!" someone cries, while Patrick throws his arm in front of your face to give the new guy an awkward hand slap. So you scoot over to let him settle in next to you.

"Anyone seen Mariah around?" the new guy shouts at the table.

"Is she here?"

"Yeah, I seen her, goin' int'a the restroom."

"Should'a followed her in," Patrick snickers.

"Yeah, fuck you. I'll go in there if you go in."

Patrick laughs. Then he starts pushing you, trying to get out of the booth.

"What are you—? Calm the fuck down," the new guy says. "I don't wanna get my face broke. Hey," he says, turning a little to give you a direct look for the first time. "I know you?"

"Don't think so."

"Huh." He looks you over carefully, from chin and chain to the backward-turned cap. You see him making some calculations. What sum he comes up with, though, you can't tell before he looks away.

"Hey Ryan, where you got your hands?" he shouts at the guy sitting opposite. (It's the guy who laughed at the girl who squealed.) The kid raises both his hands into the air, and his doughy face curls up into something between a smile and a leer.

Then he drops one hand under the table. A moment later, the girl jumps and shrieks again. This time she punches him in the chest. Again, though, he just laughs.

Toby says nothing. But he does pick up your beer and takes a long drink.

And when he catches you staring at him, he half turns to stare back even as he tips the beer farther and farther back. He holds your eye as he sets it back on the table.

It's instinct, not anger, that leads you to say, "That's three dollars you owe me."

"What?" Toby says with a thin smile.

"Three dollars. That beer cost me nine."

Toby's smile widens just a fraction as he continues to hold your eye. (And you hold his, unblinking.)

"Pay you Monday," he says.

"Pay me now."

Patrick laughs. "Don't fuck with Will," he shouts past you at Toby.

Toby doesn't move. Then, with slow deliberation, still holding your eye, he picks up the bottle again and raises it almost to his lips.

Now you are getting mad. Mad and scared, because you're too scared to fight, but also too scared not to. You're also scared because of the way this guy seems to be going out of his way to try provoking you.

Probably on account of your stupid, stupid wardrobe choice, which only makes you even more angry with him.

But you've got the presence of mind to pull yourself from the brink, and instead only say, "Wanna try owing me eighteen?"

"Oh, fuck's sake," says another guy on the other side of the table. Unlike his friend with the doughy face and the lank, dark hair plastered to his forehead (and who is dressed down in a sleeveless black t-shirt) he's put together in a light blue Oxford shirt, and his blonde hair is cut neatly in a well-coiffed crew. He's relaxing with a joint in the corner of his mouth, and when you look over at him, he plucks it out and stretches his arm to hold it out to you.

"Finish this instead of your beer," he tells you. "I won't even charge you for it."

You stare at the joint, then glance at Toby. You feel cornered, but also relieved, as you lean forward to take it. You put it to your lips, taking a careful hit off it so you won't choke or cough, then peer sideways at Toby.

His grin widens and deepens, and with a silent chuckle he nudges you with his elbow and says, "I'll come find you Monday."

* * * * *

Patrick didn't even ask you about Sara and Felicia. But after they show up at your table to ask about "Bridget" and "Adriana"—and Sara leans forward so far you can practically see straight down her cleavage to her bellybutton—he nudges you after they're gone. "You talk to them on the way out?" he asks.

"Not really. They were talking about— I dunno who."

"Well go talk to 'em now. Get Sara to dance with you. I told you, I told her you're hot for her."

You hesitate. But Toby has drifted away by now, so the easiest thing to do is lever yourself to your feet and follow them out of the saloon.

They've gone into the dance hall, which takes up most all of the rest of the Warehouse floor—an immense expanse that is pitch dark and lit only indirectly from the stage. The band seems to be on break, so the thin crowd is only milling about.

"Hey," you greet Sara when you catch up to her. (She and Felicia are looking about, as though searching for someone.) "Wanna dance? I mean, when the band starts up again?"

She looks you up and down, as though trying to place you, then says, "Sure. What's your name again?"

"Will."

"Sorry," she says. "It's just I don't think I know you, so I have a hard time remembering."

"You go to Westside?"

"Well, yeah!" She looks insulted.

"Well, I don't think I know you either, is all."

"'Cos you're a senior!" Now she's looking at you like you're idiot for having to have this explained to you.

It's at this moment, as you're wondering if she's worth putting up with, that your phone buzzes in your pocket. You take it out to find a text from your mom: Are you on your way home?

That's not a question, you realize. It's a very strong hint.

Next: Vote in the poll for how to continue: "BoM Poll: What Happens in the Warehouse" 

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"Table of Contents (Vol. 5)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 5)"