by Cheree Alsop
I glanced around at the junkyard. “Sir, if I may ask, why do you need me here?”
His grin widened. “You’d better call me Jagger. Too many ‘sirs’ and I might start takin’ airs. Ain’t nobody need that.” He stepped down from the porch, using the cane I now noticed was a crowbar. He hefted it to indicate the yard. “If’n you haven’t noticed, this place is a dump.” His eyes twinkled. “It’s time ta get organized.”
I looked around in disbelief. “You want to organize the junkyard?”
He shook his head. “You want ta organize the junkyard. It’s what I’m payin’ ya for.”
I made a mental note to thank Uncle Rick for finding me a job worse than farming.
“You can start ‘round back. Beware of Mick. He doesn’t take kindly ta strangers in his junkyard.”
I took a step forward, then turned. “Is Mick a dog?” At the man’s nod and expectant expression, I took the bait. “And your name is Jagger?” He grinned. “Nice,” I replied. I walked around the back of the shack, convinced I had stepped into some sort of twisted dimension when I entered Sparrow.
THE FIRST THING I saw was a huge doghouse that occupied a corner of the tiny yard of scant crabgrass behind the shack. A form stirred inside. I couldn’t imagine what kind of beast needed a house that big, but I wasn’t excited to find out. There was no chain that I could see keeping the dog from attacking me. I heard claws on wood and braced myself.
A form flew from the doghouse and charged my ankles. I backed up in surprise at the tiny Chihuahua who snapped at my shins as though he truly meant to tear out my throat if only he could reach it. I laughed, which angered the tiny dog even more. He gave a series of yips that would probably terrify a squirrel, but only increased my relief that I faced a rat instead of a Hound of the Baskervilles.
“Get in ‘ere,” Jagger called from the back door.
I thought he meant me, but Mick immediately trotted up to the shack. Jagger grinned. “I ‘ope he didn’t scare ya.”
“Only until I saw him,” I replied.
He gave me a salute and shut the door again with Mick inside.
I shook my head and began my self-guided tour of the junkyard, sure I would come to know every inch of it if Uncle Rick had his wish.
I HAD ALMOST MADE a full circuit of the debris when a tire caught my attention. It was upright, and closer inspection revealed a fender and a muffler. I pulled off a moth-eaten tarp to expose an ER-6n. Dirt coated the red paint and the chrome was tarnished, but the motorcycle was the most intact vehicle I had seen in the junkyard besides a unicycle on one of the piles.
I almost sat on it just to remind myself how it felt. The call of the wind past my helmet and the power a twist of the throttle could summon almost made looking at the junked-out motorcycle unbearable. I threw the tarp back over it and found my way to the shack. A knock at the door sent Mick barking in a fury. When Jagger answered, it was obvious I had awakened him.
“Yeah, what’s up?” he asked, rubbing his eyes blearily.
“I was just wondering where you wanted me to start.”
He waved a hand in the general direction of the junkyard. “Out there.”
I waited, certain he would explain, but he didn’t. When I continued to stand on the porch, Jagger’s forehead creased and his eyes almost disappeared in his hearty face as he thought. He finally nodded as though he had come to a great conclusion. “The tires.”
“You want me to start with the tires?”
He nodded. “It’s as good a place as any, I s’pose.”
I sighed. “I suppose so.”
He tossed me a pair of gloves. Mice had eaten through two of the fingers. “Watch out for spiders. Black widows love tires.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, trying to sound civil.
He gave a half-hearted salute and shut the door again. I studied the junkyard with the knowledge that I was being employed to do busy work that would keep me out of Uncle Rick’s way. Fine. If I was supposed to organize tires, I would organize tires. I crossed the yard and got to work.
THE NEXT DAY, MADELYN wasn’t on the bus again. I slumped against the window and shut my eyes in an effort to forget my second failed attempt at milking. Of course, given both attempts the day before might make this the third. Barbecue not only kicked the bucket over again even though I made sure my hands weren’t cold when I tried to milk her, but she swatted me in the face with her tail that was covered in a substance I didn’t want to think about. I spent an extra twenty minutes in the bathroom scrubbing while Cole sat outside the door and laughed.
