by Brom
THEY SAT ON the cold cement steps, eating stolen Kung Pao chicken and watching the clouds roll across a sky full of stars. Nick never remembered anything tasting so good. A sharp wind sent a host of orange leaves and loose paper clattering down the thin alleyway. Late evening dew shimmered off the sooty, graffiti-covered walls. The low hum of an electric transformer sputtered and buzzed incessantly while somewhere in the distance the Staten Island Ferry blew its horn.
Peter sighed. “They’re so beautiful.”
“What?” Nick asked.
“The stars,” Peter answered in a low, reverent tone, staring up at the night sky. “I so miss the stars.”
Nick thought this an odd thing to say, but then there were a lot of odd things about Peter.
Peter tore open one of the bags of candy bars, grabbed a couple for himself and handed a few to Nick.
Nick noticed several scars on Peter’s arms. There was also a scar above the boy’s brow, a smaller one along his cheek, and what looked like a healed puncture on the side of his neck. Nick wondered just what kind of trouble Peter had been in.
“What are you going to do with all that candy?” Nick asked.
“For the gang,” Peter said, between chews. “Back at the fort.”
“Is there really a fort?”
“Certainly.”
“Peter, where are we going exactly?”
Peter started to say something, frowned, started to say something else, and stopped. Then his eyes twinkled. “Hey, what’s that?”
“What?”
“By your foot.”
Nick didn’t see anything. It was too dark.
“Is that a turd?”
Nick instinctively jerked his foot away. “Where?”
Peter reached into the shadow and came up with a lumpy brown clump. He held it up. “Yup, big greasy turd.”
It didn’t look like a turd to Nick. It looked suspiciously like a Baby Ruth.
Peter chomped down on it. “Scrumptious.”
Nick snorted, then burst out laughing. Peter joined in between big, loud smacks. Nick found it easier and easier to laugh. Since his father’s death, between moving to the new school and dealing with that fucker Marko, Nick felt he’d forgotten what it was like to be silly, to just be a kid.
“Hey,” came a raspy voice from the shadows, followed by a fit of coughing. “Hey what…what’re you guys up to?”
Nick and Peter looked at one another, then at the pile of boxes beside the Dumpster. One of the boxes fell away and a figure rolled out.
Peter was instantly on his feet.
The shape stumbled into the lamplight and Nick saw it was a teenager, maybe a couple of years older than him. The kid’s long blond hair was greasy and matted, and he was wearing just jeans and a ratty T-shirt.
“You…you guys spare…some change,” the kid said, his words slurry and spaced out. “Need…to, to make a phone call. Anything will help out. Huh…how about it?”
Nick picked up the bags of candy bars and stood up. “Peter,” Nick whispered, “let’s get out of here.”
“Hey, where you going?” The kid tottered forward, put an arm out on the stair rail, blocking their way. Up close, Nick could see cold sores on the boy’s lips and how bloodshot his eyes were. The kid was so skinny he had to keep tugging at his jeans. The kid spied the candy bars in Nick’s arms. “Hey, how about you give me some of those.”
“These aren’t for you,” Peter said, his tone hard and cold.
The kid looked agitated, started scratching at his arms. Nick could see he had the shakes. The kid looked at them again and actually focused. “What’re you guys doing out here?” He took a quick glance around. “You alone?”
Nick didn’t like the way his tone changed, and tried to get around him.
The kid made a grab for the chocolates, snagged a bag, yanking it from Nick’s arms.
Peter let out a hiss and in a mere blink had a knife in his hand. The damn thing was almost as long as Peter’s forearm.
Whoa, where’d that come from?
Peter rolled the blade, letting the street light dance along its razor-sharp edge, making sure the kid saw its wicked promise. “Give ’em back,” Peter said.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” the kid said. “Take ’em.” He tossed the bag to Nick, raised his hands, and took several unsteady steps backward until he hit the alley wall. “I ain’t got nothing else. Go ahead, shake me down. I ain’t got nothing.” And then, low, to himself: “Nothing.” His shoulders drooped and his hands fell. Nick thought he looked worn out, defeated, alone, another strung-out junkie with no place to go and no one to care. Nick wondered what had made this kid leave home, wondered how long before he found himself in the same spot—alone, with nothing.
