Dre didn't call for almost three hours.
That was the worst part.
If he'd called five minutes after texting me, I probably wouldn't have thought much about it. I would've grabbed my keys, complained about whatever he wanted, and done it.
Instead, I sat there waiting.
Every time headlights came down the street, I looked through the blinds.
Every time my phone made a noise, I grabbed it.
Nothing.
By eleven-thirty, I was starting to feel stupid.
I had five hundred dollars in my pocket, eight hundred and fifty from before, and nobody in my house telling me what to do.
I should've been happy.
Instead, I was sitting on the couch waiting for Dre to need me.
That should've bothered me more than it did.
At 11:47, my phone finally rang.
"About fucking time."
Dre laughed. "You waiting on me?"
"No."
"You answered on the first ring."
"I was awake."
"Aight."
"What do you need?"
"Car."
I looked toward the window.
"For what?"
There was a pause.
Not a long one.
Just long enough.
"Need to run somewhere."
"You driving?"
"Yeah."
"Where?"
"Why?"
"Because it's my fucking car."
Dre laughed. "Here we go."
"I'm serious."
"So am I. I need the car."
"How long?"
"Couple hours."
I'd heard that before.
"What does a couple mean?"
"A couple."
"Last time you said that, my shit came back at one in the morning."
"It's already almost midnight."
"Exactly."
He laughed again.
I rubbed my face.
"How much?"
Dre stopped laughing.
There was silence on the other end.
Then, "You charging me now?"
"You got me delivering shoeboxes full of money. Yeah, motherfucker. I'm charging now."
That got him.
He laughed so hard I had to pull the phone away from my ear.
"Look at JC."
"What?"
"Businessman now."
"Call it whatever you want."
"How much you want?"
I hadn't thought that far ahead.
"Two hundred."
"Fuck you."
"Then walk."
"One-fifty."
"Two."
"One-seventy-five."
I smiled.
"Deal."
"Greedy motherfucker."
"You taught me."
That shut him up for a second.
Then he laughed.
"I'll be there in ten."
He hung up.
I sat there looking at the phone.
One hundred and seventy-five dollars.
For doing nothing.
That was the part that kept getting me.
I'd spent my whole life thinking money came from work. You showed up somewhere. Somebody told you what to do. You did it for eight hours. Maybe ten. Maybe twelve. Then somebody decided what those hours of your life were worth.
This was different.
I had something somebody needed.
A car.
That was it.
The Grand Prix wasn't anything special. It wasn't new. It wasn't fast enough to impress anybody who actually knew cars. It had a stain on the passenger seat I couldn't get out and one of the speakers rattled when the bass hit too hard.
But it ran.
It was registered.
It was insured.
And, most importantly, it was mine.
That made it worth something.
Ten minutes later, headlights swept across the living room wall.
I looked outside.
Dre wasn't alone.
Stackhouse was in the passenger seat.
That changed things.
I don't know why.
I'd already met Stack. I'd been around him. He'd been in my house.
But seeing him pull up with Dre at midnight made whatever this was feel different.
I grabbed my keys and walked outside.
Dre got out.
Stack stayed in the car.
"One-seventy-five," I said.
Dre looked at Stack.
Stack looked at him.
Then both of them started laughing.
"What?"
Stack rolled down the window.
"This little motherfucker charging rental fees now?"
"It's my car."
Stack nodded slowly. "That's fair."
I wasn't expecting that.
Dre pointed at him. "Don't encourage this shit."
Stack reached into his pocket, pulled out a wad of money, peeled off two hundreds and held them through the window.
I looked at Dre.
Dre shrugged.
I took the money.
"Twenty-five back."
Stack laughed. "Keep it."
Just like that.
Two hundred dollars.
I handed Dre the keys.
He started toward the Grand Prix.
"Yo."
He turned.
"Couple hours."
"Yeah."
"I'm serious."
"I heard you."
"And don't smoke in it."
Stack laughed again.
Dre stared at me.
"What?"
"You got rules now?"
"I always had rules. You just don't listen."
Stack opened his door.
"I like JC."
"Don't call me that."
That made him laugh harder.
"Why not?"
"Because that's Dre's shit."
Stack looked at Dre.
Dre smiled.
"See? Told you."
"Told him what?"
