psychoanalysis. "I've been watching you. I've studied this sort of thing, you know. Your steps are altered, at times slow and then after you glance around you speed up like you've seen a spook. Your eyes are shifty, darting right and left like you expect the cops to be breathing down your neck." She gasps and halts. "Jack Brodie, I can't be walking with you if you're running from the cops. I have a reputation to uphold."
For the first time since we left the coffee shop, I look her way. She manages to annoy the hell out of me and interest me at the same time. She stands with one hip out, her foot tapping, and she swings her scarf around like it's some kind of windmill. I tear my gaze away.
"That's none of your business," I mumble.
Sweat forms at my neck and creeps down my back despite the morning breeze. By noon it will be sweltering, which is a miracle for March. But that's not why I'm sweating. Last fall, a small war broke out between Big D and Stick. Since then, I always look behind my shoulder when on the streets. No one messes with Big D.
"You could really use some art therapy." Then as if she senses the ache that gnaws at my gut, she touches my arm. A touch so light it feels like a butterfly kiss. Her fingers are soft and match her voice. "Seriously, what's wrong?"
I can't ignore the past or her fingers lingering on my shirtsleeve. To make the bad situation worse, last week we pulled an innocent prank on Big D and his boys. Nothing big. Just a smoke bomb in his garage while they worked on his car.
"If we're going to be friends then you have to answer my questions," Jetta states as if she's my babysitter and I need to be put in a timeout.
"What if I don't behave?" I hint with deeper meaning. "You going to punish me?"
Her eyes widen then narrow. A sly smile appears and her green eyes flash emerald. "You couldn't handle someone like me, Jack Brodie."
I shrug and give another truth. "Some things are just between the guys and me. Privileged info."
"Fine then." She pulls her hand away. "Are you always this stubborn?"
"Yep."
We walk side by side in silence. My fingers twitch with the urge to grab her hand. I keep my eyes on the shadows and with every footstep glance behind us. Was that Big D? Did he just duck out of the way? I bump into an old lady taking her dachshund for a walk. I sidestep a mailbox at the last second. And I miss the shortcut down Bowen Street. Nerves, I tell myself, and head toward West 7th.
"You got a crush on me?"
I slow my hurried walk. Jetta's cat-like eyes tease me and her dimples wink. The breeze ruffles the ends of her hair. I snort, then keep walking, trying to keep my eyes off her.
Jetta keeps pace. She rubs her chin like she's an old man about to hand out wisdom. "Everybody needs a friend. And Jack, I think you need a friend."
"It's Fiasco. And I've got friends."
Jetta might have convinced me to leave the neighborhood without my usual posse of friends, which I knew was a dumb idea even before I swiped the scones for us to munch on the way, but I don't need any more friends. I like the ones I got.
Someone pushes me into the nearest alley. Pain explodes in my stomach.
A brick wall slams against my back.
A skinny arm presses against my throat. "Sneaking some alone time with the girly?"
Big D puckers up, and he makes kissing sounds. Black hairs line his upper lip. Even back when we were friends in second grade, he was a scrawny little kid with a bad haircut. So bad, he wore a scally cap, even to Mass on Saturday nights.
"At least I'm gettin' some," I spit out, my words a hiss.
His arm jabs into my throat forcing a cough.
Big D lets up on the pressure. "Me and my boys aren't in any hurry to get to school. Not after the stunt you pulled on us last week. Are we boys?"
The trash compactors grunt out a nope.
My eyes leave Big D's face. The compactors grip Jetta's arms. Her face holds no expression, and she focuses dead ahead, her body taut. No fear. No trembling. She might be enough of a freak to not understand trouble. Or new enough to not understand this neighborhood. And Big D.
Big D follows my gaze and for the first time he fully appreciates Jetta. Lust gleams in his eyes before he slides over and grazes her cheek with the back of his hand. "You do owe me, Fiasco. Maybe I should collect with your girl here."
He rubs his hips up against her, grinding like a farmyard animal. His hands move around her back and runs down to her butt. His lips fondle her ear and he whispers so only she can hear.
Jetta barely twitches when Big D's other hand moves to her ass, but when I look closer I see the tiny flicker of fear in her eyes.
"Ooo, baby, what you do to me." Big D's words are like an oil spill, oozing out, coating Jetta with slime. He groans with pleasure.