English class went quickly because the book we were reading, Farenheit 451, was one that had intrigued me at my other school. The thought of firefighters of the future burning books and suppressing the freedom of thought by wiping out old ideas was fascinating. I didn’t know if it was my current dislike for authority or the thought that the dissenters were the ones who actually held the truth that kept my attention, but at least the class went by quickly.
When the bell rang, I followed the throng toward second period music history. Mrs. Franklin had just begun describing Johann Sebastian Bach’s influence on future composers when the intercom buzzed.
“Mrs. Franklin?”
The teacher paused with her red dry-erase marker held in the air. “Yes, Ms. Narrow?”
“Please send Kelson Brady to the office.” All eyes turned to me. I gave an inward sigh.
“Will do; thank you, Ms. Narrow.” Mrs. Franklin turned to me. “Take your books, Mr. Brady. That way, you’ll have them if you aren’t able to return.”
I grabbed my notebook and worn history of music text that had a big treble clef on the front someone had colored red and turned into a cartoon devil. Mrs. Franklin had apologized when she gave it to me, but apparently it was the last textbook not being used. Inside, I found several drawings that demonstrated the talent of the artist, if not his or her maturity level.
A very round woman in a pink suit and cat-eye glasses smiled cheerily at me when I entered the office. Her name tag proudly proclaimed her to be “Ms. Narrow,” complete with a smiley face sticker.
“I’m Kelson Brady,” I told her.
She nodded. “Of course. Principal Dawson is expecting you.”
Her words gave me the first shred of concern. I had been to the principal’s office a few times at my past school, but I always knew the reason. I walked slowly down the hall to the office she indicated.
A man in a sleek black suit with a red politician tie sat behind a tidy desk with a small statue of a bulldog at one corner. He was making notes in a file I was surprised to find had my name on it. I tapped on the open door. “Uh, Principal Dawson?”
He looked up, then glanced down at the younger picture of me taped to the file. He rose from his desk with a smile and a hand out. “Mr. Brady, I presume?”
I nodded and shook his hand. He indicated that I should sit at one of the two straight-backed brown chairs facing his desk. I took the one closest to the door.
He sat back down and smoothed his tie. The man didn’t look like my last principal. Principal Sanders had the harassed appearance of a man who started each day with the knowledge that he would be handling delinquents and drop-outs during school hours, then spend the evenings calling mothers and questioning if they knew their children had been spray-painting cars instead of going to school.
Principal Dawson, on the other hand, looked like a nomination for National Principal of the Year. His graying hair was combed to hide only the slightest hint of baldness, his upper lip bore a mustache even Tom Selleck would have been envious of, his suit looked like it was pressed every day, the two pens on his desk were perfectly parallel, and he leaned back in his chair with just the right air of authority and friendliness dictated for a proper principal/student relationship.
“It’s always a pleasure to welcome a new student to our school,” he said.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “It’s an interesting school,
” I said noncommittally.
He nodded as if that was to be expected. He glanced down at my file. “My only concern is that you transferred mid-semester.” He looked at me. “I’ve been reviewing your marks from your previous school. Did someone there help with your work?”
A fist gripped my heart. I nodded and forced my face to be expressionless. “My sister.”
Mr. Dawson picked up the file and began flipping through it. “She didn’t move with you?”
My stomach hurt. I swallowed the knot in my throat and lied. “She stayed in California with my mom.”
He nodded, and a slight frown crossed his face. “Your grades are passable, but barely. I suggest that you work extra hard on your studies so you aren’t required to participate in summer school to graduate.”
I tried to keep the anger out of my voice when I replied, “Yes, sir.”
He looked up at me for a moment, then smiled. “Welcome to Sparrow High School, Kelson. I’m sure you’ll find it to your liking.”
I knew a dismissal when I heard one. I rose and mumbled “Thank you,” then stalked from the office.