"Nothing."
I looked between them.
There it was again.
That feeling.
Everybody knew something except me.
"Whatever."
Dre got into the Grand Prix.
Stack climbed in beside him.
Before Dre shut the door, I leaned down.
"Where's your car?"
"Around."
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"It means around."
"You drove here."
"Stack drove."
I looked toward the car they'd arrived in.
"Then why do you need mine?"
Dre's expression changed.
Barely.
But I caught it.
"JC."
"What?"
"You want the two hundred?"
"I already got it."
"Then go in the house."
Stack laughed from the passenger seat.
"He's got you there."
Dre flipped him off.
I stepped away from the car.
"Bring my shit back."
Dre shut the door.
The Grand Prix backed out of the driveway.
I stood there watching my own taillights disappear down the street.
Then I looked at the two hundred dollars in my hand.
I should've gone inside.
Instead, I stood there another minute.
Something didn't make sense.
Stack had a car.
Dre could've used Stack's car.
Dre knew other people with cars.
Hell, Dre seemed to know everybody.
So why mine?
That question followed me back into the house.
I put the two hundred on the kitchen table beside the rest of the money.
Then I counted everything.
One thousand, five hundred and fifty dollars.
I counted it again.
Same number.
I'd never had that much cash sitting in front of me before.
Not mine.
Not all at once.
I spread it across the table.
Twenties. Fifties. Hundreds.
It looked like more money spread out.
So I left it that way.
For about ten minutes, I forgot about the Grand Prix.
Then I started thinking again.
Why mine?
I picked up my phone.
Started typing.
Where you going?
Deleted it.
Typed something else.
Don't do no stupid shit in my car.
Deleted that too.
Finally I put the phone down.
Stop worrying about why.
That's what Dre had told me earlier.
Maybe he was right.
Maybe questions only made shit harder.
I went to bed.
Or tried to.
At 1:13, I checked the driveway.
Empty.
At 1:46, still empty.
At 2:20, I called Dre.
No answer.
I called again.
Nothing.
"Motherfucker."
At 2:38, I heard a car door outside.
I got up and looked through the window.
Grand Prix.
I walked outside barefoot.
Dre was getting out.
Alone.
"Where's Stack?"
"Home."
I looked at the car.
"Everything good?"
"Yeah."
"Why didn't you answer?"
"Phone died."
"Bullshit."
Dre tossed me the keys.
I caught them.
"Check your car if you want."
The way he said it made me want to.
So I did.
I opened the driver's door.
Nothing.
Passenger side.
Nothing.
Back seat.
Empty.
I popped the trunk.
Dre laughed behind me.
"You serious?"
"Yep."
The trunk looked exactly like it had before.
Jumper cables.
Old hoodie.
A couple empty bottles.
Nothing else.
"Happy?"
"No."
"You're paranoid."
"You're sketchy."
"Same thing."
I shut the trunk.
Dre started walking toward the street.
"Where you going?"
"Home."
"How?"
"Ride coming."
As if he'd planned it, headlights appeared at the end of the block.
A car slowed near my house.
Dre walked toward it.
"Yo."
He turned.
"What'd you use my car for?"
Dre stared at me.
There were probably a hundred answers he could've given.
He picked the one I hated most.
"Nothing."
Then he got into the other car and left.
I stood beside the Grand Prix.
Nothing.
I opened the driver's door again.
The seat was farther back than I kept it. Dre was taller than me, so that made sense.
I adjusted it.
Then I noticed the gas gauge.
Almost empty.
"Son of a bitch."
I laughed.
Whatever they'd done, apparently I'd paid for the gas.
I was about to go inside when I noticed something on the passenger-side floor.
A rubber band.
Thick one.
The kind I'd seen wrapped around stacks of money.
I picked it up.
Just a rubber band.
Could've been from anything.
Could've already been there.
I threw it in the cup holder.
Then I noticed the smell.
Not weed.
Not cigarettes.
Something else.
Chemical.
Faint.
I leaned toward the passenger seat and smelled again.
Nothing.
Maybe I imagined it.
Probably did.
I locked the car and went inside.
The next morning, Dre called before ten.
I answered half asleep.
"What?"
"You busy?"
"Sleeping."
"So no."
"What do you want?"
