Twelve Read online

  Twelve

  Nick McDonell was born in 1984 in New York City. A graduate of Harvard University, he is the author of Twelve, The Third Brother and An Expensive Education.

  First published in the United States in 2002

  by Grove/Atlantic, Inc., New York.

  First published in Great Britain in 2002

  by Atlantic Books, an imprint of Grove Atlantic Ltd.

  This e-book edition published in 2014

  by Atlantic Books, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

  Copyright © Nick McDonell, 2002

  The moral right of Nick McDonell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Paperback ISBN: 978 1 84354 072 4

  E-book ISBN: 978 0 85789 512 7

  Printed in Great Britain

  Atlantic Books

  An Imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

  Ormond House

  26–27 Boswell Street

  London

  WC1N 3JZ

  www.atlantic-books.co.uk

  Dedicated to my father

  Contents

  Part I: Friday, December 27

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Part II: Saturday, December 28

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Part III: Sunday, December 29

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Part IV: Monday, December 30

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Part V: New Years Eve

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  Chapter Eighty-Eight

  Chapter Eighty-Nine

  Chapter Ninety

  Chapter Ninety-One

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  Chapter Ninety-Three

  Chapter Ninety-Four

  Chapter Ninety-Five

  Chapter Ninety-Six

  Chapter Ninety-Seven

  Afterword

  Chapter Ninety-Eight

  Acknowledgments

  Can we please all stand and have a moment of

  silence for those students who died. And can we

  now have a moment of silence for those students

  who killed them.

  Part I

  Friday, December 27

  Chapter One

  WHITE MIKE IS thin and pale like smoke.

  White Mike wears jeans and a hooded sweatshirt and a dark blue Brooks Brothers overcoat that hangs long on him. His blond hair, nearly white, is cropped tight around his head. White Mike is clean. White Mike has never smoked a cigarette in his life. Never had a drink, never sucked down a doobie. But White Mike has become a very good drug dealer, even though it started out as a one-shot deal with his cousin Charlie.

  White Mike was a good student, but he’s been out of school for six months, and though some people might wonder what he’s doing, no one seems to care very much that he’s taking a year off before college. Maybe more than a year. White Mike saw that movie American Beauty about a kid who is a drug dealer and buys expensive video equipment with the money he makes. The kid says that sometimes there is so much beauty in the world that sometimes you just can’t take it. Fuck that, thinks White Mike.

  White Mike is not looking at beauty. He is looking at the Upper East Side of Manhattan. It is two days after Christmas and all the kids are home from boarding school and everyone has money to blow. So White Mike is busy with a pickup in Harlem and then ounces and fifties and dimes and loud music and packed open houses and more rounds and kids from Hotchkiss and Andover and St. Paul’s and Deerfield all looking to get high and tell stories about how it is to kids from Dalton and Collegiate and Chapin and Riverdale, who have stories, of their own. All the same stories, really.

  The city is a mess this time of year, this year especially. Madison Avenue is all chewed up with construction, and there are more bums on Lexington than White Mike remembers. It is crowded on the sidewalks, and the more snow, the worse it gets, and there has been plenty of snow. On some streets when the snowdrifts pile up there is only a salted corridor of frozen dog shit and concrete. It’s been cold since Thanksgiving, very cold, coldest winter in decades says the TV, but White Mike doesn’t mind the cold.

  When White Mike first started dealing, it was summer and hot, and he tried to go as long as he could without sleep as a kind of experiment. White Mike already looked pale and scary to the kids he sold to, and then by the third day his jeans and white T-shirt were grimed out and he looked like some re
fugee James Dean, and the last hours were just a blur and the cars on the street flew past so close to him that people who saw flinched, hut he had the cadences of the city down so tight that he was fine.

