Little Deadly Things

by Harry Steinman

  “Mr. Ecco, would you like to join the rest of us in the exercise?” She smiled.

  Jim did not reply.

  “Mr. Ecco? Jim? Are you all right?” Her voice was bright, but with a note of concern.

  The teacher walked down the aisle to Jim’s desk. When she reached out to touch the boy’s shoulder, he saw his father’s hand. He heard his father’s voice. Jim’s arm flew up and knocked aside the teacher’s hand. In the same motion, Jim stood, too quickly, and his desk tumbled over. The edge scraped down the woman’s shin. It was painful but not damaging. Still, it would cost Jim the rest of the school year.

  Jim looked at his teacher. “I’m sorry,” he said, and left the classroom. He walked home, into his bare room, ignored the cot and lay down on the floor with Ringer, unmoving, until the police arrived.

  On the following Tuesday, school principal Danny Sorenson sat in a tan club chair that was browned from use, the man’s form outlined in darkened leather. Sorenson was in that indeterminate middle age when his belly had begun a winning battle with his hair for prominence. He wore a red bow tie, a white shirt, and a forest-green cardigan sweater vest and rumpled khaki pants.

  Jim sat on a matching sofa, opposite the administrator. He’d been there before. Sorenson had asked about Jim’s home life, had reached out to Jim and tried to find some activity that would help Jim channel his frustrations. “You’re a smart kid,” Sorenson said. “Your aptitude tests say you’ve got a lot of potential.”

  But today the conversation would be about survival, not potential.

  “Jim, you’re in a pickle,” Sorenson said, not unkindly.

  “I’m sorry,” said Jim.

  “The incident with Ms. Rice was reported. She says that it was an accident that the desk struck her leg, but when you hit her arm, technically, you assaulted her. Can you tell me why you did that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The police are considering dropping the charges against you.”

  “Whatever.”

  “No, not whatever. Jim, this is serious. Your father is waiting outside. He needs to be part of this conversation but I wanted to talk to you first. Jim, what’s going on at home?”

  Jim said nothing.

  “Okay,” Sorenson shrugged. “Let’s get your father.”

  When Sorenson brought Galvin Ecco into the office, the attorney glared at the principal, glared at his son, looked around the office and, for good measure, glared at Sorenson’s framed credentials.

  “Mr. Ecco, you’re an attorney. Can you explain to your son how serious this is?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “It’s his mess. Let him fix it. Are we done here?” Galvin rose to leave.

  “No, Mr. Ecco, we are not done here. Please sit down. There’s a second problem, one that involves you directly.”

  “I don’t like the tone of your voice,” Galvin said.

  “Sir, I’m sorry you’re upset. But your son is going to be expelled. It’s school policy.”

  “That’s his problem. He also vandalized my office. Did he tell you that?”

  “It sounds like he’s pretty angry about something. Do you know what that might be?” Sorenson asked.

  “I don’t know and I don’t care.”

  “Mr. Ecco, the question is, what are you and Mrs. Ecco going to do about Jim’s education? If we can show a plan for rehabilitation that includes keeping him in school, the police will drop the charges. But he’s not going to be able to return to this school.”

  “So, what’s going to happen?” Jim asked.

  “Well. That’s why we’re here,” Sorensen said.

  Jim’s father raised his voice, “He vandalized my office, he hit the teacher. He’s a big boy, he can pay the price. He’s got to learn some discipline.”

  “Mr. Ecco, can you do me a favor?”

  “What?”

  “Settle down for a few minutes? Every family has problems. But yours cross over into my school and you can’t just wash your hands of the matter. Your son is thirteen years old, and you’re responsible for him.”

  “What the hell am I supposed to do? He crossed the line with this stunt.”

  “I’m trying to help, Mr. Ecco,” Sorenson said quietly. Then, a bit sterner, “Now please listen.” Galvin’s face colored. He opened his mouth and closed it, then opened and closed it again. For the first time since his books were stripped from his room, Jim became animated. A half-smile turned up one corner of Jim’s mouth.