"You trying to make some money?"
I opened my eyes.
There it was.
Not can you help me?
Not I need a favor.
You trying to make some money?
He'd figured me out.
"Doing what?"
"Nothing crazy."
"That's not an answer."
"Need you to pick somebody up."
"Who?"
"M.D."
I sat up.
"The dude from yesterday?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"Because he needs a ride."
"Where?"
"I'll send you the address."
"How much?"
Dre laughed.
"See? Look at you."
"How much?"
"Hundred."
"One-fifty."
"For a ride?"
"Call a cab."
"This ain't New York."
"Then call somebody else."
"One-twenty-five."
"One-fifty."
Dre sighed.
"Aight. Fuck."
I smiled.
"Send me the address."
He hung up.
A minute later, my phone buzzed.
The address wasn't the house from yesterday.
It was somewhere else.
I got dressed.
Before I left, I looked at the money on the kitchen table.
Then I thought about Crystal.
I'm gonna stop doing stupid shit.
I'd said that less than twenty-four hours ago.
I told myself this wasn't stupid.
Giving somebody a ride wasn't illegal.
Renting out my car wasn't illegal.
Delivering money wasn'tâ
I stopped.
I didn't actually know if that one was illegal.
But nobody had arrested me.
Nobody had even stopped me.
Nothing bad had happened.
That was the dangerous part.
Every time I expected something bad to happen, it didn't.
Every time I thought I'd gone too far, somebody handed me money.
Every time I told myself I should stop, the next thing seemed smaller than the thing before it.
Just drive.
Just take this.
Just pick him up.
Just let me use the car.
None of it sounded like crime when you broke it into pieces.
Maybe that's why I kept saying yes.
I grabbed my keys.
The address Dre sent me was about twenty minutes away.
M.D. was standing outside when I pulled up.
He opened the passenger door and got in like we'd known each other for years.
"What's up, Jay?"
"Apparently I'm your fucking Uber now."
He laughed.
"Dre paying you?"
"Yep."
"How much?"
"None of your business."
"Smart."
I pulled away.
"Where we going?"
He gave me another address.
I typed it into my phone.
Thirty-three minutes.
"You got gas money?"
M.D. looked at me.
"Dre paying you."
"Dre's paying me to drive. You're burning my gas."
He smiled.
"Motherfucker really turned this into a business."
"Gas ain't free."
M.D. pulled a twenty from his pocket and dropped it in the cup holder.
"There."
"Appreciate you."
He laughed and looked out the window.
For the first ten minutes, neither of us said much.
Then M.D. looked over.
"You know why they like you?"
I kept my eyes on the road.
"Who?"
"You know who."
"No."
"Because you're normal."
I glanced at him.
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"It means look at you."
I looked down at myself.
Jeans. Hoodie.
"What?"
"You don't look like shit."
"Thanks, I guess."
"You know what I mean."
"No, I don't."
He leaned back.
"That's good."
There it was again.
People telling me that not knowing things was somehow a benefit.
"What do I look like?"
"Some white kid driving around."
"I am some white kid driving around."
"Exactly."
I didn't like the way he said it.
I looked over at him.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing."
"No. You said it."
M.D. smiled.
"You worry too much."
"Everybody keeps saying that."
"Maybe everybody's right."
I turned the radio up.
Conversation over.
But what he'd said stayed with me.
Some white kid driving around.
Normal.
I thought about the police cars I'd passed the day before.
None of them had looked twice at me.
I thought about Dre.
Stackhouse.
Smoke.
Tone.
Then me.
I didn't look like them.
I wasn't part of what they were part of.
Maybe that was the point.
The thought made my stomach feel strange.
"Turn here," M.D. said.
I followed his directions.
We ended up at a small apartment complex.
"Park over there."
I pulled into a spot.
M.D. opened the door.
"How long?"
"Five minutes."
"No."
He stopped.
"What?"
"I'm not sitting here waiting on you for an hour."
"I said five minutes."
"Dre says 'couple hours.' You say 'five minutes.' I'm learning how y'all tell time."
M.D. laughed.
"I'll be five minutes."
He shut the door.
I watched him walk toward one of the buildings.
Then I waited.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
At twelve, I called Dre.
"What?"
"Where the fuck did you send me?"
