failed you. Mom's not happy." I square my shoulders. "But I can make a difference. Make Mom's life easier. I can help her out with the shop. Clean up. Take out the trash. I can do it. And I will." My fingers slide down the photo and I set my jaw in determination.
I lock the door to the shop and head down the street. Sometimes Stick, Turbo and I skip school and meet at the old cemetery, but the party will have to go on without me. Instead, I wander the streets of my neighborhood in Tommy's suit. Time to face Big D. He'll show eventually. It's in the cards. I pass the mom and pop stores: Waldo's Gas-n-Go, The Olde Town Pharmacy, Tony's Tavern. I cross the street and follow the path of a napkin drifting down an alleyway.
"Walking the streets alone isn't very safe. Didn't your mommy ever tell you that?" Big D leans against the wall, a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth.
I'm tired of cowering around him. "Didn't your mommy ever tell you how ugly you are?"
Big D jams the cigarette against the side of the building and lets it drop. A bit of smoke trails from the dying end.
I mimic Vice Principal Sneed. "Smoking is not good for your health. A pack a day increases the risk of lung cancer. You're digging yourself an early grave."
Big D laughs. "Early grave. Real funny."
I stare at him. I haven't heard Big D laugh in years. He sounds almost human. I think back to when Big D and I fooled around in the coatroom at church while our parents were in the confessionals. We used to be friends. Somehow, life sent us different ways. Now he's stealing money from kids at school in order to buy his smokes. I glance around but the trash compactors aren't anywhere to be found. I take a chance.
"Remember when we put shaving cream in the coat pockets at church during mass?"
The corners of Big D's lips turn up in a sad smile that spreads to the rest of his face. The past lurks in his eyes. He doesn't answer, but I know he remembers. I push the memory on him.
"We had to scrub the toilets for weeks." I'll never forget because Dad made me scrub the toilets at home too.
"Stop trying to butter me up, pancake. I haven't forgotten your little smoke bomb prank. Just because my buds aren't here, doesn't mean I can't squash you like an old car at the junkyard."
I step closer. I never thought about his transformation before but with all that has happened, I want to know. "I'm not trying to butter you up. I'm trying to understand how the boy I played with during mass turned out to be the same boy who rips other kids off. Kids from the neighborhood. Kids with as little money as you."
Big D stands taller. "Don't dabble in something you know nothing about. I'd hate for your pretty suit to get blood on it."
I am uncomfortably aware of Tommy's too-small suit. I can't stop my mouth. "And I'd hate for your nose to end up by your ear." I want to bang my head against the wall. Why can't I just let things go?
"Is that a challenge?" He doesn't give me time to answer. A perfect right hook lands on the corner of my mouth.
I stumble back, the taste of blood in my mouth.
"You think you're the only one with problems?" he says. "Wake up."
I forget about Tommy's suit and any ideas to help. Instead, I barrel into Big D and we topple over into metal trashcans. After wrestling for several minutes, Big D ends up on top, his forearm jammed against my throat. I have the sudden feeling of d?j? vu as I gasp for air.
He spits in my face. "I don't care about your little pranks. I don't care if you have no money. And I don't care about your pops." He rolls off onto his back. "So get your ass outta here before you get hurt."
Footsteps sound in the alleyway.
A cold, sharp voice echoes between the brick walls of the businesses. "Still trying to scrape up what you owe by beating up little kids?"
Big D scrambles to his feet. "No." He sounds like a pouty toddler.
"Who's your friend?"
I get to my feet. Three older boys cast long shadows. To call them older boys doesn't give them enough credit. The one in front appears to be the leader. His wavy black hair is parted on the left and slicked to the side. A preppy rich boy. His eyes are dark gleaming pits of hatred apparent in the way he stands and talks. They look like college kids, but I doubt they go to school.
The leader steps closer. "We don't care about your little friend." He pulls a knife from his back pocket and waves it in Big D's face.
Big D shoves me. I stumble out of the darkened alleyway into the blinding morning sun. In a matter of seconds, Big D and I went from enemies to friends, once again, huddled under the pews at church, hoping we won't get caught.
I can't leave. In my mind, I know to run away as fast as I can, to not get involved. Everyone knows to stay away from gangs and not form enemies. But I'm glued to the wall, unable to move. I peek around the corner. I watch and listen.