Adrenaline rushes through my arms and legs, sending blood pumping through my heart at a dangerous rate. "Hey, Big D, the local zoo is open if you need to express any animal urges."
The insult bounces off Big D like it's nothing but a spit wad.
He waves his hand and nuzzles his face into Jetta's neck. "Leave us alone, Fiasco. I'll make sure the girl gets to school safe. You're relieved of your duties."
I blame the morning traffic fumes or the lack of air after being jabbed in the throat for attacking Big D. I rip him away then rush toward Jetta.
"What the-" Big D lets out a string of select words.
I leap at the first compactor. My fist connects with his face. Trying to knock him off balance. The giant shrugs, then gives me a push, and I fly through the air. Like Superman.
They close in on me, their fists landing on my stomach, my face, the side of my head. Big D is back near Jetta. He croons and coos. His words hiss out like exhaust fumes in a closed garage.
"I heard from my dad that your mama was pretty sweet," I shout, carelessly, while swinging at air, my body thrown off kilter.
The crooning stops and Big D calls off his goons, who grab Jetta's arms. Big D sticks his face in mine, his eyes narrow.
"Dude, your breath!" I gag. "Peppermint works well."
"You're a jackass and a fool. You don't know when to quit." Big D slugs me in the gut and shoves me.
Everything might have been okay if I landed on the street, but the back of my legs wham into a trashcan and my body flips. My head slams into the wall, my back scrapes against the bricks as I slump to the ground. Blood squirts from my nose.
I grab a napkin drifting by from a tavern. I press the printing of the famous green shamrock to my nose. I think about Jetta. Her name pulses with the pain radiating through my body in waves.
In the blur, a high-pitched scream rips through the air. But it isn't a girly scared scream. It's a trained yell of attack. I watch, pain forgotten, my mouth hanging open.
Jetta kicks her leg to the side and catches one of the boys in the kneecap.
He doubles over, groaning. Her arm shoots out and hits the other boy in the neck. Maybe I was delirious from hitting my head on the wall, but it feels like I dropped into one of the late night Kung-Fu movies Dad used to watch. I wouldn't have been surprised at all if she flipped through the air and landed on the roof.
She twirls and her foot lands below Big D's belt with so much force he flies back.
"Let's go, boys," Big D mutters, coughing. "You just wait, Fiasco. We're not done." Their footsteps echo down the street, mingling with grunts of pain.
I let my head roll back, thankful we made it out alive.
The alleyway is quiet with just the echoes from the fight. Fingers touch my forehead and gently sweep my hair behind my ears, then linger for just a moment.
A sweet voice rushes over me. "Good thing I moved here when I did. You need a friend, Jack Brodie."
10:00 a.m.
The bench is hard.
The unforgiving wood digs into my back. I trace the slivers at the side of my right leg. The small room seems too familiar, a stale smell penetrating the air. Every window is clamped shut, offering no draft or scent of fresh air.
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Nothing that can be translated into hope.
A fresh coat of paint can't hide the cracks in the dry wall. The judge's bench looms at the front. Four years ago, I sat here, foolishly proud of my dad, believing the court would proclaim his innocence, and outraged when they couldn't see the truth. Did they even study the evidence?
The room is cold. I fight back a shiver. Mom straightens her skirt for the tenth time and grips her cracked leather purse. Four years has passed. Will the evidence look any better?
Does the judge know about Dad's undercover work? Is this all a part of it? Maybe jotted in the lower corner of her papers is a scribbled note about my dad's work.
Either way, why does Dad need my help? What could I possibly do? Will he even show up? Will the guards arrive at his cell to find it empty?
I'm the only one who can help him.
Today.
10:04 a.m.
The door opens in the back, a quiet click that sounds like a slam in the quiet room. Mom and I turn like an invisible string is attached to our heads. Two stuffy suits stride in with their briefcases. Neither of them appear to be big-time lawyers that I see on crime shows. Instead, silver highlights their temples and boredom lines their faces.
10:05 a.m.
The man assigned to Dad's case slides into his seat, a pinched look on his brow causing lines to branch and deepen across his forehead. His mountainous nose seems glued onto his face, and several wiry hairs grow out the end.
He nods to us like we're distant acquaintances and we only bump into each other here and there, when in fact we've never met. The wrinkles