"What you mean?"
"M.D. went inside and ain't come back."
"So wait."
"That's not what I agreed to."
"JC."
"What?"
"Chill."
I hung up on him.
Two minutes later, M.D. came out.
He wasn't alone.
A girl walked beside him.
Young. Probably around our age.
She carried a grocery bag.
Not a grocery bag with groceries.
Just one of those thin plastic bags tied at the top.
M.D. opened the back door.
She got in.
I turned around.
"Who's this?"
M.D. climbed into the passenger seat.
"Friend."
"Your friend got a name?"
The girl smiled.
"Keisha."
"Hi, Keisha."
"Hi."
I looked at M.D.
"This wasn't part of the ride."
"It's on the way."
"Everything is always on the fucking way."
He laughed.
"Drive, man."
I pulled out.
I didn't ask what was in the bag.
That's important.
Because I wanted to.
I wanted to badly.
But I didn't.
Twenty minutes later, Keisha got out at a gas station.
Not a house.
Not an apartment.
A gas station.
A car was waiting near the side of the building.
She walked over to it.
Got in.
The car left.
I watched it disappear in the mirror.
"What was in the bag?"
M.D. looked at me.
Then smiled.
"You were doing good."
My hands tightened around the steering wheel.
"Don't put shit in my car without telling me what it is."
"Wasn't your shit."
"It was in my car."
"For twenty minutes."
"I don't give a fuck."
M.D. stared at me.
The smile disappeared.
For the first time since I'd met him, he looked serious.
"Aight."
Just that.
Aight.
Then he looked out the window.
The rest of the ride was quiet.
I dropped him off ten minutes later.
Before he got out, he reached into his pocket and put another hundred dollars in the cup holder.
I looked at it.
"What's that?"
"For the inconvenience."
"I didn't ask for it."
"I know."
He opened the door.
I picked up the hundred.
"M.D."
He looked back.
"What was in the bag?"
He smiled again.
"See you around, Jay."
Then he shut the door.
I watched him walk away.
I looked at the hundred dollars.
Then at the twenty he'd given me for gas.
Then I thought about the hundred and fifty Dre owed me.
Two hundred and seventy dollars.
For driving around for a couple hours.
I put the car in drive.
On the way home, Crystal called.
I stared at her name on the screen.
For some reason, I didn't answer.
I let it ring.
A few seconds later, a text came through.
Can we talk tonight?
I read it twice.
Then I typed:
Yeah. Come over whenever.
She responded with a heart.
I smiled.
For the first time all day, I felt normal again.
Then I looked at the passenger seat.
I imagined the plastic bag sitting there.
Some white kid driving around.
Normal.
I thought about what M.D. had said.
I thought about the shoebox.
The rubber band.
The smell in the car.
The girl at the gas station.
All the questions nobody wanted me asking.
And for the first time, I understood something Dre had never actually said.
They didn't need me to be one of them.
That wasn't what made me valuable.
They needed me to be me.
A kid with a house.
A kid with a car.
A kid without a record.
A kid who looked like he had somewhere normal to be.
And as long as I kept telling myself I wasn't doing anything wrong, I was perfect for it.
I drove home.
Dre's hundred and fifty came later that afternoon.
He didn't even bring it himself.
Stack dropped it off.
He handed me the money on the porch and smiled.
"Heard you got mad at M.D."
"Heard M.D. can't tell time."
Stack laughed.
Then he looked past me into the house.
"You here by yourself?"
"Yeah."
He nodded.
"Big house for one person."
I didn't like that.
"It's not that big."
"Big enough."
"For what?"
Stack smiled.
There was that fucking smile again.
The one everybody had when they knew something I didn't.
"Nothing, Jay."
He walked back toward his car.
"Stack."
He turned.
"What?"
"What the fuck does 'big enough' mean?"
He opened his car door.
"Means you got plenty of room."
"For what?"
He got in.
Then he looked at me through the open window.
"We'll talk."
He drove away.
I stood on the porch with a hundred and fifty dollars in my hand.
Behind me was an empty house.
In front of me was the Grand Prix.
For the first time, I looked at both of them the way Dre probably did.
Not as mine.
As useful.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that should've scared the shit out of me.
Instead, I wondered what Stack wanted to talk about.