  At Lexington and Eighty-sixth, his friend Hunter saw him and said, Mike, are you feeling okay, and White Mike turned to him and there was a smear of dirt on his face and his eyes were glowing in the neon light from the Papaya King juice/hot dog place. White Mike smiled at him and said watch this and took off running, just running so fucking fast up the block toward Park Avenue. There were a bunch of private school kids walking the same direction, and when they saw White Mike running past them, one of them said, loud enough for White Mike to hear, Madman running. And White Mike turned and walked hack to them saying, Madman, madman, madman, madman, and the kids got scared, and then White Mike ran full into them, and they scattered, and they didn’t think it was funny at all, and then White Mike started barking at them, howling, and they all ran. And White Mike ran after them, barking and howling, and Hunter ran after him, and White Mike let them get away after a couple blocks. Hunter put White Mike in a cab, but he had to convince the cabbie to take White Mike, and pay him in advance. The cabbie was jumpy and looked in the mirror at White Mike the whole ride. White Mike had his head out the window, staring at the pedestrians. When White Mike got home and collapsed in his bed with his shoes and clothes still on, his last thought before sleep was Why not? He had been awake for three days.

  White Mike gets out of a cab on Seventy-sixth Street and Park Avenue. He looks at the number of the cab: 1F17. He memorizes the number every time he gets out of a cab, in case he leaves anything behind. This has never happened.

  Down Park Avenue there are Christmas lights wrapped around all the trees and bushes, and the wires give the snow better purchase, so the frost hangs low from the branches. When the lights turn on at night the trees almost disappear between the bulbs, and the disembodied points of light outline jagged constellations in the dark air. It is getting past dusk, and White Mike remembers one night, years ago, when his mother was still alive and she sat on the edge of his bed, tucking him in for the night, and told him about Chaos Theory. White Mike remembers exactly what she said. The story she told him was about how if a butterfly died over a field in Brazil and fell to the ground and made a mouse move or a tiny shoot of grass bend, then everything might be different here, thousands and thousands of miles away.

  “How come?” he asked.

  “Well, if one thing happens and changes something else, then that thing changes something else, right? And that change could come all the way around the world, right here to you in your bed.” She tweaked his nose. “Did a butterfly do that?”

  “Did the butterfly die?” he asked her back.

  The lights on Park Avenue suddenly turn on. White Mike can feel his beeper vibrating again.

  Chapter Two

  IT IS TEEN night twenty blocks uptown at the Rec. All the kids who show up to play basketball wear do-rags and Jordans, and they are all black. Two white kids show up, though, every once in a while. The wiry white kid is six feet tall and has the best ups of anybody but the worst ball-handling skills. His name is Hunter McCulloch, and he hustles all the time and makes some of his shots, so he gets to play. Hunter didn’t know what was going on when he first came to the Rec. That was a couple years ago, when White Mike brought him. Everybody called each other nigga, and most of the conversation went by so fast that Hunter couldn’t keep up. Ebonics, as White Mike said, existed. By now, though, Hunter is comfortable with it, and while he still doesn’t use the word nigga, he knows what the dill is. Tonight the dill is this.

  Nana is the best ball handler on the court. Fast, strong, and the color of coal under his white tank top, he is playing in a half-court game that Hunter watches from the sideline. Lanky Jerry, the only white kid in the place besides Hunter, is the big man on the other team. Nana goes up for a shot, and Jerry knocks him out of the air. Nana gets up and says something fast about his neck hurting that Hunter can’t understand, and walks up off the court. He climbs up one of the spiral staircases to the mezzanine and sits on the very top step, where he is invisible to those below. His teammates yell that they know he’s up there nigga and to get his ass down and play. Nana ignores everybody. So someone on Nana’s team looks to the sidelines and says he needs one. Hunter takes Nana’s spot. It is toward the end of the night, and no one else is waiting except a short Puerto Rican kid named Arturo who just hangs around and doesn’t get to play much.

  Hunter’s doing fine, but the game stops again when Nana comes down and demands his spot back. “I’m playin’.”

  “What?” says Hunter. From his first time at the Rec, he never wanted to cause any trouble and sometimes even apologized to his teammates when he fouled or missed a shot. No one else ever apologized, but Hunter was a likable white kid who could get boards, so nobody really thought any less of him.

  “I said gimme my fuckin’ spot back.”

  “Okay.” Hunter shrugs and moves to get off the court. All the other kids look at one another. This is not cool.

  “Yo, man, don’t let him do that,” says the kid who asked Hunter to fill Nana’s spot. “He left. It’s your game.”

  “Nah, it’s okay.”

  “No, you don’t have to get off the court, man, he left. You were playin’. Stay.”

  “What did you say?” says Nana.

  “I said he should stay. You left. You got next.”

  “No, I got next,” says Arturo.

  “Shut up, Arturo,” everyone says.

