Summer on the Moon

by Adrian Fogelin

  He hoped the words, hot in his ear, hadn’t been heard by his friend on the couch. Who from around here went to college?

  Besides, the report card wasn’t that great. His mother only thought it was great because she’d never finished high school. He was wishing he had gotten at least one A for her when something crash-landed in the apartment below, followed by muffled yelling.

  Delia rested her chin on Socko’s shoulder. “You wanna stay for supper?” she asked Damien.

  “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “What’re we having?” Socko asked, kind of hoping his mom would let go.

  He heard Damien cross the room to check out the contents of the Phat Burger bag.

  “Specialty of the house,” Damien said. “Bun Busters.”

  Delia gave Socko one last hard hug and turned him loose. “How was your report card, Damien?”

  Damien grabbed a burger and shrugged. “Mrs. DeLuca liked me so much she’s gonna keep me in sixth another year.”

  “What happened, Damien?” Delia took the Bun Buster out of Damien’s hands and put it on a plate. “You’re a smart kid!” She handed the plate back to him.

  “It’s not that big a deal,” Socko said. When it came to giving out free advice about “getting an education,” his mother didn’t know when to quit. “I flunked second, remember?”

  “I blame myself for that,” she said.

  Socko and his mother had camped at a friend’s place most of that school year, sleeping on the floor. The only good thing was the apartment was near the Y, so he had learned to swim.

  With a mother like Louise, Damien was bound to lose a year here and there. This was the second time he’d been held back—and he couldn’t even swim.

  “I know it’s tough,” said Delia as the sound of yelling from the apartment below grew louder. “But you just have to work harder!”

  “Why?” Damien asked. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

  She grabbed his shoulders and gave him a little shake. “What are you talking about? Look at the president! His mom’s white, like yours. His dad’s black, like yours. You’re both skinny—both good looking.” She tried to catch his eye but he looked away.

  “Bet he didn’t suck at reading.”

  “Aw, baby …”

  Socko could tell that his mom wanted to hug Damien, but the burger plate was in the way. Instead she rubbed his arms like she was trying to make his blood move faster. “You gonna do summer school?”

  “Can’t. Summer school got cut. No money.”

  “It’s canceled for real?” Socko was used to things being cut at home, but at school?

  “You’re going to summer school,” Delia said firmly.

  “I’m not kidding. There is no summer school.”

  “Sure there is.” Delia flattened her palm against the front of her orange and brown smock. “You’re looking at her. Starting tomorrow, we work on your reading.” She turned Damien around and aimed him at the table. “Don’t you dare take a bite of that burger ‘til we’re all at the table. Socko, grab the napkins.”

  “I still don’t get why we have to sit at the table and mess up three plates,” Damien complained.

  “Because we’re better than this place,” Delia said. “We have class.”

  Socko watched Damien wolf down the last bite of the last burger and suck the ketchup off his fingers. “We got the dishes, Mom,” he said.

  “With paper plates we’d be done already,” Damien said, picking up a dish towel.

  Delia settled into her taped-up lounge chair. While the boys did the dishes, she read a newspaper left on a table by a customer. Socko’s mother read anything and everything that came her way, even if it was just the back of a cereal box.

  When the dishes were done, Socko drained the sink. Damien hung the damp dish towel on the handle of the oven and reclaimed the Superman cap Delia had made him take off at the table. “What now?” he asked.

  Delia held up her favorite DVD, Dirty Dancing. “Movie?”

  Damien turned away from Delia and faked a silent gag.

  “Uh … no thanks, Mom. Think we’ll go up to the roof.”

  His mother frowned. If it were up to her, Socko would never leave the apartment. She paid for cable she couldn’t afford so he’d stay inside. She picked at the tape on the arm of her chair. “You sure Rapp and those losers he calls his gang won’t be up there?”

  “No, Mom. The roof’s ours.”

  At least until Rapp decides it isn’t anymore, Socko added silently.

  3

  MATH ATTACK

  They climbed the metal steps that led from the fifth-floor landing to the roof. “I could use a little help,” said Socko, trying to lift the hatch at the top.

  “A little help, coming up.” They raised the hatch with their shoulders, side by side. “What’s she doing up here?” Damien asked.