“Have a great day,” Ms. Narrow called after me.
I lifted my hand in a half-hearted wave, but didn’t look back. My face burned and I clenched my fingers around my school books so I wouldn’t ball them into fists. I needed to hit something. I hated Sparrow, I hated farming, I hated the junkyard, and I hated being so far from California and my motorcycle. Most of all, I hated being away from anyone who cared the least bit about me.
The little voice in the back of my mind reminded me that there weren’t many of those left.
I was about to punch a locker in reply when arguing voices broke through my train of thought. I paused by a double set of doors in the middle of the school.
“I don’t think that’s really necessary, do you?” a woman’s voice protested.
“I don’t think drama’s really necessary, do you?” came the reply. I recognized the voice immediately. Magnum’s drawl was echoed by several laughs.
The sound of metal on wood followed.
“Mr. Fisher, I don’t think this is a good use of your time.”
“Call me Magnum,” he replied with true anger in his voice.
I opened the door to find a small auditorium complete with about twenty rows of tiered seating and a stage at the bottom. Magnum and several of the Bullets were in the middle of ruining a set for a play. Magnum had a can of blue paint and was drizzling it over an armchair that had been turned into a throne.
The teacher, a small woman with short black hair and glasses, clutched a stack of papers to her chest and watched him, her face pale and eyes wide. About ten other students stood around in overalls and T-shirts. I guessed Magnum’s gang had interrupted them as they were painting the set. They looked frustrated at the gang’s destruction of their work, but knew better than to interfere.
“I’m sorry, Magnum,” the teacher replied hastily. “It’s just that my students have worked hard on these sets, and—”
“Since when can students paint for school credit?” Magnum cut her off. “In that case, we should all get about three or four.” He laughed and tipped the can of paint upside down on the chair.
“Credits?” the teacher asked in a voice that shook slightly. The fear in her tone sent a tremor of rage down my limbs.
“Of course,” Magnum replied. He turned to the other members of his gang. “I feel we can do about four credits’ worth of painting here, don’t you?”
At his prompting, several other Bullets picked up cans of paint and began splashing them on the students and sets.
“Magnum, that’s enough!” the teacher protested.
I wanted to help her. I was tired of seeing bullies walk all over people. It was enough to watch him shove Sam and Jared into lockers, but to see him bullying teachers, too? I wanted to stop him, but if Cassidy was right and he recognized me, the Ashbys would be in trouble.
I glanced around and spotted a series of switches on the wall by the door. I pulled them down and grinned when the entire auditorium flooded in shadows.
“What the?”
“Who turned off the lights?”
“Mauser, watch out with that paint can,” Magnum growled.
“I don’t have a paint can,” the boy replied.
An emergency light flickered in the back, lighting the area in gray shadows. I ran down the stairs and was on the stage before anyone could move. I yanked a can of paint from one boy and poured it on Magnum. He let out an angry yell and swiped his arms through the darkness. I ducked and slugged him in the stomach, then elbowed him in the back when he bent over in pain.
I grabbed another boy’s arm, then spun and ducked, pulling him across my back so he fell on top of Magnum. An emergency light flickered on near the curtains. It wasn’t bright enough for them to see my face, but enough to alert them that they were under attack. Luckily, the drama team was smart enough to cower near the back of the stage; only Magnum’s gang stood like deer in headlights as they tried to figure out what was going on. Uncle Rick would be proud of the wilderness analogy; I wondered what he would think about me fighting.
One of the Bullets picked up an aluminum extension rod and swung it at my head. I ducked, then caught the backswing under my arm and yanked the rod forward. He slammed into my waiting fist and fell to the floor, holding his nose.
I spun with the rod and swept two more boys’ legs out from under them. A girl let out a yell and charged across the stage toward me. I blocked her raised hammer with my forearm, then tore it from her grasp and turned her with a carefully levered sweep of a foot so she fell onto the growing pile of gang members.
“Get him, Saw,” one burly boy growled to another.