“Let’s go,” Peter said, stuffing the knife back in his jacket and heading toward the street.
Nick grimaced. Growing up can really suck, he thought. And bad things sure as shit do happen to good people and for the most part the world just doesn’t give a crap. He reached into the bag of chocolates, pulled out a handful, and left them on the steps. “Here. Those are yours.” Then he sprinted off to catch up with Peter.
WITH THE EXCEPTION of a few pubs and late-night restaurants, the shops had all closed up. They passed a bar and Nick stole a quick peek inside, caught sight of sullen, tired faces, the smell of cigarettes and beer, the clinking of glasses and strained laughter as men and woman went about the business of putting the long, hard workweek behind them.
Next door, in front of Antonio’s Camping and Sporting Goods, Nick stopped suddenly and peered into the display window.
Peter came up next to him. “What is it?”
Nick stared at the green-and-black checkered Vans propped against a skateboard.
“The shoes?” Peter asked.
“Nothing,” Nick said, but his eyes didn’t leave the shoes.
“You want those?”
Nick nodded absently.
Peter disappeared around the side of the building. Nick took a last longing look at the shoes and followed. He turned the corner but Peter wasn’t there. Nick glanced across the weedy lot and caught sight of a bearded man leaning against a paunchy woman near the rear entrance of the bar. Her blouse was undone and one of her breasts had escaped her bra, hanging down nearly to her navel. The two of them giggled as the man pawed it like a cat toy. “Jesus,” Nick said and watched, mesmerized, until a sharp clank drew his attention. It came from behind the Dumpster next to the sporting goods shop. He peered around the Dumpster—Peter had managed to tug one steel bar from the crumbling masonry of a basement window-well and was using that bar to pry loose a second.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Peter grunted, and the last bar popped off with a loud clang. “Bingo!”
Nick ducked down, peeked back toward the pub. The bearded man still groped the woman, another man had stumbled outside puking, none of them were looking their way.
Peter gave the pane a nudge with his foot and it popped open. The basement was a well of darkness. Peter looked up at Nick. “Well?”
“Well, what?” Nick said.
“Are you going to get those shoes, or not?”
Nick took a quick step back as though from a viper. “Are you kidding me? That’s breaking and entering.”
A look of deep disappointment crossed Peter’s face. Nick was surprised to find this bothered him, that he cared at all what this wild kid thought. “I’m not scared, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Nick said, a bit too quickly. “I’m no thief, that’s all. I mean that’s—”
“Nick, don’t let them win. Don’t let them beat you.”
“What?”
“Don’t let them steal your magic.”
“Magic?” What did magic have to do with breaking into someone’s store and stealing their stuff?
“Don’t you get it?” Peter said. “You’re free now. You don’t have to live by their rules anymore.” Peter pointed into the inky blackness of the basement. “The darkness
is calling. A little danger, a little risk. Feel your heart race. Listen to it. That’s the sound of being alive. It’s your time, Nick. Your one chance to have fun before it’s all stolen by them, the adults, with their cruelty and endless rules, their can’t-do-this, and can’t-do-that’s, their have-tos, and better-dos, their little boxes and cages all designed to break your spirit, to kill your magic.”
Nick stared down into the dark basement.
“What are you waiting for?” Peter said, giving him a devilish grin before disappearing through the window.
What am I waiting for? Nick wondered. What’s ahead for me? Even if I could go home, what then? Graduate? Get some crappy job so that I can spend every weekend trying to drink it all away, puking in a parking lot, or playing fiddle-boobs with some skank? He shook his head. Peter was right: if he didn’t live now—right this minute—then when? Too much of his youth had already been stolen. Why should he let them take any more? Maybe it was time to do a little taking of his own.
Nick took a deep breath and lowered himself through the window. He swung his leg about in the darkness until his foot hit a box, dropped onto the box, and promptly crashed over onto the floor. Something hit the floor and shattered. “Crap,” Nick said, and sat there a long moment, heart in his throat, waiting for the alarms and sirens, the lights, the dogs—the Gestapo. When nothing happened, he climbed to his feet.
