a.m.
I slink into the office in Jetta's wake, trying to avoid Ms. Kale's radar. Jetta flounces inside with the confidence of a superstar. A smile brightens her face.
Ms. Kale glares, her lips puckering like she bit into a lemon. The message blasts through loud and clear before she speaks. "Get on to class, Jack Brodie."
I scurry out before Jetta can see the flush burning my cheeks. I take the long route to my locker. The familiar colors, the stale smell of the old school, and the constant chatter all blurring together. I need to lay low and figure out what curve ball has knocked my life into the outfield. What happened at the Gardner to change my friends?
I hurry to calculus. I already sound like a babbling idiot in front of all the math geeks so rushing into class after the bell would make it worse. Slumped down in my seat, I try and pay attention.
"Mr. Brodie?" Mrs. Watley reprimands.
I straighten up. The tips of my ears are hot. "Sorry, Ma'am."
"Are you lost?" Her voice could cut glass.
Quite often I feel lost in calculus, but Mrs. Watley's reviewing a subject I understand, which doesn't happen all too often. "No."
"Then what, pray tell, are you doing in my class?"
Kids turn in their seats and smirk. One kid with an Afro the size of a basketball mouths the word, "loser." A couple girls with their hair back in ponytails pass knowing smirks.
I don't often stutter nor have a loss for words. I'm usually able to shoot out some smart remark but nothing comes to mind. "I'm always here this hour."
Mrs. Watley straightens and pulls in her stomach, so only one roll shows through her blouse, instead of two. "I will not have you mocking me or my class. Now leave. If you pull a stunt like this again, I will make an example of you in front of the entire school."
"But-" I have no smart remark.
"Go!" Mrs. Watley roars.
I grab my books and try not to trip over my feet as I leave. I'm not in advanced math? What else has changed?
By the time the assembly rolls around, I stumble into the auditorium. My class schedule has changed drastically. Instead of any of the advanced classes, I'm in classes like accounting and low-level reading. The words "in-school suspension" hover on the teachers' lips. The lunchroom monitors keep an eye on me as if any second I'll start playing baseball with the mozzarella sticks. Everyone's treating me differently, like they expect me to do something wrong. Like cheat. Or steal.
I drop into the seat next to Stick and Turbo. I pray my friends are back to normal, even though the chances of that are equal to catching a home run ball at Fenway with my bare hands.
"Hey."
Stick doesn't say a word but stares at the stage, like someone has carved his face into Mt. Rushmore. Usually, he'd be running off at the mouth, complaining about his classes and teachers. I can barely deal with the Jekyll-Hyde transformation of how teachers treat me, but I can't handle Stick. No matter what, Stick has always been there for me. And now I've lost that too.
I shift in my seat. Even though I never wander the halls during an assembly without Stick and Turbo, I leave. My friends are strangers. Eventually, I make my way to Ms. Charpetto's room.
"What the hell are you doing?"
I whip around. Stick strides into the room like a Doberman Pinscher trained to attack. "It's like we don't even know you."
"I'm just having an off day." The worst part is I can't explain any of it. Especially not the crazy trip to the Gardner because I stared at a painting too long. Stick would beat me up.
"Are you getting spooked?" Stick accuses and moves into my personal space.
I'm more than spooked. "A little." It feels good to tell the truth.
Stick shoves me. "It's too late for that. I already have plans for my share of the money."
Then it clicks. Stick's worried about the robbery. "I'm not backing out if that's what's got your panties messed up."
Stick slams his fist into my eye and pain explodes through my skull. I fall and my head whacks into the cement wall. My stomach pitches and I can taste Jetta's scrambled eggs in the back of my throat. I automatically lift a finger to my nose. No blood.
The old Stick never would've punched that hard. Or been so focused on a robbery and money.
Stick leans over, his face inches from me. His breath reeks.
"Man, what's your problem?" I grunt in pain and kick at Stick's leg.
He jams his arm into my throat. "You want to know why I'm so pissed? We saw you this morning, walking to school with the freak girl." He backs away, hurt in his eyes. He's gone from a Doberman to a pouting poodle. "We were supposed to case the joint. You ditched our plans. For a girl."
Stick storms out of the room. I groan and lean my head against the wall. My eye throbs, and pain shoots throughout my stomach. But worse is the fact that my best friend punched me. Like really punched me. Hard.
