The Quick Fix by Jack D. Ferraiolo

for each other?”
    â€œYou slimy, little—” She stopped herself before she filled in that space. “I have to go. I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”
    â€œWe liked each other!” he cried.
    â€œI’ll give you one deal. That’s it.”
    â€œAnything …”
    â€œTell me what it’s about,” she said. “Official. On the record.”
    â€œAnything but that,” he mumbled.
    â€œThen I can’t help you.” I could hear her sniffle as she started walking away.
    â€œWait! You can’t!” Pete cried. “I need you!”
    No response, just a soft squeak from her sneakers as she left.
    â€œWait! Wai—” Pete’s words turned to sobs. I stood rooted. It was one of the few times in my life when I had no idea what to do next. The voice of the girl, the girl who finally stood up to Pete despite what she still felt for him … that voice belonged to Katie Kondo.

school got out, I went down to Sal’s and ordered a root beer, hoping it would help to clear my head. Katie Kondo—the toughest, most no-nonsense hall monitor the school had ever seen—had a soft spot for Peter Kuhn, career criminal and Pixy Stixer. She had talked about cleaning up messes for him, implying that she had bent some rules to do so. My imagination kicked into overdrive, coming up with horrible crimes that Pete could have committed but that we’d never find out about … because Katie had orchestrated their cover-ups.
    My world no longer made sense. One root beer wasn’t going to clear things up, so I ordered three more. I figured that if drinking them didn’t work, I could always try hitting myself on the head with the bottles.
    When Cynthia walked in, I was so hopped up on sugar, I swear I could hear her heart beat. She spotted me at the bar and headed my way. She was wearing a tan suede jacket and a maroon skirt. Her hair was left wild and free in a sizable Afro. She was stunning, gorgeous, glamorous, and every other variety of flat-out heart-stopping. Two girls at a nearby table stopped chattering for a minute to watch her walk by.
    She sat down next to me. Almost immediately, Sal accidentally knocked over a bunch of empty bottles. I gave him a wry smile; he gave me a nervous one back, then scurried off to see if the two girls at the table needed refills.
    I saw Cynthia looking at me out of the corner of my eye. “I need to talk to you about—” she started.
    â€œWait,” I interrupted. I slugged down the rest of my third bottle with a twitch and a grimace and reached for the fourth.
    â€œAre you okay?” she asked.
    â€œYeah … Three root beers will do that to a guy.”
    She reached over and grabbed the last bottle.
    â€œThat won’t stop me,” I said. “I’ll order more.”
    â€œShut up. I’m thirsty,” she said, then pounded half the bottle in one swallow. She let out a little burp that managed to be both tough and feminine. Then she downed the rest. She put the empty bottle on the bar, then licked her index finger and ran it along the rim, twice. It created a ghostly
whooooo
sound that made Sal looked up from what he was doing. Cynthia used that opportunity to order two more root beers.
    â€œSo, what are we drinking to?” she asked after Sal slid the bottles over.
    â€œThe deterioration of my imagination,” I answered.
    â€œHopefully not all of it,” she said, and gave me a smile that most guys would trade years of detention to see.
    We clinked bottles, then took a drink. “Okay, so I’m no detective,” she said, “but I’m pretty sure something’s bothering you.”
    â€œWhat do you know about the last game Peter Kuhn played in?” I asked, before her smile could distract me any further.
    â€œPeter Kuhn’s last game,” she repeated, as if she wasn’t quite sure she remembered it.
    â€œYeah, you know …