Hideaway (Devil's Night 2)

Damon passed the ball off to Michael, and he caught it, his T-shirt hanging out of the back of his shorts as he ran down the court. There was a flash of something off to my left, and I turned my head in time to see the branches and leaves of the forty-foot sycamore outside the gym blowing against the windows above the bleachers.

“That fucking wind is going crazy,” Will said, rushing up next to me. He moved light and quick, keeping one eye on the ball as he cast me a glance, smiling. “It’s gonna be a wild night tonight.”

Yeah, wild. Compared to what?

My friends didn’t need Devil’s Night as an excuse to get crazy. But I did. It was the one night I let myself make really bad decisions. Decisions made out of desire and selfishness and a need to not think methodically over every detail of every movement I made every day. I wasn’t raised to be perfect, but I was raised to do everything with perfection in mind. Slow, careful, focused… showing the same consideration in pouring a cup of coffee as I do taking a math test. Or working on my car.

Or screwing a girl.

And I was more than ready to let go of it all. My rough edges were itching to get out.

But now, instead of anticipating all the ways I was going to get my hands dirty tonight, I was obsessing over her and whether or not I would see her. How would I recognize her?

The best part about talking to her this morning was that I didn’t think she intended to be mysterious or to get under my skin the way she did. She wasn’t working me like other girls tried to do. What she didn’t say was just as interesting as what she did. Her breathlessness, her small voice, the flirtation that slipped out in her careful words as if she wanted something but had no clue how to be bold. I liked her innocence, but I could feel her desire to shuck it. So perfect.

“Hey, man.” Michael nudged my arm. I glanced at him, trying to look like I hadn’t just spaced off again when he tipped his chin, gesturing to my right. “Your dad.”

I turned my head, keeping my scowl but straightening, nonetheless. My father stood on the edge of the court, staring at me with his arms crossed over his chest, his sharp, black suit in severe contrast to the cream-colored walls and the warm wood of the court floor. What was he doing here? He knew I was going out after school.

His black hair, same color as mine, looked as perfect as it had this morning, and his dark eyes and pinched brows leveled on me, telling me he was either happy about the weather, satisfied with last night’s workout, or completely put-out about the state of affairs in the Ukraine. I could never really tell.

Without asking for permission to leave

practice, I walked toward him, pulling my shirt out of the back of my shorts and slipping it back on.

“Father,” I said, grabbing my towel off the bottom bleacher and wiping my face.

He didn’t say anything, waiting to have my full attention before speaking. This is where I was both lucky and cursed. While my friends’ fathers were in their fifties, my father was only forty-three. And he took care of himself. He had no trouble keeping pace with me and had the patience of a saint.

Stuffing my towel into my duffel bag, I pulled out my water. “I won’t be home for dinner. Mom told you, right?”

“She did,” he said, his expression stoic again. “But I would prefer that you change your mind. You can spend time with your friends another night.”

“Another night won’t be Devil’s Night.” I popped the top of my water bottle, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s once a year, and it’s the last one before I go off to college. I’ll stay out of trouble.”

He remained still, not arguing or moving as I took a drink and continued to pack up the rest of my gear. The laughter and energy grew louder as everyone picked up their bags, and I heard the locker room door swing open and closed several times.

None of it made the feel of his eyes on me fade.

“You’re disappointed in me,” I stated. “I know.”

I zipped up my bag and swung it over my head. My father never forbid me from doing anything, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what we got up to on Devil’s Night.

“I wish you made better choices,” he clarified. “That’s all.”

I finally looked up at him. “Your choices, you mean.”

“The right choices.” His eyes turned stern. “This is why respecting your elders is important. We have a lot more experience making mistakes, Kai.”

I couldn’t help it. I smiled. “I never make mistakes,” I replied. “I’m either right or I’m learning. Jaku niku kyo shoku.”

I recited one of the many Japanese sayings he’d spouted over the course of my life.

The weak are meat, the strong eat.

And as much as I knew he wanted to say more, he nodded, letting it go with a barely visible smile on his face. Finally.

“Don’t forget Sunday,” he said.