  Junebug, the seventeen-year-old who lived two doors down from Socko, had gotten there ahead of them. Wearing her usual tight shorts and tank top, she sat on a beach towel with a book open in her lap, her bare brown legs stretched out in front of her.

  “How’d you lift the hatch by yourself?” Socko asked her.

  Damien didn’t give her a chance to answer. “You never come up here!” he called. “What’re you doing up here now?”

  She tapped the page with the eraser end of her pencil. “Studying.” After Junebug dropped out of high school, Delia had talked her into getting a GED and then enrolling in a nurse’s aide program at the community college.

  “Give us a break!” Damien said. “The roof is ours. We got stuff to talk about … guy stuff. Can’t you study at home?”

  She rocked her feet back and forth impatiently on the thick wooden heels of her platform shoes. “I’d like to give you two men your space, but I can’t study at home. Rapp keeps calling.”

  “Hate to remind you, but he is your boyfriend. Get your aunt to say you’re out.”

  “My Aunt Mavis is so churchy she wouldn’t lie if my life depended on it! Am I right or am I right, Socko?”

  “You’re right.” Every time he saw her, Aunt Mavis was either coming or going to the AME church down the street. She’d told Delia she’d taken Junebug in when her mother died because it was her “Christian duty.”

  Junebug snapped her fingers. “Get over here, Damien. Give me your wrist.” The beads on her glossy hair extensions rattled as she tossed them over her shoulders. “Let me take your pulse.”

  “How much ya gonna pay me?”

  “One day soon folks are gonna pay me to do this, but I won’t charge you this time.”

  Socko shoved the hatch aside and they climbed onto the roof. Damien sauntered over to Junebug, holding out his arm.

  She pressed her fingers to Damien’s wrist.

  “You pour a whole bottle of perfume on yourself?” Damien asked.

  Ignoring him, she kept her eyes on the second hand on the “nurse’s watch” she was so proud of. “Pulse, sixty-eight.”

  “Is that good?” asked Damien.

  “Yeah, it’s good.”

  “How good?”

  Damien was as starved for compliments as he was for food.

  Junebug waved Socko over. “Your turn.”

  He held out his wrist; he knew the drill. Junebug practiced on him and Delia all the time. Delia’s pulse and blood pressure were always too high—and just hearing her numbers sent his vitals soaring too.

  While Junebug watched the sweep second hand, Socko checked out her fake eyelashes. They looked heavy enough to sprain her sparkly blue eyelids. Except for the nurse’s watch and the fact that she’d cut her dagger fingernails short for the aide program, everything about the way she looked seemed to be going in another direction.

  “Pulse, seventy-five,” she said.

  “Figures!” Damien complained. “He’s seven points better.”

  Junebug released Socko’s wrist. “A slow pulse rocks, Damien. You keep that up and you’ll never have a heart at
tack or stroke. A slow pulse means you’re an athlete.”

  Damien knuckled Socko’s shoulder. “You hear that, man?” He strutted, scaring the pigeons on the low wall at the roof’s edge into a rattling launch. “I’m a ath-uh-lete!”

  “Oh yeah! I’ve seen you on that skateboard.” Junebug gave Socko a wink.

  Socko grinned. Not that he’d say it out loud, but aside from Damien, she was his best friend in the Kludgeman Arms Apartments. When she used to babysit him, they’d do goofy things together, like making peanut butter pizzas using burger buns and a jar of Jif (once the bubbling-hot peanut butter had peeled all the skin off the roof of Junebug’s mouth). Then there was the headstand contest that ended when he fell over and put his sneaker through the TV.

  Back then her teeth were too big and she looked as scrawny as Damien. About a year ago she’d filled out in all the right places, turning pretty almost overnight. She’d attracted lots of guys, but they’d disappeared fast when Rapp claimed her.

  “You wanna look down my throat or anything?” Damien asked. “I bet I got great tonsils.”

  “Throats are next week.” She went back to studying.

  The boys plopped down at the edge of the roof. After checking the low wall for pigeon mess, Socko rested his arms on its warm concrete.

  “You think I should wave?” asked Damien.

