Leverage by Joshua C. Cohen Page A

behind us.
    â€œYeeeeeeeeHAAAAWWWWW!!!!!”
    The bucket seat sucks me deep into its soft leather as we blast out toward the world.
    â€œYou like that?” Scott asks.
    â€œYeah,” I answer truthfully. And then, for no reason, lean my head out the open window like a dog. The wind howls through my hair.
    â€œThat’s the spirit,” he shouts. I bring my head back in and see Scott reaching into the backseat to pull out a six-pack already missing a can. “Have one,” he says, dropping the beer in my lap. “Maybe you’ll finally lighten up.”
    I hate drinking, especially beer. Especially beer out of cans. Crud Bucket guzzled it like Gatorade before moving onto the heavier stuff. I pull a can off the plastic ring.
    â€œPass me one,” Scott says. “Chug it quick. My pops wants to meet our secret weapon before we head over to the party. And don’t tell him Mike’s parents went away for the weekend.”
    I pull a second can off the plastic ring and hand it to Scott, then stuff the remaining three cans under my seat. Scott opens his can and downs it like soda. I take a small sip of mine and it tastes awful, same as it always does every time I try it, like dandelion weeds mulched in a blender and boiled into tea.
    â€œFinish that bad boy. We’ll be there in five minutes.”
    I take a big swig, trying not to taste it. I take another swig and another until it’s almost empty. Good enough.
    Scott turns onto a street with big white houses and nice lawns, some with little lawn jockey statues holding lanterns by the front door. “Look,” he says as he fiddles with the radio dial, “we’ll keep this short as possible. Just nod and smile and pretend everything he says is scripture. Then we’ll get outta there.”
    â€œGuh-got it,” I say, taking Scott’s instructions seriously. With adults, I leave nothing to chance.
    â€œThere’s that stern frown again,” he says. “My dad’s gonna freakin’ love you. Hold on to that look until we leave. Then you can lighten up.”
    â€œOkay.” As much as I hate the taste, the beer relaxes my tongue in a good way.
    Scott unloads a belch that sounds like a blown speaker. He kills the ignition and the vibrations rumbling through my seat die. I’ve only just climbed out of the car when the front door of the house opens and there’s Mr. Miller: buzz-cut hair, heavy shoulders, broad chest, and paunch belly. A can of beer and an unlit cigar sprout from his right hand.
    â€œLet me get a look at our newest acquisition,” he says by way of introduction. He wears a big, overly friendly grin to go with his XXXL Knights jersey, khaki shorts, and flip-flops. His eyes are watery. I think his nose is sunburned, but the closer he comes, the more I see that the pink is from little broken blood vessels, like Crud Bucket’s.
    â€œBrought him over, Dad,” Scott says, “just like I promised.”
    Mr. Miller ignores his son and keeps honing in on me, stepping closer, getting right up in my face, and taking me in from shoe to hair. The way his gaze avoids the bad side of my face tells me he’s working hard to ignore it.
    â€œLookit the size of you!” Mr. Miller says, then sticks the cigar in his mouth, shifts his beer can, and offers his hand to shake. I take it, feel his grip clamp down on my fingers, trying to grind my knuckles together. He won’t let go, just keeps squeezing. His smile turns wicked while he waits for a reaction. I won’t give him one. I won’t squeeze back, either. Something tells me he’ll take that challenge.
    â€œSomeone’s been feeding you good,” he says. “Got to get Scottie here on that diet, beef him up a bit.” I think about the six PB and Js I chowed down, pretty sure Scott wouldn’t be too happy with that diet. “Come on and grab a beer. Just one, though, since you’re driving and