"Jack?" a man asks, his voice gentle and concerned.
I wipe my eyes and scramble back against the wall. I don't recognize the bushy eyebrows, large nose, and dorky glasses. Obviously, the man knows me.
"Hey." I fake it. The last thing I want to do is chat with a teacher.
"What happened?" He reaches out to touch my eye.
I jerk away, doubling the pain. "Nothing."
He lifts me up by the arm. "Something happened. Let me get you an ice pack. I keep one stored in my desk."
The man shuffles through a drawer. The student paintings on the wall have been replaced with paintings of the Old Masters, as Jetta calls them. Above the door, written in paint, is the name, Mr. Kronin. I groan. Ms. Charpetto's gone too?
The man lowers his eyebrows. "Are you feeling okay? Maybe I should bring you to the doctors over my lunch break."
"No. I'll be fine." I cringe. That would be too weird.
He cracks the ice pack. "Here, put this over your eye. It'll be cold soon."
I rest it gently against my face. The cold hurts but feels good. I choke up while the numbness spreads to my cheek. I want it to spread to my life and freeze my memories too. I flash back to the day I missed a pop fly and the baseball hit me in the head. Dad grabbed ice from the cooler and wrapped it in the shirt off his back and held it to my face. Dad's arms were strong and made me feel safe. All the pain in the world didn't matter once he took charge.
"You don't look so good," the man says.
"It's been a shitty day."
"You know how your mother feels about your language." The man shakes his head and point to my swelling eye. "And you know what my older brother always says, 'Better to be a mole hiding in the ground, then a squirrel sticking his nose where he shouldn't.' In other words, mind your own business and you won't get hurt."
I close my eyes to block out this man, who's acting like a parent. I don't want kind words from a stranger. If Mom communicated with my teachers about my language, I must be a pretty bad kid. The kind who robs stores for petty cash.
"Keep the ice over your eye. I'll go find you a bottled water and then we can talk about this."
Talk? Yeah, right. No way was I sticking around for more lectures from a guy who seems to know me way too well and is probably some creepy stalker.
I stumble from the room.
1:00 p.m.
I lean the side of my face against a locker, the cool metal easing the pain. Life's too confusing, too different. I want to get lost on the streets of Southie and the car fumes, peddlers selling hotdogs or coffee, and the rumble of the T. Everything that's familiar.
The chatter from the hallway pulls my attention away. Students smile and laugh, like life is a bowl of fucking cherries. I look away from the girls shooting evil glares at me like I just threw a bag of kittens into a rushing river. What kind of reputation do I have at school? Am I the bully?
Miserable, I slink off toward the janitor's closet. I kick a metal bucket overturned next to a mop. The over-packed shelves of the janitor's closet and the noise of kids running and teachers yelling at kids to walk m
uffle the clang.
I welcome the darkness, letting it surround me. I lean my head against the wall, wanting to drift away and forget. In the closet, I don't exist and time stands still, unable to touch me. In here, I'm still the Fiasco I remember. Dad didn't make parole and my friends are true friends who support me through the worst of life.
Time passes. A whole class period slips by.
I move to the door and peek through the slight crack.
When the coast is clear, I slip out of the janitor's closet. An arm wraps around my neck and tightens against my jugular.
Breath squeezes out in gasps. I struggle. This is it. I'll die of strangulation in a school hallway. I'll become nothing more than a paragraph in the Boston news. Boy murdered in school hallway. The subtitle will read: But what else would we expect? His father is in jail.
"Help!" I say in a raspy voice, then the sweet scent of peaches flows over me, sending goosebumps across my arms. I relax. Jetta lets go and I rub my throat. "Just a word of advice. Don't pretend to strangle someone as a joke. You might get seriously hurt."
"Oh, I can take care of myself," she says, with a gleam in her eye.
Her silky black hair falls to her shoulders, contrasting with the red sash. A rebellious strand of hair has broken free and is stuck in her lip-gloss. I fight the urge to touch her hair and feel it fall through my fingers.
"No doubt." I think about her kung fu moves. "Maybe you can give me some lessons."
She tilts her head and raises an eyebrow. "Lessons for what?"
"Um, you know?" I struggle with what to say. Jetta has no idea I know about her kung fu or