  Sorenson looked at Jim’s father. “Here’s my proposition. I’ve arranged a transfer to another school district where your son can start fresh.”

  “Where?”

  “Los Pobladores High in East Los Angeles.”

  “East L.A.? Some ghetto school? Let’s see how smart he can be down there.”

  “Actually, Mr. Ecco, Los Pobladores would be a good school for Jim. It’s one of the schools sponsored by the Hidden Scholar Foundation.”

  “What’s that?” asked Jim.

  “The Foundation takes good students from poor neighborhoods around the world. It places them in low-income neighborhood schools in the U.S. and then provides funding to those schools. The Hidden Scholar Foundation is the creation of the philanthropist, Robert Murray Herbertson.”

  “The rich guy?” Jim asked.

  “Yes, the rich guy.” Sorenson stroked his chin and his eyes went back and forth between the father and son. Then he fixed his gaze on Galvin. “Mr. Ecco, your son won’t be a Foundation scholar, but he will benefit from the Foundation’s programs. I’ve arranged for him to transfer to Los Pobladores. I know the principal there and we worked out an arrangement. We do this from time to time when a change of location might benefit a good student.”

  “Jim is not a good student,” said Galvin.

  “He’s an underachiever, but he has a lot of potential.”

  “Well, I’m not driving him all the way down to East L.A. every day. And there’s no train from Pasadena to East Los Angeles.”

  “Actually, sir, in view of the, uh, tension, at home, we’ve arranged for him to board with a local family—with your permission.”

  “What about my dog?” said Jim. “What about Ringer?”

  Sorenson sighed. “You’re going to have to work that out. Right now I’m trying to keep you out of the court system.” Sorenson unrolled his dataslate. Jim saw his school records. Sorenson continued, “Jim, I think you can make something of yourself, but you have an attitude problem. In the last nine months, you’ve been in three fights with other students.”

  “It wasn’t my fault! I never start it.”

  “I know, but each time you could have walked away.”

  Jim started to protest but Sorenson held up a hand. “Stop. You have an attitude problem that’s getting you in trouble. Part of the plan to clear your record involves that you be placed in another home for the school year, if your father consents. Let’s see if that makes a difference.”

  “Mr. Ecco, if we take this action, the courts will be satisfied. Your son will not end up with a juvenile record, and you avoid liability if the teacher seeks damages. As an attorney, I’m sure you can see the benefit to you.”

  Turning back to Jim, Sorensen said. “Son, no matter what your father decides, you’re out for the rest of the year. You’re going to have to attend summer school to make up the days you miss here.” Jim heard a tone of finality in the principal’s voice.

  “That’s not fair,” Jim protested.

  “Enough! You assaulted a teacher. I know it was an accident, and you didn’t hurt anybody. But it was reported to the police, and this is the way it’s going to be.”

  “Who reported it?” asked Jim.

  “What difference does that make? There was a class full of students, and students talk. Ms. Rice needed some treatment for the scrape on her leg. So, there’s the infirmary. Someone might have been walking by. It doesn’t matter now. Keeping you out of the court system is the most import
ant thing. Mr. Ecco, will you allow Jim to board with another family so he can attend Los Pobladores? If you agree, Jim’s record gets expunged and you won’t have to worry about a lawsuit.”

  Dad said, “Yes. Are we done now?”

  “Yes, Mr. Ecco, you and I are done.” Sorenson sighed again. It had been a long day, a long weekend, one that started when he picked up the phone, called the juvenile authorities, and arranged for Jim’s arrest and for his reassignment to a different school and a calmer home.

  Jim completed summer school at Los Pobladores. In the fall, on the first day of classes, his attention was drawn to another freshman student, otherworldly and beautiful. She spoke with a Puerto Rican accent and walked with a limp.

  05

  ___________________________________________

  SCHOOL DAYS

  EAST LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

  SEPTEMBER 6, 2022

  At 7:30 AM, Tuesday, September 6, 2022, two students emerged from the Hidden Scholar Foundation car. The girl with the black hair craned her neck to take in the neighborhood, and then walked slowly towards the schoolyard. The smaller girl walked with an expression that showed simultaneous determination and disinterest.