  “Don’t,” said Socko, even though he knew his friend was kidding. On the street five floors below, Rapp, Meat, and three other guys leaned against Donatelli’s storefront.

  They didn’t look all that scary from here. If his growth spurt kept going, in a couple of months Socko would be taller than Rapp. Even Meat, a slab of a kid with really bad skin, looked more flabby than fierce from this distance.

  “Check out the lids,” said Damien.

  Tonight all the Tarantulas wore their ball caps with the bills turned left, and each left pant leg was rolled. It was like they’d found an out-of-date gangsta handbook, and they’d just gotten to the part about the gangsta dress code.

  The cap bills turned, five pairs of eyes tracking Mrs. Arturo as she approached, walking her Chihuahua, Puppy Precious. Most women stared straight ahead when they passed the Tarantulas, but Mrs. A walked right over and put a hand on Meat’s cheek. Socko wondered if she looked at him now and still saw the kid she’d named Freddie. Before walking away, she reached out and patted Rapp’s cheek; although they were just second-floor neighbors, she called him her son too.

  Hadn’t she even noticed how bad her “sons” had turned out? Didn’t the knife that fell out of Freddie’s pocket when she did the wash give her a clue?

  Puppy Precious was piddling his way to the next corner when Rapp slid a cell phone out of his pocket and hit a button. Phone pressed to his ear, he gazed at the brick front of the Kludge.

  Damien turned toward Junebug. “Hey. Your boyfriend’s calling you.”

  She pointed a penlight at the page and clicked it on. “I’m not home.” The sun was going down.

  Rapp dropped the phone back in his pocket. He shoved off the wall of Donatelli’s and gripped the waist of his pants with one hand. The four other Tarantulas resting against the wall straightened. Each grabbed the waist of his own pants. As they shuffled away, Socko noticed that hanging from each left back pocket was a red bandanna—it had to be part of the new uniform. Red tails wagging, they hung a left at Baker and disappeared.

  Damien opened the flap on his pack and fished out a semester’s worth of incomplete math worksheets. “Decimals.” He folded the top sheet into an airplane.

  Socko watched the math plane’s long, slow glide down to the street. It landed on the shiny roof of Rapp’s Trans Am. The car, a gift from a dead uncle, was parked in the street in front of the apartment building. “Hope I didn’t put my name on it,” Damien said.

  “That would be a first.” Socko snagged the next worksheet in the pile and folded it into a plane of his own.

  Damien pulled a cigarette lighter out of his pocket. “Genius idea!” He held the flame under the paper plane in Socko’s hand until it caught, then blew on it gently to get the fire going.

  When Socko launched the kamikaze plane, it soared with the trailing edge of its wings on fire. His chin resting on the ledge, Socko watched it loop.

  “Crap, oh crap!” Damien sat up straight as the plane took a sudden dive and landed on the fabric awning over the door of Donatelli’s. “Hide!”

  “Whatever you two are doing,” called Junebug, “cut it out.”

  “We’re not doing nothing!” Damien protested.

  Socko peered over the ledge. Mr. Donatelli, who had just come out to close up for the night, popped the sag of fabric with a broom handle. The plane, now just a blackened scrap, fluttered to the sidewalk. Mr. Donatelli stomped it, then glared up at the roof of the Kludge. Socko ducked.

  By the time he looked again, the old man had cranked in the awning and locked the folding metal grate over the storefront.

  The fiery math attack resumed.

  Fractions burned out in the hedge in front of the apartment building. Numerators smoldered by the curb. Every now and then Socko looked down at the plane on the roof of Rapp’s Trans Am, wishing it had landed somewhere else. What if Damien had put his name on it?

  They had just launched the last worksheet when Rapp, now solo, appeared in the street below. Like a guided missile, the flaming plane hit Rapp’s chest. The gang leader slapped the burning paper away. He barely glanced up toward the roof before bolting to the door of the Kludge and letting himself in.

  Damien jumped to his feet, the whites around his eyes attracting the last of the daylight. “I’m outta here!”

  “What did you do?” Junebug demanded.

  “A paper airplane just hit your boyfriend,” said Socko. “It was sort of on fire.”