The basement smelled of mildew, dust, and old cardboard. Where’s Peter? Nick noticed a weak light coming from the top of a narrow staircase. Hands out, he made his way—adrenaline pumping through his every fiber, heart beating louder with each step. “I hear it, Peter,” he whispered and grinned. “The sound of being alive.”
The streetlights poured in through the display window, dousing the jerseys, bats, balls, and bikes in a soft, bluish glow. No sign of Peter. He crept by the Little League plaques and trophies, going right past the cash register. Nick knew stores didn’t keep money in their registers at night, and even if they had, this wasn’t about money. He wasn’t here to steal, at least not like that. This was different somehow. It was about taking back, about control maybe, the need to be steering his own fate for once—for better or worse.
Nick peered over the racks of jerseys and warm-up suits, searching for Peter’s nest of wild hair. He didn’t find the golden-eyed boy, but found shoes—a whole wall of them. He passed up the court shoes with their springs, gels, pumps, glitter, and glitz—what the boys at his school liked to refer to as dunkadelic—until he zeroed in on a certain green-and-black checked pattern. “Bingo,” he said, just like Peter had.
He allowed himself a moment to enjoy the sight, then scanned the boxes for a size nine. He found a ten, several thirteens, a seven, a six, but no nines. His brow tightened. “Oh, be here. Be here, be here, be here.” A grin lit his face. There. “Yes!” He snatched up the box but didn’t open it, not right away. He just held it, cherishing the moment like a Christmas present you were finally allowed to open. Nick slowly lifted the lid, enjoyed the pungent smell of rubber and glue, then slid the shoes out, holding them up into the light. “S—weeet!” he exhaled, chucking the box and dropping down onto a bench.
He tugged off his bargain-bin specials, stared at the cracked, peeling rubber and frayed stitching. They reminded him of his mother—his cheap-ass mother. He slung them against the wall. He had the Vans laced and on his feet in no time and was up bouncing on his toes, checking himself out in the mirror. Nick froze. There, behind him in the mirror, a pale, haunted face watched him from the shadows, watched him like a cat watches a mouse.
SO MUCH JOY over a pair of shoes, Peter thought and felt the sting of jealousy as Nick’s simple joy made him aware of all he’d lost. He had to remind himself that soon shoes would be the last thing on Nick’s mind.
Nick started and jerked around. “Shit, man. You scared the piss out of me!”
“Killer shoes,” Peter said, putting on his best smile.
Nick studied Peter for a moment, then glanced down at his shoes. He licked his finger and touched the laces, making a sizzling noise. “Watch out, man,” Nick said, grinning. “I’m lethal in these babies.”
Peter laughed.
“Hey, man. Check this out.” Nick stepped over to a rack of skateboards, snatched one up, and dropped it on top of his shoe, flipping it onto its wheels with a flick of his foot. “Slick, huh?”
Peter nodded.
“Out of the way,” Nick said, hopping on the board, kicking hard, and shooting down the long center aisle. He kicked the tail of the board, catching some air, but when the board landed, the back end slid out on the slick linoleum, sending Nick into a rack of men’s sweats, taking the entire rack down right on top of him.
Nick’s head popped up between the hangers and sweats, looking disoriented and embarrassed.
Peter let loose a howl of laughter. “Impressive!”
Nick frowned. “Oh, yeah? Let’s see what you got.”
“Oh, you want me to show you how it’s done? Is that it? Why, I’m the skateboard king.” Peter snatched up one of the boards. He’d never ridden a skateboard before, but if this kid could do it, he most certainly could. He dropped the board on the floor and set his foot on the deck, shoving off with his other foot, kicking hard like he’d seen Nick do. The board wobbled and he wheeled his arms for balance as he careened straight toward Nick. “GANG WAY!” Peter cried, fighting for control.
Nick’s face changed from mirth to panic as he scrambled out of the way. Peter tried to swerve, lost control, and landed hard on his butt. The board shot out from under him like a missile, slamming into the leg of a nearby mannequin. The mannequin toppled and the head bounced down the aisle and landed right in Nick’s lap, its charming face smiling blissfully at Nick. Nick stared back in astonishment, then up at Peter, and both cracked up.