“Got it,” the other boy replied. He cracked his knuckles, and I rolled my eyes. They really should have been on the drama team.
Both boys charged at the same time. I dodged to the left and spun low to sweep the legs out from under the first boy. The second grabbed me in a bear hug from behind. I bent my knees to loosen his hold, then head-butted backwards. He let out a yell when his lips were smashed by the back of my head. I elbowed him in the stomach, followed by the groin, then swept around with my right foot and tripped him.
Saw made it back to his feet. He looked at his friend on the ground and his eyes widened, then narrowed. “You’ll pay for that,” he said. A form rose by his side. A detached part of me noted that it was Magnum; by the anger glinting in his eyes, he was out for blood. At least two sets of footsteps crossed the stage floor behind me. I was surrounded.
I took in a slow breath. My heart pounded, but it was from adrenaline, not fear. I might have been outnumbered, but I was in my element. Being captain of the Mixed Martial Arts Club didn’t come without its hurdles. There were just a few more hurdles here than I was used to facing alone.
I let out the breath and turned to avoid Magnum’s first punch. I grabbed his fist and used his momentum to throw him into a Bullet behind me. A haymaker caught me in the back of my head as I turned, but it was a glancing blow. I spun and slugged the boy in the chest so hard that he staggered back into a panel of wood painted to look like a wall. I blocked a blow with my elbow, then chopped a boy in the throat. The blow wasn’t hard enough to crush his Adam’s apple, but it left him gasping and out of the fight.
A fist caught me in the ribs. I kicked as I turned and caught the assailant along the back. He fell forward into a girl with spikey hair and sent them both sprawling. Magnum charged at me with a hammer in one hand and a knife in the other. The glint of the blade in the emergency lighting reflected the anger on his face. Apparently he wasn’t used to being beaten.
He swung with the hammer first. I jumped back and felt it brush past my T-shirt. He swung again, but I was faster and kept just out of reach. Outraged, Magnum threw the knife. It spun with deadly momentum straight for my head. I ducked and felt it graze the top of my unruly hair before it stuck in the wall behind me.
> I stepped in and landed two quick, hard punches to his chest, followed by a haymaker to the jaw and then the stomach. When he bent over, I kneed him in the face and he fell to the ground.
I stared at him, my chest heaving as I fought for breath. He let out a groan. The rest of the Bullets stood or sprawled in various stages of pain. The drama team still huddled near the wall with their teacher in front, a brave little lady who tried to stand up for her class but had been bullied by a student who owed her his respect, not his disdain.
On impulse, I picked up a can of bright yellow paint and poured it over Magnum. The action was petty and childish, but I couldn’t help the flicker of amusement I felt at painting him the color of a coward. I tossed the can to the ground and walked away. No one in the auditorium moved as I made my way up the rows of chairs to my books, then ducked out the door.
I grinned all the way back to music history. Fighting Magnum’s gang was perhaps the stupidest thing I had ever done, but it felt so good to take a stand for once that I didn’t care. I paused at a trophy case and checked my reflection to make sure I didn’t have paint on my face, then slipped into Mrs. Franklin’s class. She had her back to the students as she wrote “pinnacle of Baroque style” across the board.
I took my seat in the back of the class and set my notebook and textbook on the desk. The notebook was a crumpled mess. I smoothed it out with the thought that if the day kept up the same way, I was going to need a notebook fund.
“Psst,” someone to my right whispered.
I turned to see Madelyn sitting in the desk next to mine. She held out a white square of cloth. Really? Two handkerchiefs in two days? Sparrow must have the corner on the market.
“What’s this for?” I whispered back.
“Your knuckles,” she replied. She gave my left hand a bland look. “They’re bleeding.”
Startled, I looked at my hand. Sure enough, the knuckles were torn and red. I quickly wrapped the handkerchief around my hand and glanced up to see if Mrs. Franklin had noticed. “I’d better Google this to make sure I spelled it right,” she muttered mostly to herself as she pulled out her cell phone, looking suspiciously at the name “Giovanni Battista Sammartini” she had written on the board.