  Across the street, a trio of older students slouched outside a diner. They watched the two girls with undisguised hostility, appearing to agree on a course of action with raised eyebrows and nods. Their postures radiated contempt, and patrons emerging from the diner gave them a wide berth.

  They were bullies with a grudge. Any of the eleven hundred or so returning students knew to avoid the stocky, pock-faced leader of the three who called himself Padron, ‘Boss’, as well as his cohorts, Frank Chung and Jamie Ortiz. Their prey were students from the Hidden Scholar Foundation. Targets of opportunity.

  Padron had dull obsidian stones for eyes, broad cheekbones, and generous lips set in a puffy frown. Chung was stocky, his head and eyebrows shaven. He had a pictogram tattooed on his left cheek, a triangle containing a lightning bolt, the symbol for high voltage. Ortiz was tattooed with a rosy profusion of adolescent acne. All three affected a retro look, wearing long-sleeved shirts buttoned at the collar and low-slung baggy pants.

  Padron acted first. He broke off from his two friends, crossed the street, and jogged around the building to confront the girls as they walked towards the school yard. Chung and Ortiz peeled themselves off the diner’s wall and followed the two girls. They paced themselves to catch the girls in a pincer. Padron would approach from the front, they would close in behind.

  A slight, tousle-haired boy stood outside of the diner with a companion. They also shared an easy familiarity and communicated with looks and gestures. The boy’s gaze lingered on the girl walking with pride and a limp. He walked towards them. The boy’s companion remained, comfortable where she was.

  A mural that covered the length of the building drew the girls’ attention. It was a panorama that depicted the community’s history, starting with the arrival of forty-four pobladores, the original settlers of Los Angeles. It was a history of the city, of the neighborhood, and celebrated the birth of the high school. It was natural to walk past the colorful wall. Natural, but dangerous. That side of the building was windowless, perfect for muralists—and predators.

  “Let’s go look,” said Marta Cruz as she turned towards the mural.

  Eva Rozen dismissed it. “Who cares? Is painting. I want science lab.” Her speech carried a guttural cadence that marked her Slavic pedigree.

  “Well, I want to see it. You have all year to see the lab.”

  “You have all year for pictures.”

  “Yes, but classes don’t start for a few minutes yet and we can look at the mural now. Let’s go.” Eva shrugged. She followed Marta to the painted side of the building. They were unaware of the eyes that followed their slow progress.

  The fresco depicted a row of men and women dressed in rough-textured shirts and flowing robes, each settler pressed against the next. The figure in front held up a scroll with the words, “Debemos ser libre”—We must be free. At the top of the mural a large bird floated above a bronze-skinned man. He had the angular features of the area’s indigenous people. Other figures carried guitars and accordions, scientific devices and crops.

  Eva gave the mural a cursory inspection. The Pollock and the Dalí prints in Coombs’s shop were more interesting. True, this art was more literal, but she returned to the works the antiquarian displayed in his office. Those were abstract, but somehow very personal.

  Eva hung back and so was first to sense Chung and Ortiz behind them even as she saw Padron approach. She looked at Padron. Now her expression was equal parts disinterest and contempt. Marta Cruz’s face showed open curiosity.

  Patron appeared momentarily taken, perhaps disappointed by the girls’ lack of fear. Then he said, “Mira.” Look. “A cripple and a geek.”

  Chung and Ortiz took up station from behind, completing the pincer movement. Eva Rozen reached under her shawl and took out and shook a small squeeze bottle. Marta Cruz said, “What are you doing, Eva? Don’t make trouble.”

  “Oyé chica, you got no trouble,” said Padron, sliding forward. “Just show some respect, eh? Time to pay up.”

  Eva’s gaze fastened hard on Padron and then shifted to the others. She made a mental calculation of the distances and shook her head at the disappointing conclusion. As she took in the unfolding scene, she noticed the slight figure of a boy walking towards them. He had soft, unassuming looks and seemed to draw into himself as he walked towards the confrontation. He looked too young for high school. Eva wondered if he belonged in middle school. “Hey,” he called out to the girls as he approached. “Class is about to start. We’ve gotta go.” He appeared oblivious to the trio’s menace. To Padron, “How are ya, amigo?”