  Damien grabbed his arm. “Let’s go, let’s go!”

  “Wait!” Junebug closed her textbook. “Rapp’ll catch you on the stairs—you know how fast he is. Hide behind the AC box—I’ll handle him.” As Junebug rearranged herself, leaning back on her arms and crossing her legs at the ankles, the night-light mounted on a metal pole came on, flooding the roof with bluish light.

  Damien gave Socko’s arm another tug. “Come on!”

  Crouched in the shadows behind the box, Socko listened. The only thing he heard at first was Damien, breathing hard.

  “Maybe he’s not coming,” Damien whispered.

  Could they get that lucky? Socko heard the ring of boots on metal steps.

  He watched with one eye, his cheek pressed against warm metal. I don’t wanna die, I don’t wanna die, I don’t wanna die.

  Rapp’s palms slapped the roof. He boosted himself up and erupted from the hatch opening. Panting, he stood, feet spread. Maybe Rapp wasn’t tall or heavy, but he was big like lightning, big like a surge of electricity. Rapp’s stare could fry the heart in your chest—and he was staring straight at Junebug.

  “Hey, baby,” Junebug sassed, but Socko heard the fear underneath.

  “So, you’re out?” said Rapp. Seeing her, he seemed to forget his mission to kill the perpetrators of the flaming plane attack. “And you’re studying?”

  “I am out!” she snapped. “And I am studying.”

  Rapp reached her in three strides and clamped one of her skinny arms in his fist. He jerked her to her feet.

  “Easy, baby … easy!” She tried to twist out of his grip.

  Socko felt Damien’s breath on the back of his neck. His friend was watching too.

  As Rapp dragged Junebug toward the hatch, she whimpered, “Let go, baby. That hurts!” She turned toward the AC box. Socko pulled back and closed his eyes.

  All of a sudden, the breathing on his neck stopped. Socko opened his eyes and looked over his shoulder. No Damien.

  When he peered out, his friend was standing in plain sight, both hands in the air like a cop had ordered him to put ’em up. “Listen, man. Sorry about the plane. I was just up here messin’. Didn’t mea
n to hit you. No hard feelings?”

  Rapp tossed Junebug’s arm away. He strode toward Damien and snatched the front of his T-shirt. Socko heard the air explode out of Damien’s lungs as Rapp jerked up on the shirt and shoved him hard. Damien stumbled backwards until the wall at the edge of the roof pressed against the backs of his thighs.

  “You still feel like messin’?” Rapp was slowly bending Damien back over the five-story drop.

  The blood rushed loudly in Socko’s ears. He had to do something!

  “You’re so interested in airplanes … maybe you’d like to fly.” Rapp lowered Damien a little more.

  “Come on, man,” Damien begged, one hand on his Superman lid, the other feeling behind him for the wall. “I didn’t mean nothin’ …”

  Now, Socko told himself. Do something now. He tried to take a step, but his foot wouldn’t move. Maybe his sudden paralysis was a sign he should stay put. All that kept Damien from falling was Rapp’s grip on his shirt. Surprise him, and he might let go.

  Unable to watch, Socko stared up at the muddy gray sky, all the stars snuffed by the lights of the city. He only hoped that dying didn’t hurt too much and that Damien would forgive him from wherever kids went when their best friend didn’t save them from being dropped off a roof.

  He heard the clack of Junebug’s platforms. Drawing a sharp breath, he looked again.

  “Come on, baby. You’re scaring the kid!” She made it sound like she thought Rapp was playing, but she threw her skinny arms around his chest and held on. “He wasn’t trying to set you on fire. He was just foolin’ around!”

  She leaned back hard and Rapp lurched away from the edge, taking Damien with him. Each time Junebug pulled on Rapp, the massive gold cross on the chain around his neck swung, catching the light.

  “Rapp, baby?” Her voice was sugary when she turned Rapp loose. “Let’s go somewhere, okay? Just you and me.”

  That seemed to wake Rapp up. He let go of Damien’s shirt and shook himself. For a moment he stood absolutely still, staring at his own hands, then he swung around and grasped Junebug’s upper arm.

  This time she didn’t resist. She led Rapp to the open hatch and climbed down through it ahead of him.