The boy with the knife shoves Big D against the wall. "I want my money. I gave you the good stuff, and now you owe double for being late." The older boy's friends laugh.
"Here." His voice shakes, and he digs deep into his pockets and pulls dollars and change from his pockets. It slips through his fingers and spills to the cracked pavement, like gumballs in a candy shop.
Drug money. From kids needing to take a leak.
"That doesn't nearly cover what you owe." The boy punches Big D in the stomach. But his fists don't stop. Again and again, they land on Big D. His face. His head. His chest.
I turn away and breathe in the smell of city air. I close my eyes and listen to Big D cough, splutter, and moan. The muted thumps turn my stomach. I want to run and grab a cop, but I know the rules of the street. You snitch. You're dead. Or your family's dead.
I step back into the doorway of the closest shop and watch the three older boys stroll down the street, cocky, kings of Southie. I pad into the alleyway on silent feet. Big D lies between the trashcans. His foot twitches. His mouth hangs open, broken trails of red smeared on his cheek. His eye puffs out already turning colors.
Thoughts of revenge slip away. I pull details from my head, puzzle pieces I should've put together a long time ago. Big D's mom died when he was young and his dad is a drunk. That leaves Big D to care for his younger brother and sister. Why didn't I see this before? I lean over and put Big D's cap back on his head. I know what I have to do.
I carry Big D home, his arm slung over my shoulder, my arm around his waist. His small apartment reeks of mold and piss. I cringe but lead him back to what must be his bedroom and lay him on the bed. I try my best to wipe the dried blood from his face but just smear it worse.
He grunts and his eyes slit open, the one I can barely see.
"Why?" he asks.
I shrug and don't have an answer. "Take care of yourself."
8:45 a.m.
I roam the streets, avoiding the courthouse until it's time. My stomach aches, this relentless, gnawing pain. It tells me I'm missing something, some piece of this that will give answers. The first time around, there was no trip to the cemetery before the hearing. Not in the morning. What has changed? I decide to find Jetta. She completed a report on the Gardner Heist and will know the details.
I arrive at school and hide behind a bush. A police car is parked out front. Not a good sign. The fear that Stick and Turbo have done something stupid crosses my mind. Maybe they skipped the cemetery and came to school.
I crawl past the office window to avoid Ms. Kale. Then I take the first set of stairs down to the art room. Students' artwork plaster the hallway, their swirls of color that mean nothing and everything at the same time. Ms. Charpetto must be back. Kronin's gone and hopefully in jail. When I whispered Kronin's name to Frank, I hoped that Kronin would be arrested and my dad never connected to the Gardner.
"Jack!"
I whip around. Jetta. Her body trembles with rage and her eyes are on fire.
"How dare you," she demands.
I scramble to think of anything I might've done. My heart pounds and a part of me doesn't want to ask. I force out the words. "What do you mean?"
/> "I can't believe you!" She jabs her finger into the hollow beneath my shoulder. "I know you didn't want me going to the art show but this was plain mean. If you know so much about me, you'd know how much I care about my paintings."
My legs weaken and dread fills me. Sweat pricks my armpits and I lean against the wall. "I don't understand."
"Don't play dumb with me, and don't you dare play the sympathy card. I don't care about the funeral. I barely know you."
"What?" I croak out. I slide to the floor, my back scraping against the cement wall. The paintings spin in front of me. My eyes burn. A funeral?
"Get up." Jetta kicks the side of my leg. "You're not getting out of this that easy. I want answers."
The words scrape out of my dry throat. I ask even though the heavy despair wrenching at my heart tells me the truth. "Who died?"
Voices sound from the nearby art room. Ms. Charpetto.
Jetta jerks me to my feet and puts a hold on my arms that I couldn't break free from even with a crowbar. She shoves me into the large art supply closet and I bang into giant rolls of colored paper. The dust makes me sneeze.
"Don't pull that on me." She gently shuts the door, blocking out all light except a tiny sliver. "Tell me the truth."
I embrace the dark. No one can see the guilt written on my face while inside I scream. My body trembles, threatening to burst at the seams. The unspoken accusation whirls above my head. It speaks to me, whispering through the dark, and the demons find me. I shake.