Read Stay with Me for Free Online

Vaccuccia?”
    “Not a lot. Go fill those pepper shakers, girls. And Marcy, you keep sneaking around like that, we’re gonna have to make you wear a bell.”
    Wow. A felon. It had to be something not too bad. A boy that quiet would never do something violent.
    I head upstairs to get the linens for dinner. Vic lives up here in a little bedroom stacked with vinyl records and books flagged with pink stickies that say POTENT and bright red ones that say VP! I can’t help but peek into the room as I walk past, because Vic never remembers to close doors when he leaves. He leaves his car door open half the time. He has one picture on the wall over his desk, this crappy printout Ma gave him. He framed it. Me, Ma, Anthony, and Vic a few Christmases back. It’s a blurry picture. Ma set the timer and put the camera on the stairs and ran to be in the shot without bothering to check the auto focus, which was on a sweaty beer can she left on top of the TV.
    Down the hall is another bedroom, the supply room. Anthony is at the window with a stack of pizza boxes that need folding under his arm. He waves me over. “Quick, check this out,” he whispers. The exhaust fan blocks the window, but I can see through the grate: Mack is down in the alley. He pulls his broken plastic watch from his pocket, checks the time, frowns.
    “So?” I say.
    “Hang out,” Ant whispers. “They used to meet like this back at the other Vic’s.”
    “Who?”
    A few seconds later this guy comes into the alley, older, slash scars from the corners of his mouth up to his ears, shabby-looking army coat in all this heat.
    Mack checks the alley, all clear. He gives the guy money, they palm grip, the other dude says, “Dog Man, whatever you need, you let me know,” and goes.
    This Mack kid is not only a dropout felon but also a junkie? I’m crushed, until I remember I don’t even know him. “Awesome, a meth transaction behind Vic’s Too. Great crowd draw. We gotta tell Vic.”
    “No meth involved,” Ant says. “It’s a one-way. Mack’s just giving him money.”
    “Anthony, wake up. There’s a mothball being transferred in the palm grip.”
    “Cheech, I know this kid. I’d bet my life on it: It’s charity, pure. He makes fifty bucks a shift and gives away ten of it. I feel like I’m a firewalker when I see stuff like this. Puts me on a totally different plane, faith restored.”
    “You’re retarded.”
    “I swear, I ever get rich? Just to see what he’d do with it, I’m giving Mack all my money.”
    “What about me?”
    “You can give him all your money too.” He sighs as he leaves the window. “Feel bad for the dude with the smiley. He would’ve had to been held down to be cut twice.”
    “Ant, you’re trying to find magic in the bottom of a mud puddle again. Can you please stop feeling bad for everybody?”
    “Actually, kid, I can’t.” He messes up my hair and goes.
    I pull the linens from the rack and count the creaks in the steps. When I’m sure he’s downstairs, I bury my face in the napkins so nobody hears me. I can’t breathe. In two weeks my best friend is on a plane, headed for boot camp.
     
     
    (The next afternoon, Monday, June 15, the fourth day . . . )
     
    After last period I head for the library, basically where people go to take part in the unending spitball war that has been plaguing my class since the fifth grade. How many times have I scratched a monster zit on the back of my neck only to discover it was a masticated quarter page of Warriner’s English Grammar and Composition ?
    Mustering a rare burst of initiative, I’d booked the back room for a study session for kids who were thinking about taking the G and T. I advertised it on my Facebook page and hung a lame sign on the announcement board. As I’m walking into the study room, my ESP zings me: I’m going to be the only one who attends the session.
    I am correct.
    I dump my backpack. Yupper, I left it home, the book I need. I’m hungry and grumpy and