  “I ain’t your amigo. You’re in the wrong place, amigo. You gonna pay some respect then you gonna get outta here. Empty your pockets, amigo.”

  “My pockets? Which one first?”

  Padron looked hard at the interloper. “You funny?”

  Eva calculated that Padron outweighed the newcomer by forty pounds and stood six inches taller. The boy drifted a few steps to the right, to Padron’s left, his weak side.

  Eva saw what Padron missed. She looked at the thin boy. “I don’t need you to help,” she said. He’d need a miracle to do what she believed he was planning. Then, to Padron, “Go to be someplace else,” she said. Her accent and syntax helped her to sound bored.

  Padron laughed and motioned to his friends. “Hey, Chung, Ortiz,” he said, “We got us a party.” They closed ranks.

  Padron eyed the boy. “You a hero? That it, man? You gonna be a hero with no teeth.”

  The boy inched towards Frankie and Ortiz. Padron followed. The three older boys were drawn into a tight bunch. The hero looked off to his left, into the distance. Eva followed his gaze, but saw nothing. The hero’s companion was hidden in shadows cast by the low angle of the morning sun.

  Padron spoke again. “You gonna spit teeth, you don’t turn your pockets out now.”

  The hero smiled. Likely, the smile was intended to look disarming rather than demeaning. The smile hid the years of accumulated frustration and rage. Behind the soft face, he boiled. His smile broadened.

  Padron snorted. “What’s so funny? I don’t think you’re funny.”

  The hero turned to the two girls and said, “I think you better get out of here. Maybe you should run into the school.”

  Marta Cruz wore an expression of amusement and contempt. She gestured to her legs. “I’m supposed to run?” She rolled her eyes, shook her head, and spat out the next words. “Boys. All the same. All brave and no brain.”

  Eva said nothing, her eyes still calculating distances.

  Suddenly Padron wound back like a pitcher on the mound at Dodger Stadium. The hero watched calmly and ducked easily. “Get out of here,” he shouted again at Marta and Eva.

  At that moment, the boy’s companion, watching from across th
e street, underwent a metamorphosis. Her ears pulled back and her lips drew forward. She dug her hindquarters into the ground, driving forward, front legs extending to double her length. Her body was low to the ground and she looked like a fur-covered missile, tipped with a toothy snarl. She hit maximum velocity in two strides and then covered the seventy-foot distance to Padron in less than three seconds.

  She was in the grip of instinct and drive, a terrier’s lust for prey and a shepherd’s need to protect. Her tail was low to the ground for balance. Adrenaline flooded her, amplifying behaviors that had been hardwired into her species for millennia. Her lips drew further forward into an aggressive pucker. Sixty pounds of focused motion covered by a wiry tan coat. An unexpected white band circled her tail, the inspiration for the name to which she responded: Ringer.

  Ringer’s nostrils flared and closed rapidly, forcing scent molecules to receptors deep in her brain. There two enormous olfactory bulbs sorted the smells of the group and passed commands directly to her muscles. Her specialized scent organs freed the slower fore-brain to calculate distance, velocity, and vector. The stink from the tallest of the targets, pheromones of fear and excitement from the girls, were as easy for her to read as a billboard would be for her two-legged companion.

  Eva watched the dog. Six feet from Padron, Ringer’s back legs drove her up, propelling her full weight into the chest of the surprised leader. Eva thought the dog was grinning.

  Some of the blow was cushioned as the canine joints flexed. Still, the force was enough to knock Padron hard to the ground. He landed on his back with a whoomp. His diaphragm muscle spasmed on impact and prevented him from drawing air into his lungs. When he opened his eyes, his view of the world was circumscribed by a set of canine teeth inches from his face. By the time Padron could draw his next breath, the encounter would be over.

  Eva saw a smooth blur of motion as the hero turned to the downed Padron. He tensed his body and aimed a powerful kick at Padron’s ribcage.

  Padrone rolled in pain. The Hero’s foot missed.