“Oh, my God,” Nick wheezed. “Oh man. That’s the craziest thing ever.” He got to his feet, holding the head, took aim at a row of basketball hoops, and shot. The head bounced off the backboard, but completely missed the rim and net. Nick raised both fists in the air. “He shoots! He sucks! The crowd pisses their pants!” He did a little foot dance, kicked his skateboard back out into the aisle, hopped on, and raced away. Up and down the aisle he went, doing spins and hops, sliding, skidding, and carving his way around the displays.
Peter got up, rubbing his butt. He gave his skateboard a disdainful look. “That one’s defective.”
“Yeah, right.”
Peter frowned, grabbed another skateboard from the rack, scrutinizing it before setting it on the floor. Nick zipped past, laughing hysterically, almost knocking him over. Peter hopped on his board and raced after him, wobbling and fighting to keep the board from flipping out from under him. Nick cut sharp, wheeled the board around in front of the entrance. Too late to stop, Peter crashed right into Nick, slamming the boy into the door. The impact shook the entire storefront and an alarm began to blare.
“OH, SHIT!” Nick shouted over the noise. “WE GOTTA GET OUT OF HERE!” Nick tried to open the door; it was locked. He slapped the door in frustration and tried to yank it open. No luck. “WE HAVE TO GO BACK THROUGH THE BASEMENT. QUICK!”
“NO WE DON’T.”
Nick looked at Peter, confused. Peter pointed at a swirly pink bowling ball sitting in the display window.
It took Nick a moment to get it. “OH, NO,” he called, shaking his head. “WE CAN’T DO THAT.” Then a spark lit in his eyes. Peter knew the look well. They all got it, once they truly realized they were free.
Nick hefted the ball, locked his eyes on the big display window, his mouth tightened into a hard line. Peter saw the anger, the hostility, and knew this was about more than getting out of the store, more than an act of vandalism, or simple mischief, this went far deeper. Nick needed to strike out—to break out. Nick was like so many of the runaways he’d encountered, too many years of being bullied and mistreated, of being stifled and ignored. They just needed someone to show them how to let it out.
And once it was out, once he’d taken them that far, the rest was easy. After that, they’d follow him anywhere.
“GIVE IT TO ’EM, NICK,” Peter cried. “GIVE ’EM THE BIG FUCK-YOU!”
Nick gritted his teeth, snarled, and hurled the ball like a shot-put. “FUCK YOU,” he screamed. “FUCK ALL OF YOU!” The ball smashed through the plate glass, shattering it into a thousand glittering shards.
“YEE-HAW!” Nick screamed over the warbling alarm.
The ball bounced onto the sidewalk and rolled into the street, picking up speed as it headed down the sloping avenue.
“AFTER IT!” Nick cried, snatching up his skateboard and leaping heedlessly across the broken glass.
Peter couldn’t have grinned any wider. He’s mine. He snatched up his own board and caught up with Nick in the middle of the street. A host of men and women had come out from the bar to see about all the commotion, some so drunk they could barely stand.
Nick grinned at them savagely, raised both hands in the air, and gave them the double bird. “FUCK THE WORLD!” he screamed. “FUCK THE WORLD!”
The crowd raised their bottles and returned the salute. “FUCK THE WORLD!”
Peter turned his head to the sky and howled, basking in the spreading madness, aware that sometimes even these dull-eyed adults could let loose, could remember.
“The ball went that way,” Nick cried, slapping his foot atop his board and kicking off down the hill.
Peter let out one last hoot, hopped on his board, and, fighting for control, chased after Nick. It’s a good night. A very good night. Can’t remember a better one in the last hundred years.
Chapter Three
Mist
Where to?” Nick asked Peter.
“To crazy town,” Peter howled, and wobbled past.
“TO CRAZY TOWN!” Nick cried, and took off after him. They raced down the street, knocking over garbage cans and setting off car alarms, yowling and laughing, setting the dogs to barking all up and down the street.