  Hunter is thinking that everyone learns compromise. Maybe in history class, where Hunter learned about Henry Clay, the Great Compromiser. But Clay never played here at the Rec.

  “Nana, get off the court. Hunter’s my nigga,” another black kid says to Nana, and gives Hunter the pound. Everyone laughs except Nana. Nana is pissed and gets up in Hunter’s face. Hunter has no idea what to do. He backs off. The rest watch. Arturo perks up and starts yelling fight, gets all interested. Nana is talking mad smack.

  Hunter is a pretty beef kid. It is a kind of flowing beefness. Not thick like a bull. Just this stack of muscle and sinew. So when Hunter finally hits Nana, Nana gets rocked. Slow it down, the way they do in instant replays, and you can see his jaw move laterally with the blow. Frame by frame it is deeply gruesome, worse than anything most of the kids have ever seen. Everyone grimaces at the solid smack of fist on flesh.

  Of course Hunter hasn’t hit first, he’s just reacted. He ran around the gym away from Nana a bunch of times before he was cornered and turned and unloaded. He immediately says, “Man are you okay, I didn’t mean to hurt you, you just got to cool it,” and “God damn” as Nana swings again and he ducks. Nana shoots him an elbow to the ear, and Hunter stumbles. Hunter suddenly understands that Nana is for real. Nana charges and gets a knee to his teeth. Blood smears all over the two of them as they thud to the ground.

  No one knows what to do. This is a real fight and no one fights at the Rec, although everyone says there was a stabbing last summer. Finally, the other kids pull Hunter and Nana apart after they have been rolling around on the floor for a while. Hunter is pissed and bleeding now too, and Nana is yelling, and the gym is as loud as it has ever been. Arturo thinks this is the coolest thing he has ever seen and walks up to tell Hunter to go and kick the nigger’s ass some more. Hunter tells him to get the fuck away. Nana yells to see if Arturo wants some. Arturo doesn’t, but he calls Hunter a pussy and turns to walk. Hunter is crazed. This is too much. He grabs a basketball and hurls it at the back of Arturo’s head, hitting him dead on. Arturo falls down face first. Nana says fuck this shit and goes to get his stuff. Arturo throws the ball back but won’t really fuck with Hunter. He saw what happened.

  Nana doesn’t look at Hunter anymore, just walks out covered with blood. Hunter watches him go. There is blood all over him too. He’s not really even sure what happened.

  Chapter Three

  WHITE MI
KE WALKS into the gym and brushes past a strong dark kid he knows from uptown, hurrying down the stairs. White Mike watches after him and wonders where all the blood came from. Inside, he sees Hunter at the far end of the gym shooting free throws by himself. He has not seen Hunter since September, but the two go way back. They went all through grammar school together, wearing blue blazers and ties every day. Once they went on a field trip to Central Park with their class, and people kept yelling out “Dead Poets Society” as they passed by. White Mike liked the trip. It was like some experimental class; they sat on a bench somewhere and looked hard at everything for a couple of minutes. No talk, just watching. Tried to cool off a little, tried to see things a little more clearly. And White Mike looked at his classmates and thought, Recognize this: we’re only grammar school kids dressed like investment bankers. Hunter had understood. White Mike sees the blood on Hunter from halfway across the gym.

  “Hunter.”

  “Hey, Mike, can you believe this shit?” Hunter says, turning and tossing White Mike the ball. “One-on-one?”

  White Mike catches it. “I don’t play anymore.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Did you fight that kid?” White Mike throws the ball back.

  “Nana. He’s crazed.”

  “How’s school?”

  “Same. Still dealing?”

  White Mike shrugs.

  “Rich yet?”

  “I’ll buy you dinner.”

  As they walk out, Hunter says to White Mike, “I read somewhere that even if you’re really broke, you’ll survive, because there is so much food in New York just thrown away on the streets that it’s nearly impossible to starve.”

  “You have to want to eat.”

  There is a McDonald’s almost next door to the Rec. Hunter and White Mike sit by the window. Outside it is starting to snow again. The snow is wet and heavy, and it sticks to the plastic window and slides down, blurring the lights of the cars moving downtown. Hunter asks White Mike about college, if he’s thinking about going.

  “Maybe.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means maybe.”

  “You’ve got till January first, man. You’re fucked if you haven’t applied yet.”